Game of Thrones: A Song of Ice & Fire [IC]

[The Valyria Empire]

When Winter comes...
You'll hear no Lions roar...
No Stags grazing the fields...
No Roses growing in the meadows...
The Sun will no longer shine, and the Spear will crumble...
The Krakens will freeze where they swim...
The Flayed Man will rot and wither...
No Trouts swimming in the river and no Falcons flying in the air...
Not even the dragon's breath will warm you in your halls.
You shall hear only the the wolves' howl...
And then you will know. Winter has come"
-A Song of Ice & Fire

OCC

Theme

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The Crownlands

The City of King's Landing, The Hand's Tourney

---

Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North, Warden of the North, and Hand of the King

---

High lords and fabled champions had come from all over the realm to compete, and the whole city had turned out to watch. The days had rung to the sounds of trumpets and pounding hooves, and the nights had been full of feasts and song. As Eddard took his seat, he located Sansa and her friend Jeyne Poole. He could see the happiness on her face, she was her mother's daughter.

As if the expense and trouble were not irksome enough, all and sundry insisted on salting my wound by calling it "the Hand's tourney," as if I were the cause of it. And Robert honestly seemed to think I should feel honored! Ned thought as he shuffled his chair. He came not only to be Robert's hand, but also to investigate into Jon's recent activities before his death. The scorching sun, beat down on Eddard's head. It had been many years since he had experienced this heat, and it was not pleasant unlike the winters of the North.

The chain of hands rattled as Eddard looked to see the Northmen who had decided to participate. Then a voice echoed through the air.

"HAH, HAH! LORDS AND LADIES! I THANK YOU FOR COMING!" Robert shouted to the crowd, however he paused to catch his breath. "Today we celebrate a new day, today my good friend, the honorable Eddard Stark becomes my new Hand!"

The crowd would clap, but nothing more. The idea of a Northman being Hand was still taboo to some. Robert eventually held up his arms to silence the crowd, and resumed his speech.

"To celebrate this wondrous event, the winner of the jousting will receive forty-thousand gold dragons, with the runner up receiving twenty-thousand! Let the events, begin!" Robert exclaimed, which caused the crowd to start cheering, many names would be heard from Loras Tyrell, to Renly Baratheon and even Gregor Clegane. Ned kept his posture straight, yet could not help but wonder how Robb was.

---

The North

Winterfell, The Great Hall

---

Robb of House Stark, Regent of Winterfell

---

Robb sat quietly on the Winterfell throne. It had been some time since his father had left for King's Landing. Even at fifteen, Robb felt proud in what he had aclompished thus far. He had able to address many issues that come before him. His father's teachings had been put to good use.

However, the same could not be said for Rodrik Snow and Tommard Brude. The two wards, that had been sent by House Bolton and House Brude. They had lived together for some time, and Robb had tried to bring them together. Yet the hatred between the two houses ran deeper than the roots of a Weirwood tree. Robb sighed as he looked through the room, he spotted Tommard and Rodrik yet they stood on opposite ends of the room while Theon was absent. Grey Wind sat quietly next to Robb's feet, every day the direwolf grew larger and was almost as big as himself. The direwolf had gone an excellent job at protecting Bran when they were attacked by the wildlings in the Wolf Woods. Now they had a wildling named Osha who worked in the kitchens.

His mind wondered on what issues could come before him today...

[Kernan]

Kings Landing, The Crownlands

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West

Tywin sat in his seat, watching the Tourney with his signature scowl. Its not that he hated them, in fact he quite liked watching Jamie walk away as victor all those times, even though it was odd he crowned Cersei Queen that one time, but Tywin did not like to think of that. It made his mind come to conclusions he frankly refused to believe. Instead he focused on the area around him. It was filled to the brims with lords and ladies from across the realm, some from as far as the North because of this wondrous tourneys cause. King Robert, the fool, had chosen his old friend Eddard Stark of Winterfell for his new hand after Jon Arryn died. The last Northern Hand was Torrhen Manderly during the reign of King Aegon III. He however was dismissed when Aegon came to the throne in 136 AC Tywin remembered from the lessons of his youth, that might not bode well for Stark. Cregan Stark, also was Hand for a day after the Dance of Dragons, just enough time to gain justice 'for the King' against Aegon II and his Greens. The Hour of the Wolf was a bloody one they say. Tywin frankly doubted that Eddard could be so decisive, his bloody honor kept him at an arms length from ruling like a true Hand must. "He hasn't been Hand a day, let him rule, give him a chance" a voice in the back of Tywin's mind urged. Tywin did not listen however as his mind was drawn back to the day he decided to join Robert and his Rebellion.

He in fact did not remember all that much of the thought process, one of the curses of aging. One thing he did remember, and something that has not quite left his mind since, was a peculiar thought he had.

"I could just put a crown on my head. Whats more great that a King?"

Tywin however quickly realized that even back then, with all of Westeros at war, naming himself King would only end in disaster. Robert would have come after he won and hammered Tywin into dust. However the thought always lingered in the back of his mind and Tywin hasn't yet been able to get rid of it. He spoke of it in confidence with both Jamie and Cersei and both vowed to keep Tywin secret. He wasn't even going to dream of telling Tyrion about his greatest ambition, Tyrion might tell it to an entire inn when he got boozed up or to a whore after one of his infamous binges. Speaking of Tyrion Tywin wondered why he was not with him, but suddenly remembered. He had taken a detour to the Wall along with that bastard Snow. He was likely stopping at every whorehouse he could so he would be a few months coming back, Tywin gave him now hurry. Every moment he was away kept Tywin at ease.

[Warg the Immortal]

---

Ser Niall "Frost Blade" Brude, the Lion Knight

---

King's Landing, Tourney Grounds

Niall sat in the grandstand next to his bastard cousin, Robert. He'd had the dubious luck of receiving a bye for the first round, and wasn't to compete until the very end of the second round. Robert, on the other hand, had also drawn a later match, but he, at least, would joust in the first round. Niall's knee bounced in anticipation. He had never seen such a large purse being offered before and was dead set on obtaining it. He and his cousins had agreed to divide their winnings amongst themselves and he liked the chances of at least one of them making it through.

Glancing to his cousin it was like looking in an almost mirror image. Niall was clad in a clean white tunic, with a blue lion over the heart, while Robert had on the reversed colours, indicative of his bastard status. They both shifted their eyes to the King's seat as King Robert Baratheon's booming voice called for silence. Looking past the large man Niall could see The Ned at his side, cool and stoic, as many of the Starks before him. Seeing his liege lord made him think of his younger brother, Tommard. He had been glad that this tournament was in the capitol, as it meant passing by Winterfell and catching up with his sibling, though he knew their youngest brother, Alester, was the one most happy about it. As the first bout's competitors were announced Niall scoffed and nudged his cousin. "The Hound facing off against that young Baratheon lordling. That rabid dog is as ugly as Jon, but at least Jon won't rip your head off soon as look at you". The pair chuckled and relaxed as they prepared for the festivities of the day to begin.

---

Lord Robert "the Handsome" Brude, The Brude, Lord of Lake's Bane

---

Lake's Bane, Sunken Tower

Robert sat in a large bear hide chair, gazing out the window as the water of the nearby hot spring spilled over the lip of the ravine, tumbling down some unknowable distance below. In front of him was his small writing desk and an unfinished letter to Lord Karstark. Behind him he could hear the somewhat ragged breathes of his Maester and half-uncle, Old Willam Snow, broken every now and again as the old Maester jolted awake before dozing off once more.

He sighed heavily before picking up his quill to continue. He wanted to broker a marriage between his daughter, Leana and Rickard's son Harrion. It was important to make bonds between families, helped keep the North and it's people strong and united. Besides, he needed to get some of his scions out of this old castle. The summer, thus far had been, long, and as the old wives say, a long summer meant an even harsher winter. He wanted to be sure that he'd be able to stock enough food for those staying in the castle throughout the winter to come.

Finally he finished the letter, sealing it in blue wax and pressing his lion shaped ring into the molten liquid. He stood from his chair, yawning slightly. He had noticed that as he grew older his strength was still with him, but he found himself more and more tired at the end of each day. He tapped the old man on the shoulder, rousing him awake. "Old Man Snow, have a raven deliver this letter to Karhold." The Maester fixed his eyes on him, grumbling. "Hmph. Damn well took long enough. A man my age could've expired by the time it took you to finish that letter." Robert smiled, his uncle had always been a curmudgeonly bastard. He'd wouldn't be surprised if he was still around long after Robert was dead and desiccated in the family crypts.

Robert made his way up the steps to the courtyard. There he was greeted with the sight of his first and second sons, laughing while sparring. Edwyn with his spear, and Robert with his mace. Chuckling lightly he made his way to where his brothers, daughters and grandchildren sat, scooping up one of his grandchildren, Jon Crowl, or "the Young Hellion" as his mother had begun calling him. He sat watching the spectacle from the two men testing their mettle against one another.

---

Tommard "True Axe" Brude

---

Winterfell, The Great Hall

Tommard sat idly at on side of the Great Hall, oiling his prized weirwood bow and making sure none of his arrows were bent and the fletchings were all in shape. Glancing up he saw the Bolton bastard, Rodrik Snow. He scowled somewhat. While he had somewhat grown used to living with a Bolton his family's history still caused his blood to boil, even when he saw the inverted sigil denoting Rodrik as a child of wedlock.

Robert didn't have a dislike of bastards in general, after all, many of his nephews and nieces were Snows, one was even named after him. But he could never get over the fact that they had to share a surname with the son of a Bolton. Shifting his eyes he looked at Robb, and the large dire wolf that sat at by his feet. While he liked Robb and thought of him as a friend, Tommard was bored. The castle had been dismal since Bran's fall, and now that Sansa, Arya, Jon and Jeyne had left there was a grim stillness that hung about the castle. Tommard glanced about the hall, searching to see if Theon was anywhere to be found, but the Greyjoy was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, Tomard returned to his task, placing new fletchings on some of the arrows that had become ragged.

[The Novakian Empire]

Lord Caleb Novakai,Ruler of the Misty Isle, The Quiet Isle,

A stretch of the Kingsroad, near Kings Landing..

---

Thump.
Caleb was roused from his deep sleep, as the carriage he was riding in rocked slightly. Startled, he stood up and opened the windows of the carriage he had been sleeping in for the past few hours. "What was that?" Caleb asked, poking his head through the open window.
One of his retainers, riding on a horse infront of the carriage, looked over his shoulder, to Caleb.
"Just a branch, my lord."
Caleb frowned. He had been wishing for something a bit more exciting than a fallen branch. The past couple of days had been uneventful in his trek south, to kings landing. He had heard that a great tourney was to take place, and decided to travel south, to the detriment of his ongoing campaign against the barbarians that ravaged his land.
Still, the prize offered to the winner of the joust, forty-thousand golden dragons, was too much to pass up. If Caleb could secure it, it would help his house, and through it, his people, immeasurably.
As Caleb opened his squinted eyes, he looked around, attempting to take in his surroundings.. Unfortunately, it was mainly just a open plain, with some flowers along the road. Furthermore, there was more carriages and riders. Normally, the kingsroad isn't nearly as congested as it was now, but many thousands of people were flocking to see the tourney of the hand.
"It's a shame they won't all see it.", Caleb said, to no-one in particular. He knew that there most probably would not be enough space to hold them all, and as such many would not witness the events themselves.
Caleb stepped back, and opened up the trapdoor at the ceiling of the carriage, putting his head through it. He was forced to squint, as the full brightness of the sun suddenly hit his eyes. "Seven hells! it's bloody bright out here."
Thomas grinned. "Aye, it is, my lord."
His driver helped him through the small trapdoor, and Caleb sat ontop of the carriage, looking around, and in general just taking in the sights. Directly ahead of him, but somewhat in the distance. was Kings Landing. Caleb felt awed by its incredible size, and its gigantic walls. To put it simply, he'd never seen anything remotely like it.
"..It's gigantic.." Caleb thought, as he processed the sight of the city. He could see the awesome size of the red keep, and further away, the sept of baelor. In his peripheral vision, he noticed ships sailing up and down the blackwater.
As the convoy of carriages and riders approached the city, he saw the tourney grounds outside the king's gate. Surrounded by hundreds of large, brightly coloured tents, there was the area Caleb would later joust in, and a large, open area, surrounded by fences. Caleb figured it was the melee arena.
Finally, they had arrived. Caleb's party rode through the vast, almost incredibly wide king's gate....

Two Days Later.

It had been two days since Caleb and his party arrived. Hungry and tired after their long journey, they stopped at a inn on the river row, where they had the first hot meal they had eaten in days, and a long rest. After waking up in the morning, Caleb decided to go exploring around kings landing, as this seemed to be the most opportune time, considering he would only remain for at most a week.
His adventure around the city had been quite uneventful, but the highlight of it was certainly visiting the dragonpit. A gigantic ruin, compared to when it was first built, but it still had a queer beauty to it. Caleb had snuck into the dragonpit alone, shortly before sunset, to explore the structure. It was remarkably silent, a oasis of serenity in a otherwise noisy, bustling city.
He sat there for near a hour, and drifted into deep thought, contemplating what he would do after returning from the tourney. Perhaps go to Riverrun, and visit Hoster. Lord Hoster Tully had become akin to a second father for Caleb, and while the two had not met for some time due to Hoster being bedridden, Caleb still remembered his time at Riverrun fondly. He had nearly fallen asleep by the time the sun finally set, illuminating the city and the area around it in a beautiful orange hue. Afterwards, Caleb snuck back to the inn, where he would sleep for the rest of the night.

THUMP. thump thump thump.
Caleb had been dreaming, before being rudely awoken from his deep slumber by that incessant knock. Irritated, he yelled out to the person knocking. "WHAT?!"
At the other side of the door, Thomas jumped, surprised by the sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of his lord.. Perhaps it had not been a good time to awake him.
"My lord, it's time to leave, you need to be in the tourney in a couple of hours."
Caleb groaned.
"Fine." Caleb said, grumpily. In truth, he had slept well, but the dream he was having was.. tittilating. He would not think about it further, though. Unmentionable things happened.
Caleb got himself dressed, and walked with his men to the tourney grounds, where the jousting was about to begin. Surprisingly, it had been a good time to awaken Caleb, otherwise the party would have missed the first round.
As he approached the lists, he saw several knights preparing for their jousts. One was having his squire do up his armour, and the other was praying to the warrior, probably to win the tourney. He walked up to the (place where the seats are) and sat, his men dispersing and sitting at different places. He looked down towards the two knights, divided by a wooden fence that acted as some sort of a partition.
The first one was wearing a ornate, almost bronze looking suit of plate armour, with the horns of a stag mounted on the helmet. Clearly, the man was lord Renly Baratheon, of storms end. Caleb had never seen Renly before, but he had been able to guess from the distinct helm that lord Renly had been wearing.
The other man was astride a large, black destrier, and was wearing some plain, dark half-plate. Caleb hadn't seen armour in that style before, and he didn't recognize the man at all. Whoever it was, he seemed formidable, and he would probably give lord renly a spot of trouble in their joust.
The two lowered their lances, pointing at eachother with them, and prepared to begin the joust..

[Dentali]

Riverrun




Riverrun is an almost modest castle by the standards of the great houses in Westeros. This can, of course, be attributed to the history of the Tullys: they are not an old house, and, for most of their history, they have been vassals to the kings of the Riverlands, not their overlords. So when they bow to Aegon and are rewarded with the stewardship over the Riverlands, their castle isn't exactly grandiose. It does, however, serve its purpose.

Riverrun is big enough to be a large castle by all standards, with a godswood, a sept, a keep, stables, houses, and all you want to have in a castle. Unlike Winterfell, however, it's built mainly for defense. Its location is one of the best defensible positions in the Riverlands, situated between two rivers and equipped with a floatable moat that can turn it into an island, famously forcing every besieger to divide his forces into three separate camps that can fall prey to a relief army pretty easily. Riverrun's size also allows it to take in the population of the lands sworn directly to the Tullys and to protect them against raiders. I


Hoster knew that his son-in-law was Hand of the King. This was the second time he had had this thought, the first being with Jon Arryn and now here he was again in the twilight years of his life. Jon’s death had been a sharp blow to Tully influence, which had never quite panned out. Hoster sighed and looked at the rising sun out of his window, such grand plans now crumbling beneath the weight of time and now as his own health crumbled he was left wondering if his legacy would continue past his death.


Unlike many lordlings, Edmure was never squired or fostered with a different family. Instead, Edmure was raised by Hoster Tully in Riverrun, and so Edmure’s two role models were Hoster and his brother Brynden. But now Brynden was gone, “Edmure needs him” Hoster said under his breath.

“Jeyne?” Hoster said weakly and soon enough his young attendant was in the doorway “good morning my lord, I have you medicine for you” Hoster moved over to grasp his cup filled with the foul blue liquid. He drank it with a slow determination that defined him as a man, “Take a letter for me to my brother, it is time to mend things”…

[Das Stahlreich]

Kings Landing, The Crownlands

Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain that Rides

He was huge, the biggest man that any man had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered even over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His huge destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle, betraying its own large size. This was Gregor Clegane, a man knighted under the reign of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen some years ago, who strode up towards his position, some distance straight from his opponent, Ser Hugh of the Vale, a young, rough-hewn man, who was in no manner too attractive. The much smaller man wore a blue cloak fastened to his rather shiny armor, in contrast to Gregor's dull and dark armor. Like any rational human would, Hugh was terrified of the beast that was Gregor Clegane, though he tried his best not to show it.

The massive warhorse stomped it's feet on the ground, kicking up bits and pieces of soil and flinging them behind it. The clanking of heavy steel emanated as Gregor adjusted himself, gripping his Lance tightly in his clenched fist. Beneath his great helm, he glared with his dark eyes at this opponent of his, Ser Hugh of the Vale. And so he waited for the signal from the king to commence, all while thinking of the best way to humiliate this smaller, lesser man. These thoughts did not last too long, however, as Gregor simply wanted to get this over with. He knew he would win.

There was a moment to wait before the signal. And then, they rode. There was a great clashing not long after they had begun, of the wooden tips of their lances bouncing off their shields, though Gregor's appropriately sized and thick wooden shield seemed more capable of taking a beating compared to Hugh's much smaller one. During the second time around, however, came the most terrifying moment of the day: Gregor's lance rode up and struck the young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where the Starks were seated. The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

[Eraus]

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, The Leech Lord

Roose sat atop his throne in his Great Hall which was dim and smoky. For years he had known that his heir was a Bastard and not a good one at that, Ramsey Snow the crazed Bastard of a Bolton. Roose didn't like the idea of letting a madman take the mantle after him undoing all that the Greats of House Bolton have done for themselves and for their House. His other Bastard son Rodrik was not any better either, He was far more civilized but he was impulsive and ambitious along with the fact that he was raised alongside Starks which was only so Roose didn't have to deal with two Bastards running around his Dreadfort.

He'd come to the decision that he needed a wife so he could create a Highborn Bolton which he'd shape in his own image in order to create a good Bolton Lord who'd take over after Roose's time would come to an end. If I am to wed, I'll need a wife from a House of the same caliber as my own. He thought as he looked out to his Hall wondering where his Bastard Ramsey was and what horrid things he was now doing.

Rodrik Snow, Bastard of the Dreadfort

Rodrik simply sat looking down at the floor listening to what they were bringing to Robb and he couldn't help but be proud of his friend for dealing with all issues like a true Lord. He couldn't help but feel bored with the castle being in a nearly dead state after the departures of most of House Stark and the fact that he was left with the Brude boy didn't help him feel anymore amused.

Tommard and Rodrik had both been Wards in Winterfell for some time yet they both still remembered their Houses hatred for each other. For now Rodrik kept it mostly to himself ever once in a while allowing it to seep out. Rodrik wasn't one to show his feeling but at times they would get the better of him

Rodrik looked around the hall hoping that some one would bring something interesting to Robb or else he'd have to go out and create his own amusement.

[Kulonia]

Damien Branwell, Lord of Understone Keep

Tourney of the Hand, King's Landing

---

Damien stared at the dead Valeman. "Thank the Gods, old and new, even that fiery demon god, that I won't be up against the Mountain, for now." Damien could only picture the Valeman's nervous look before the joust. His new, shiny armor was all Damien could think of. Branwell ran his hand through his blond hair, thinking of his only son, Tybalt. His brown hair matched the color of his mother's. Damien can scarce remember his wife's face. Her beautiful, fair face. For this reason, Damien sympathized with King Robert. Not because of how he fought in Robert's armies during the Greyjoy uprising. Only because of how they both lost the women they loved. As Damien looked at his dagger, with an ebony pommel in its custom-made scabbard, his new heirloom given to him as a gift from his former in-laws, he decided to write to Lannisport and ask that Tybalt be returned to him at Understone, maybe as soon as the Tourney was over. "I haven't forgotten, my son. Forever Loyal."

---

Tybalt Branwell, Heir to Understone Keep

Lannisport, The Westerlands

---

As Tybalt looked out of his window, staring into the sea, he thought of the Hand's Tourney. Tybalt, or "Tyb," as his Lannister friends called him, aspired to be a knight, much like his father and ancestors. Tyb wanted to be like Brandon 'the Black Lion' and Mycah 'the Keep-Knight', bringing honor to his house and becoming a more known and prestigious Branwell. He thought of his distant cousins and next in line, the Branwolds. They had done nothing to deserve their spot. Tyb knew he was of no use at Lannisport. He made up his mind to demand passage back to Understone to rule as lord while Damien was gone. He walked into the hall, where the Lannisters of Lannisport were ruling from. "I'm taking my father's men and I'm going back to Understone. You can't stop me. I may be a bannerman, but I am Forever Loyal to my house, first." Tybalt signaled to his men and stormed out. A knight helped him with his armor, while a man-at-arms prepared Tyb's horse. As they rode out the gates, they noticed a few guards walking towards them. "C'mon! Back to Understone while we have a chance," said Tyb as he sped off on his black mare. His men followed.

[Recon]

Ten Towers, Harlaw, The Iron Islands. Late 298AC
Asha Greyjoy

The mismatched towers on the horizon were a stirring sight even to weary eyes. Tired, she only had to watch as her experienced crew slid the Black Wind into port. Asha was quick to step onto the Quay. She walked past the ancient fishermen who were out here each morning since dawn preparing for a long day of hard labour, their nets coiling on the ocean’s surface. A rowing boat bobbled on the waves, a fishing line lazily hanging in its wake. These men knew well that the Long Stone always delivered a good catch; the white flatfish that always had pride of place in Harlaw’s taverns swarmed here. Further along the wharf were the children, Asha paused to watch them using little wooden fishing spears, they splashed and played, hoping to discover an eel’s nest or catch their own fish. She smiled remembering her days wading in the same shallows. Ten Towers had been her home to then and that feeling had never changed despite the long years.

The Castle was not far, Harlaw’s silver scythe fluttered in the breeze. After bounding up the steps she made for the Book Tower; Rodrik would hardly be found elsewhere in the Ten Towers beyond feasting and sleeping. Arriving at the towers entrance, she found her aunt Gwynesse coming down the stairs,

“Niece” her lips curled with distaste, “You should be careful. My little brother has been in a foul mood ever since Blacktyde left”.

Asha had learnt it was better to nod in agreement and let Gwynesse pass. She did not wish to spend the next hour hearing about all their petty arguments. Climbing the stairs, she looked into every room she pasted, until finally she reached Rodrik’s study. It was always a beacon of light, the fireplace roaring and beeswax candles covering the tables and shelves teeming with books.

“Nuncle?” her eyes adjusted to the light. The Reader was standing at his desk, his fingers sifting through the loose parchments and leather bound books. He looked irritated, his face only softened when he saw his niece, “Have you seen Maester Jarvas? I expected him an hour past”.

Asha shrugged, “Sorry Nuncle”.

Lord Rodrik sighed, “He was supposed to be finding a book written by Archmaester Marwyn”.

The Readers’ obsession with reading and knowledge was peculiar upon the Islands and his hosting of septons to maintain his collection of books, was an even greater affront but Asha accepted his eccentricities without question. Finally her nuncle gave up searching and sat down by the fire.

He waved over to the other armchair, “Join me Asha”.

Warming by the fire, Rodrik closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “I suppose you heard about the Hand’s sudden death?”

Asha nodded enjoying the warmth; the ravens had spread the news across the islands weeks ago, even if hardly a soul seemed to care. “He was old. Old men die” she said dismissively.

There was a long pause, in the firelight her nuncle looked haggard and tired, “Mayhaps”.

The moment passed and a smile spread on the Readers’ face. “Come join me to break my fast Asha”.

She could not help herself from snorting, “It’s almost evening Nuncle.”

Rodrik stood smiling, “Come anyway, and escort me down to the great hall”.

Asha signed, “Nuncle, I have sailed from Pyke can’t we just eat here?”

For the first time Rodrik’s voice was sharp, “You know I do not eat up here with the books. Come” he held out his arm.

Asha reluctantly pulled herself from the chair and made her way back down the towers stairs.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Winterfell, The North. Late 298AC
Theon Greyjoy

The ale at the Smoking Log left a thumping ache. At least if you had drank as much as Theon had the night before it did. Along with some of the off duty guardsmen, Theon had enjoyed an evening of telling in the most minute detail possible, to the inns captive audience, the story of wildings in the Wolfswood. Theon was glad to accept the free drinks, because he knew how the story ended with his arrow piercing the deserter’s heart. That moment, Robb, Rodrik, Tommard and himself fighting side by side, had its own kind of beauty. He had trained for that moment for almost ten years, a chance for his courage to be tested. When it came, his aim was steady and true. For some men the taking of a life would be considered a mortal sin but Theon knew better. Saving little Bran’s life was possibly his greatest act and he was only getting started.

The group had returned in the early hours and after a few hours of restless sleep, Theon washed and changed his clothes. Realising it was too late for breakfast in the hall; he stopped by the kitchens to grab himself a quick meal. Eating a blood sausage, he strode towards the Great Hall. Robb was on the raised platform conducting lordly business, as he had become accustomed too in his Father’s absence. Robb the Lord. That was how Bran had described the change. Theon had also noticed how the boy’s voice and even his facial expression had begun to alter when sitting upon the House Seat, to mimic that of his Lord Father. Theon understood better than many, he was looking at a glimpse of his own future. One day he would be sitting upon the Seastone Chair in his own father’s place. But I’ll never be like him, he thought bitterly.

They were not alone in the hall. Brude and Snow sat on opposite sides, as if only the walls kept them from separating even further. Whatever progress had been made in their time here at Winterfell, it clearly had not succeeded in putting the past in its place, behind them.

He called out to the two wards, “Rodrik, Tommard. Come out to the yard. I want to get some practice in. I’d wager even without much sleep, I’ll best you two at the range”. Theon hoped to avoid the sparring this morning. He doubted his head could take a few blows, even if it was only a tourney sword. Standing and firing at the targets would be better, much better, he thought with a smile.

[The Forsworn Knights]

---

Lord Morgryn Marthart, the Lord and Head of House House Marthart, Lord of Dewmire Palace, Lord of Dewmire Hold, Knight of the Realm

---

Noble spectator seating, Tournament Grounds, Tournament of the Hand, King's landing- Second round.

Morgryn sat comfortably on the bench. With him were his wife Elena, as well as his two daughters- Ana, and Emma, respectively aged 17 and 19. His younger son, Alek, was seated to Morgryn's right. Alek was a 12 year old boy training to become the squire of a great knight, although the boy professed a desire to become a merchant instead He looked like a younger version of Morgryn, bearing a black tunic with gold a trim emblazoned with the Marthart Griffon. As Morgryn looked around the stands, he saw several notable figures, including Eddard Stark himself sitting with the Royal Family, as well as several of his own children, the Tyrells, the Royal Council, as well as Renly of the Baratheon Storm's End branch, Sandor "The Hound" Clegane who was protecting King Robert while his elder brother jousted. Morgryn's thoughts were suddenly jerked away from the crowd by the sound of snapping wood and the gurgle of blood following a loud clanking thud- something Morgryn knew all too well from his Knightly years when he fought under Targaryen and Baratheon alike. Morgryn swiftly turned to face the jousting field to find a gruesome sight- Ser Hugh, Jon Arryn's old squire lay dead on the ground with the tip of Gregor's lance protruding from the chink in his armor that revealed his throat.
Morgryn sighed almost sadly. "Such a waste of a good young knight, to be killed like this. And right after his old mentor, Jon Arryn died too!"
As Gregor went off to do whatever it is that the giant did in between matches, Morgryn looked to another part of the arena where his son and heir, Ser Adrian was preparing his equipment with the help of a Sworn Sword. Morgryn felt a ping of fear that his son would join Ser Hugh in death, but was calmed when he remembered that his son, whose first Joust was in the second bout, was in a completely separate bracket right up until the Quarter Finals, and that his son would likely not make it that far. Besides, thought Morgryn, Adrian is a veteran of multiple wars, several tournaments, and countless brawls with common thugs. He is far, far more competent than Ser Hugh ever was- there is no way he could die in this tourney.

[Kernan]

Lannisport, The Westerlands

Yoren Lannister, Lord Mayor of Lannisport, Defender of Lannisters Fleet

Yoren watched Tybalt leave, presumptuous and arrogant as always and couldn't help to feel a bit relieved. However this slight against the House could not go unanswered lest other lords get their ideas, while Tywin might be related he wasn't close kin and that put many at ease with their fears. However it was time for the Lannisters of Lannisport to finally show their teeth, shame it had to be the Branwells to bear the brunt of the mauling. Yoren turned to his left and saw his Master of Arms Aaron Rok, a man as imposing physically as he was mentally.

"Seize him at once and bring him before me in chains!" Yoren commanded. Aaron put on his red steel helmet and rode off to catch him as Yoren turned to his right and his frail, ancient Maestar Jami Storm. "Write to both Tywin Lannister and Damien Branwell. Both are in Kings Landing for the Tourney if memory serves. Tell them that Understone might be expecting some rain soon." he commanded. Storm looked as if he had not heard him for a moment before turning to his small desk and scribbling furiously. Yoren then began to turn his mind to the latest financial report, some of the numbers were a bit short, when Rok returned empty handed.

"M'lord! My sincerest apologies! Tybalt and his band of outlaws have escaped the city. They are headed towards Understone as we speak!" he said.

'Damn it! Fine, Maestar Storm! Scratch the message I told you to send. Instead send a message to Lord Tywin himself, informing him of this treachery!" Yoren said. "Rok! Why are you still standing here with your thumb in your ass! Call the leves! I want Tybalts head on a spike or yours will be there in his place! Am I clear!" Yoren shouted

"Yes M'lord. We will see to it at once!" Rok said before rushing off. Yoren then stormed off to his room, fuming with rage.

[Jhet]

Tourney of the Hand

The crowds cheered the appearance of the Knight of Flowers, resplendent on a steed as white as virgin innocence. His cloak, spilling down its flanks, seemed to shimmer in the daylight. Roses, red and white and pink and yellow, were woven together like the waves of an ocean. Whenever he moved, the flowers seemed to sparkle, glowing with an heavenly aura.

Loras grinned at a group of girls, blowing a kiss when they erupted into lustful shrieking. Turning his head from the noise, the young knight approached his station. There a flock of reachmen swarmed to his aid, claiming his cloak like some religious relic. Without the cloak to hide it, the knight's armour seemed to glow with an inner warmth. Polished to an almost silver shine, his plate was adorned with golden inlay, writhing stalks reaching up and erupting into explosions of jewels, hard rose heads of unmatched wealth. Loras smiled, enjoying the reaction from his admirers. Tobho you are indeed gifted.

His squire, a boy of Fossoway older than himself, passed Loras his lance. Twelve feet of smooth kingswood timber, fashioned by a Tumbleton craftsman. Testing its weight, the Tyrell youth nodded towards his helpers. Scurrying back to wherever they had come from, Loras pulled down his visor and awaited his opponent.

Meryn Trant was everything that Loras was not: uncomely, old, and possessing little in the way of skill on horseback. He was a man of meritocracy, of scowls and unbecoming violence. He was not just a poor challenge, Ser Trant was little more than a sideshow, a body on which he could practice for better foes. Snorting at the idea of being stopped by such a waste of nobility, the Knight of Flowers urged his mount into a hard canter.

The two of them came thundering towards each other, human bolts loosed by a crossbow. Yet while Trant weaved in and out of invisible poles, Loras was following a line straighter than the valyrian roads of the east. Closer they came to each other, the youth breathing out as he lunged forward, the older man tensing as the lance came straight for him. For a moment the world stopped, the crowds holding to jump in celebration.

Crash.

And then the cheering boomed like the warcry of some ancient god. Loras circled the list, retrieving a plucked rose from his cloak before nearing the awaiting crowds. He scanned the masses, pulling up his visor to give the people what they wanted. Finding a suitable recipient, the youth stretched out, placing the white rose in the palm of the girl. Pausing only enough to grimace at the shrieking of the girl's thanks, Loras turned and rode off to await his next victory.

Highgarden

Mace smiled absentmindedly as the sun shone on his home. Birds chirped in the bushes and bees danced from flower head to flower head. Here a man can be content, he mused, a place to die happy. Where else was life more bountiful if not Highgarden? Where else was the majesty of society more revered? None of the Great Houses bore children as glorious as his own, none commanded the genius of his strategic eye. The King knew him as the man to put him in his place, as the champion who could have crushed his home as a child crushing grass.

Now gone was the ideas of peace, of contentment with his lot in life. Who else deserved a place on the throne if not the Tyrells? They had held the realm of the Gardeners together when Manderly and Peake threatened to tear it apart. They drove back the Lions, they drove out the Dornish. It was a Tyrell to save the old lineage, and from that they earned the boon of being the inheritors of the Gardener legacy. None of the Reach deserved a place on the throne as much as the Tyrells.

His daughter would be queen.

That made him smile, thinking of the outrage of Tywin Lannister. Would that he had had a daughter sooner, so that Rhaegar were bedded by a true princess. Then none of this need have passed. Thinking of how things could have been always brought a frown to the lord's face, no matter how dire he imagined the alternative. He could not change time, no matter how powerful a man he was. All that he could do was defeat his rivals, a skill he had in abundance. His father had not had the ability to wed him into the web of power that centered on Kingslanding, but by the Gods Mace had that and more.

The rose would grow so strong that even the sun was strangled by its vines.

[Cruxa]

Ser Jon Elmhart, sworn to House Marthart

Ser Jon, down in the preparations area of the tourney, handed Adrian a lance. "Here. You'll do fine. Keep your head up, and cover your chest. It's what the shield is for." He patted Adrian on the back, and helped him with the last few straps of his armor.

However, it wasn't Adrian he was nervous for- he was worried about his own bout, which would take place shortly. He hadn't jousted in some time, and he felt tight this morning. Beds in King's Landing were extremely uncomfortable. In any case, he was to joust- and by the gods, he'd do his master proud.

The tourney was in the honor of Lord Stark, Hand of the King. Jon's father was from the north, but Jon himself had no knowledge of the North or politics.

He hoped this tourney would not mean death as he saw Ser Hugh be spiked upon Gregor Clegane's lance.

[Kulonia]

Damien Branwell, Lord of Understone Keep

Tourney of the Hand, King's Landing

---

Damien looked at his house's standard, in the very back of all the others. To his left, he could see the Hand. A kind, honorable man. Damien had no doubt. He turned head to the right. Next to him was some minor lord, by the looks of him. Damien could not help but stare. He was dressed fashionably, but looked uglier than the Imp. The man must've noticed Branwell staring, as he shot Damien an ugly look. Literally. Lord Branwell smirked at him and looked away, watching Loras Tyrell, trying to look for Lord Tywin. Ever since the Branwells lost Lannister backing, the Golden Lions were now always stricter on the Black Lions. Branwell hoped not to end up like the Red Lions. Damien spotted the Lannister standard, at least. He glanced at Robert, again. He saw a golden-blond-haired woman below him and leaned in to talk. "Don't suppose you're a Lannister?" She looked back at him. "You know where Tywin Lannister is?" She shook her head no. "My mistake, m'lady. Sorry to bother you." He saw the Mountain's squire by the monster, himself. The boy, Joss Stilwood, was going up against a Northman. "I wonder if the squire is as bad of a person as the Mountain," he thought to himself.

---

Tybalt Branwell, Heir to Understone Keep

Near Ashemark, The Westerlands

---

As they neared Ashemark, Tybalt looked at his map he drew back at Lannisport. "Only a day or two left if we make haste." Tyb looked behind him, staring at his house's standard. Founded from a lowly bodyguard. "Understone is near, men. I'm sure the Lannisters of Lanni-shart, oh, my mistake.. 'Lannisport..' will tell Lord Tywin of my 'treason..' Get me some paper and ink. A feather, too. I'm writing to my father. He needs to hurry on with that gods-forsaken tourney. A Northman as Hand.. disgraceful."

"Ser, what if the Lannisters of Lannisport try to siege Understone? What'll they do to our homes and families?" a servant asked, fiddling with his sword.

"They'll see the five-hundred men in the castle, along with the other seven-hundred bannermen rushing to our aid. As long as we apologize to Tywin, we'll be safe. I'll have father speak to him. They're both in the capital, correct?" A squire nodded. "Good. He can speak to him, there." Tyb held his pommel; a painted black lion's head on the edge of his lightweight sword. He rolled up the paper and pressed his seal into the hot, black, wax. "Get a messenger on the quickest horse and get him to King's Landing. Have him find my father." A scout bowed and hopped on a sleek courser. Tybalt lifted his small visor so he could see. He had forgotten the name of the main road. The Gold Road. It came to him. "Alright, let's get moving before the entire Lannisport army cuts my 'ead off."

"They'll have to face me, first," a mounted knight fired back. "You're the heir to House Branwell. A minor house, yes, but we have three bannermen houses of our own. Raised to nobility by the last King of the Rock. More prestigious than the Paynes, Crakehalls, and Marbrands. Especially that monster Gregor's house." Tybalt smiled and chuckled at the knight's comment. Gregor Clegane truly is Tywin's Monster.

[The Novakian Empire]

Lord Caleb Novakai,Ruler of the Misty Isle, The Quiet Isle,

The tourney grounds, outside the kings gate.

---

Caleb had been sitting inside his tent for several minutes, putting on his armour. He was nervous about the joust, as he was part of the next tilt. This would be the first time the majority of Westeros had seen, or even heard of him, so he would have to make a good first impression. He had to win, otherwise he would be mocked for losing in the first round, to a crannogman no less!
Normally, tourneys weren't very stressful for Caleb, but in kings landing.. There were so many people watching his every move, and it unnerved him to no end. He was not used to such attention.

Still, he had to participate in the tourney, otherwise this trip would've been for naught.
He picked up his shield, and walked over to his horse, mounting it.
Soon after, Caleb rode into the jousting list, and looked around, waving to the many smallfolk and nobles that were watching him. Soon after, he put on his helmet, and lowered its visor. He looked ahead, to his competitor.

The man was, rather suprisingly, much taller than any crannogman Caleb had ever seen. He looked imposing in his suit of armour, although the horse seemed a bit small for him. Nevertheless, Caleb was worried, having expected a much smaller opponent.
After one of his man ran over and handed Caleb his lance, Caleb lowered his visor, and with a deep breath, readied for the signal.

"BRRRRM!"

Caleb recognized the sound to be the horn, and a moment later, Caleb's horse launched into a gallop, the two barrelling down the lists at eachother. Caleb aimed his lance at the mans right side. As the two drew closer, time seemed to slow down immensely, and Caleb could only hear his breathing, and his heartbeat, pounding hard in his chest. Whether it be from the terror of a gigantic man clad in steel barelling towards him with a lance, or the stagefright from the crowds eyes trained on him, Caleb closed his eyes.

A moment later, he felt the impact. The crannogmans lance had found its way over Caleb's shield, and slammed into the side of his helmet, exploding into dozens of large pieces in the process, making Caleb's head rattle around his helmet violently, and just about sending Caleb off the side of his horse. Fortunately, Caleb was able to get ahold of the reins of his horse, and keep his balance.
He also felt his lance crash into the crannogman, and slide backwards, the recoiling lance slamming into calebs steel gauntlet. Caleb opened his eyes, and through the vision slits in his visor, saw the crannogman being launched backwards, off of his horse. As the crannogman fell, his plated arm crashed through the wooden list, likely giving the crannogman a terrible bruise, or worse.

Soon, Caleb came to a stop, and raised his visor. Time seemed to have return to his normal course, for when Caleb removed his helmet to breathe, caleb could hear the crowd applauding.
He was slightly dissapointed, but it's not like they would cheer for him. Everyone knew who they really wanted to see joust.

[Warg the Immortal]

---

Jon "the Kind Lion" Brude

---

King's Landing, Tourney Grounds

Hours Ago

Jon adjusted the straps that affixed his gorget to his dull grey steel armour. Being the son of a fourth son he never had money for the impressively enamelled armour of knights like Ser Loras, or Ser Jaime, but at least it would provide him with protection. Hopefully he wouldn't end up like that young Valeman, Hugh. As he ran through last minute checks of all his armour and equipment. Finally he clambered onto the back of his horse, a surefooted brown garron from the North, which he called Diligence. Jon secured the gold and silver checked cloth his wife had given him to carry as a favour. Lastly he was handed his helmet by his cousin. A simple full helm with blue and white plumes. Placing it on his head, covering his patchwork of scars, he looked down the tourney grounds to see his opponent, Joss Stilwood. A meek young man, squired to that big brute, Clegane. The boy looked a little unsteady on his steed. Atleast Jon had been lucky enough to draw a relatively easy first competitor. Jon had been a strong rider throughout his life, though he'd only ran in the lists a few times previous.

The two took their places at either side of the grounds. The two made the customary first pass and nodded at each other. Then came the real pass. Jon kicked his horse into up to a quick gallop, levying his lance towards the young squire he could see that his opponent was having trouble with his horse. Not wanting to embarrass the boy he aimed for a glancing blow off of Stilwood's shield. The boy's own lance struck near the centre of Jon's shield. Had the boy managed to control his horse from the start it could've proved to unhorse Jon, but at the speed he was travelling he shook off the blow.

As the two reset and grabbed new lances Jon once more kicked his horse up to speed and aimed once more at the young squire. This time he focused on unseating the boy, he could not afford to be merciful if he was to have any chance of winning this tournament. As the two met Jon levied his lance at the boy's far shoulder, striking him hard and sending him spinning of his horse. The victory was met with some light applause, which was to be expected, since neither he nor Joss were well known in the South. The bouts people truly wished to see would be Ser Loras, Ser Jaime and Prince Oberyn.

---

Current Time

The time had come for Jon's second bout. This time it would be against someone with a bit more experience. Lord Damien Branwell, the Black Lion against the Blue. Two of Jon's cousins had already won their own first bouts, though Niall was yet to compete. As he prepared to face off against the Lord of Understone Keep he couldn't help but admire the man's fine armour. Though he knew that his armour would protect him just as well, the number of finely polished plate sets at this tourney really made Jon stand out, though not in a good way. His young cousin Walton handed him his lance. After a few tense moments the King called for the match to begin. Jon's garron thundered down the line, though it wasn't quite as fast as Lord Branwell's destrier. The two met, striking each other in the centre of their shields, shattering both lance tips and the shields themselves. As Jon's garron slowed he equipped himself once again and turned once more to face Damien Branwell for the second pass.

[Kulonia]

Damien Branwell, Lord of Understone Keep

Tourney of the Hand, King's Landing

---

As Damien retrieved a new lance from his squire, a quiet lowborn boy, he adjusted his shield, showing off the black lion painted over a field of green with blue stripes. Branwell started to gallop nice and slow. His horse, picking up speed, started racing forward. Damien eyed his opponent. A northman. He saw the blue lion of House Brude on his shield. There's only one lion coming out on top. Damien leaned forward as he neared the northman. Jon Brude. He felt his lance splinter as it collided with Jon. Damien closed his eyes, hoping he didn't hurt the man. He got off his horse, calling out to Jon. "Good jousting, friend!" Damien took off his helmet and smiled at the northerner.

[Warg the Immortal]

---

Jon "the Kind Lion" Brude

---

King's Landing, Tourney Grounds

As the lance connected with Jon's shield he suddenly felt empty air beneath him, after what was only a moment, but felt much longer, he was rolling on the ground. Immediately he could tell there would be a bruise on his back in the morning. After picking himself up he removed his helmet, realizing the young lord from the Westerlands had clambered off his horse and was talking to him. He smiled at the man, though it likely looked more like a snarl with his patchwork of a face. The missing piece of his lip gave his voice an odd growl as he spoke. "Perfectly in tact milord. The Name's Jon Brude, as my face could probably tell you it'll take a bit more than that to send me to the afterlife. 'Twas a fine bout though, I wish you good luck in the following rounds." Jon shook the man's hand before moving towards his family's tent to get his sweaty armour off and cleaned.

[Vladivostokava]

House Blacklocke
Harkin Blacklocke IV
Kings Landing, The Crownlands

"Death Before Dishonor!"

---

Harkin winced as he watched the riverlord launch his younger brother from his mount. Brunn took a hell of a hit though. The crannogman smiled as he watched his younger brother climb to his feet unaided. A valiant effort at least. Harkin made his way down the stands and towards the lone black tent in the sea of colorful structure. He brushed aside the tent door and saw his younger brother taking off his set of armor. "Brunn, you beast of a boy! You gave that riverlord a good match, you will get him next time." Brunn smiled as his older brother made a notable attempt to reassure him. "Maybe next time." he said aloud. Harkin laughed, "Brother don't take it so hard, this is your first time, when we get back to Blackreach we can talk to father about having a training field built." "No that's okay, I think I know where I shine." Brunn said. "Where do you shine brother?" he chucked expecting a joke, "I shine in lifting heavy things, hunting and stealing your women." Brunn said as he chuckled. "Aye, you steal my women, only after I am done with them. And if you recall, I am a better swimmer, a better swordsman and as my girlfriends have likely told you, I am a better lover." Both of the Blacklockes laughed out loud.

Brunn winced in pain as he unhooked a knot from one of the loops around his armor. A large dent was visible in the centre of his chest. Luckily it was just a bruise but it could have been worse. Their family could not afford the best quality armor that was for sure. But they made it work. "I am going to take this to the smith for repairs. I will be in the stands watching your match." said Brunn. "I should get ready, don't start any fights while you are out. I know how you are when I am not around to bail you out of trouble." joked Harkin. Brunn began to throw his armor in a burlap sack before heading to the door. "You have some Freys to beat. You know father wont let you back in Blackreach if you lose." he said with a sigh. "Then I won't lose. I don't exactly have a choice now do I?" said Harkin. "No you don't." said Brunn before exiting.

Harkin smiled and sighed as he turned towards his armor rack. "Time to beat some Freys."

Harkin slipped his foot into the bronze stirrup, took the horn of the saddle in hand and slid his way onto the back of his steed. His Dark steel armor shined a matte grey in the sunlight. His armor was bland and relatively featureless save for the small white oak tree painted on his left shoulder matching the one on his wooden shield. His shield was likely one of the most impressive things he owned. A Ironwood shield crafted by House Forrester's craftsmen. The best quality shield in Westeros. The crannogmen was ready. He slipped on his helmet, a visorless helmet without hinges, the grey helmet had a single narrow eye slit for more structural integrity. The Freys were preparing at the other end, their armor was far more impressive visibly, they also had many more squares and hands to assist their riders. While the Blacklockes only brought one man Hanley. But that wouldn't matter, all those hands would only be used for on thing, picking Frey asses out of the dirt.

The horn blew and Harkin Blacklocke charged Ser Emmon Frey. Harkin took aim and narrowed his eyes, his heartbeat quickened and his breathing increased as the distance decreased. Harkin and Emmon closed the distance in seconds, Harkin made a slight tilt to his lance and crashed it forward into Emmon. Ser Emmons lancee skipped off the side of Harkins helmet as the Frey was knocked off balance and fell from his hose. One foot still held in its stirrup the horse began too drag Ser Emmon as the Freys many servants ran to his aid. Harkin slowed his horse as his field hand Hanley rushed to his side taking Harkins Lance, freeing a hand to remove his helmet. Harkin gave a bow from horseback and began to make his way off the field, scanning the crowds for his brother.

[Warg the Immortal]

---

Tommard "True Axe" Brude

---

Winterfell, Great Hall

Tommard glanced up at the sound of Theon speaking. Smirking, he picked up his quiver and weirwood bow. Along the heavily engraved arms were images depicting various historic Brude clans members and their accomplishments. "You must still be drunk Greyjoy, if you think you could beat either me or Rodrik any day of the week." Cocking his head he looked at the Bolton bastard. "You coming Snow?" He turned to Robb before making his way towards the large doors of the Great Hall. "You should join us Robb, once you're done all this lordly business." Smiling he made his way to join Theon, clapping the Greyjoy on the back. "Maybe when we're done shooting sticks I can tan your hide with some sword training."

---

Lord Robert "the Handsome" Brude, The Brude, Lord of Lake's Bane

---

Lake's Bane, Courtyard

Robert laughed as his two sons finished with their actual training, and were now rolling in the dirt wrestling like when they were boys. His eldest, Robert, was clearly thrashing Edwyn, but he was putting up a good fight nonetheless. Finally deciding he'd seen enough he stood and called for them to break up the fight. "All right boys, time to end this farce, clean yourself up and shove off." Robert and Edwyn eventually broke apart, laughing and red faced. Shaking his head he left the two to dust themselves off before making his way towards the castle's hot spring. It had been a long day and he'd been dealing with a kink in his back throughout the day.

As he sank into the warm water he felt his stress ebb away. His thoughts were turning more and more to how he would fare with the coming winter. There were many children running around the castle these days. Would they have enough to feed them all throughout the frigid season? Too make matters worse he had daughters and sons unmarried, and it would much more difficult to broker marriage contracts when the winds are too strong for even a Maester's ravens. Hopefully Lord Karstark would respond soon regarding his son Harrion and Robert's own daughter. That'd be at least one less person to feed during the winter.

[Kulonia]

Damien Branwell, Lord of Understone Keep

Tourney of the Hand, King's Landing

---

The Northman informed Damien that he wasn't hurt and that his name was Jon. Branwell had heard about him. He assumed it was him from the glimpse he caught of his face in their first tilt. Damien felt a wave of relief fly over him after hearing Jon wasn't hurt. After all, he only got violent when he was depressed or sad. He brought his horse to his squire, Symon. He walked over to his tent where a retainer helped him take off his armor. He lifted his undershirt to find a nasty sting from a bit of broken lance. "Symon, any news from Tybalt?" asked Damien. He had heard nothing from his only son in two days. The boy shook his head 'no' with a nervous look. Damien put on his padded gambeson with his house's standard on it and walked off to the stands. He caught a glimpse of some crannogmen as he walked by. He always thought of them as strange people. "That one is fairly tall," he thought to himself. He saw the Brude tent along his way. "Time for some fresh air. The stench of the city never seems right," thought the Westerman as he walked through the streets. He had grabbed his sword and dagger, both with black pommels, except his sword was a larger version of Tybalt's. Holding his sword hilt, he reached the gates. As he requested to pass through, he saw a raven fly over the wall. "Wonder who that's for.." said Damien, quietly, as he walked through. He saw a caravan in the distance, as well as a man on a horse. He sat under a tree and picked a flower, smelling it.

---

Tybalt Branwell, Heir to Understone Keep

Nearing Understone Keep, The Gold Road, The Westerlands

As Tyb and his party set up camp in a forest near an old, dusty road, he saw a lone traveler on a horse pass by. He carried a sack on his steed. Tybalt turned around and helped his men set up a tent for him. After it was up, he stepped inside and sat on a stool the men put down. He asked for a taller stool to use as a desk. After the men brought one, he started writing a message to Understone. He wrote to the small court, talking of his sudden and unannounced return. After burning some wax and pressing down a Branwell seal, he sent their only raven to the castle. "I should've used the raven to contact father. A messenger is too slow." The men agreed and started setting up individual tents for themselves. Tyb thought it was a good idea to get more sleep and to wake up earlier, so he orded his men to sleep, with a couple men standing watch. They put out the fire as Tybalt climbed into his bedroll. He let out a yawn as he said, "Almost home," not thinking about what will happen to his family when the Lannisters hear of his disobedience.

EDIT: Fixed by Jhet

[Eraus]

Ramsey Snow, Bastard of Bolton

"Run before the Hounds get to you my darling" Ramsey remembered saying the day before to a nude commoner girl as she was released into the woods. They waited just long enough for her to get a decent head start and then released the hounds as they began to chase after her. Ramsey knew this girl would make for a great chase and truly amused by this "game" he'd been playing with her for the past month

He had found her in a village just two days ride from the Dreadfort alongside her two sisters, They had caught his eye as the three of them were incredibly attractive. The Sisters all had bright green eyes and beautiful yet long faces, The current one he was chasing after was named Ellyn she was the eldest of the three being just married less then a week ago. They foolishly thought that Ramsey would be able to give them a better life and when he asked for them to sneak away from their families and follow him back to the Dreadfort they fell for it. Now the other two are kept safe in the hidden chambers of the Dreadfort while he plays with Ellyn.

Ellyn was scared and nude in the woods, She couldn't help but worry for her other sisters as they would likely face this next. She knew they would find her and do gods know what to her but she hoped she could get to the village before they found her. She was disoriented and attempting to use landmarks to find her way back home. Ellyn stopped to rest for a moment but then she heard something in the distance

Dogs barking in the distance

Ramsey was nearing her and she knew it but there was little she could do but run

Rodrik Snow, Bastard of the Dreadfort

Rodrik was glad that Theon had gotten them something to do. Fucking finally He thought as he rose "Now which one of you oh so Noblemen wants to get their arse beat by a snow?" He smirked as he grabbed his sword and scabbard, It was one of the few things his father had given him and he had kept it with him nearly all the time. The pommel of the sword had a human head which was seemingly screaming in agony with a dark grey hilt to match it.

[Nuxipal]

House Hightower

Leyton Hightower

---

Lord Leyton HIghtower, Lord of the High Tower, Lord of the Port, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, and Beacon of the South. It was probably one of the longer titles used by any of the lords. The Hightowers had more strength at their disposal than many of the Great Houses, but were not one themselves. Leyton had once dreamed of doing such a thing, surplanting the Tyrells would have been a simple thing following the rise of Robert Baratheon, but he was not a fool and he knew Robert was not about to hand out the Reach on a platter to him for simply not heeding the call to battle. To be exact, of all the times that his banners were called by his lord, Leyton only answered once. When the Iron Islands rose in rebellion. Every other time in his life, Leyton only sent his vassals or hired a mercenary company to fight in his stead.

Now, he sat in the Hightower for five and ten years. He is told he has a grandson and two granddaughters as well, though he has only seen his grandson as a newborn. His daughter, Malora was with him day and night as they researched the magics of those who came before. The base of their own home was not built by Hightowers. He wanted to know what it was and if it had any hidden meanings that could aid his family.

[Great Franconia and Verana]

The Crownlands

The City of King's Landing, The Hand's Tourney

---

Oberyn of House Nymeros-Martell, The Red Viper, Prince of Dorne

The sun washed over the City like a wave, slowly roasting the assembled Lords and Ladies, and causing great discomfort among the competing Knights. Few in the crowd, nobles and commoners, had clear brows, as sweat rolled off them, and fouled their clothes, and sent into the air an unrelenting stench. Such was the the state of King's Landing in the Summer, yet among the throngs that had gathered outside the Walls of the city for the Tournament of the Hand, Prince Oberyn Nymeros-Martell, and his retinue, we relaxed.

The heat was gentle on the Prince's copper skin as he prepared for his first joust of the tourney. Dorne was parched, its vast expanses of arid desert scorched by unrelenting sun. This weather was, to any Dornishman, mild by comparison.

Oberyn ran a slender had through his raven black hair, and winked across the field. Ellaria Sand winked back wickedly from her perch in the Stands, a single pin prick of beauty in an otherwise uninspiring pack of shrews. The Prince was relaxing, his light armour breathing well, and dripping in fine silk streamers, robes, and tails, orange on the copper scales of his hauberk. In contrast to the other competitors, he wore only a light helm, and his small sand steed, while slight, was lightning fast, and unrelenting. With a lazy turn, the Prince looked down the field. Bronze Yohn Royce was a sturdy man, well built, and experienced. His bronze armour was baking in the sun, the ancient runes that were crawled across them collecting the sweat that beat off the old mans brow.

"Is it true," a voice whispered in Oberyn's ear, "Does that armor really protect him through some form of sorcery?"
Daemon Sand, Oberyn's squire, and oftentimes, lover, always had a keen eye on his opponent. But this time, Oberyn had to correct him.

"No man is protected by magic," Oberyn said, setting down his goblet of wine, and standing. "Those runes are only as strong as the bronze they are chiseled in."

"Can you beat him?"

Oberyn turned, flashing a wicked smile at Daemon.
"I did not come her to beat Old Men."
The Prince turned in place, orange silk billowing about him as he placed a light helm on his head for protection, and approached his horse. The beast was impeccably bred, with a coat as black as night, its mane and tail fire red.

As the Dornishman mounted, he threw a look over his shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd. While this bout was against Bronze Yohn, Oberyn only had one true challenger in mind.
Even from hundreds of feet away, one could see Gregor Clegane. His towering figure dwarfed the attendants that scurried around him, and his booming voice carried around the Tourney grounds. Earlier in the day, Oberyn had watched the Mountain-that-Rides spear some hot headed knight through the neck. At the time, Oberyn had chuckled. Ser Gregor had done to Ser Hugh exactly what the Prince hoped to later do to Ser Gregor.
Only slower, he had thought at the time.

Oberyn had not come to King's Landing for the tourney, nor the pay his respects to the silver tongued Jon Arryn, who had come to Dorne just once, bearing the bones of a murdered Martell.
No, the Red Viper was not hear to compete in such trivial sport, nor grieve for the man that wiped the King's ass. Having heard of a Tourney honouring Eddard Stark's sudden, if not unexpected elevation to the office of Hand of the King, Oberyn knew that Ser Gregor Clegane would be partaking in the lists.
With the blessing of his brother, Oberyn had sailed North, and arrived at King's Landing with little fanfare, a fornight ago. The early arrival was necessary. Doran and Oberyn had planned this for years, and they were not going to let any ill timed storm stop them, now that they had finally set the wheels in motion.

A trumpet broke Oberyn from his reverie, and he begrudgingly turned away from his target, and mounted his horse. Daemon handed him his lance, and polished bronze shield. Jousting was hardly Oberyn's favourite martial activity, the melee would be the ture showcase for his skills, but it was the most acclaimed of the events.

The Prince and his steed trotted forward. His light copper and leather armour was decorated with flowing with orange sand silk, and to the crowd, so used to seeing burly knights galloping at each other in metal kegs, the Prince looked small, and weak. His reputation as a fighter however, kept anyone from openly questioning his tactics.
Across the field, Bronze Yohn had mounted, and was moving forward, encased head to tow in bright bronze, his only human feature showing were two beady eyes peering through the slit of his great helm. His horse was brawny and powerful, but slow.

The two men lined up as the Tourney officials ran about. King Robert sat in the stands, drinking, while the sullen Ned Stark watched in silence from his right hand. Nodding respectfully at their hosts, Oberyn and Yohn began to trot forward. The Lord of Runestone began to speed up, his massive horse kicking dust as it galloped. Oberyn too was flying, his Sand Steed, roaring down the list. The Prince smiled to himself, as he saw Yohn lower his lance, following the elder mans movements precisely. The two man got closer, and closer, and closer, until they were within striking distance. Oberyn knew his lance was in perfect position to send the Valeman into the dirt, but he could not take chances, not until he knew he would face Gregor Clegane.

At the last moment, seconds before the pair collided, Oberyn twisted. The movement was subtle, and none but Bronze Yohn likely noticed it, as the Red Viper angled his polished bronze shield into the sun. Shining brilliantly, a single ray of light reflect outwards, and found its way into Bronze Yohn's great helm, blinding the elder jouster.

As the pair collided, a shocked Yohn dropped his lance, ever so slightly. Taking advantage of his great maneuverability, Oberyn deflected the point of the lance, and sent his own directly into the centre of the Lords shield. Caught blind and off balance, the Lord of Runestone went flying, landing with a crunch in the dirt. As Oberyn rounded the field, he turned, and raised his lance in triumph. The crowd stood, cheering emphatically for the winner, even as Bronze Yohn, bruised and battered, stood, grumbling about "cheekey Dornish Princes."

The Red Viper removed his helm, allowing his hair to stream down to his shoulders. He caught Ellaria's eye, and smiled. He was one step closer to Gregor Clegane.

[Eraus]

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, The Leech Lord

Roose was told that Ramsey had returned after a nice hunt, Roose knew what that had meant and another girl was killed and flayed. Roose was tempted to simply terminate the Snow but he had a plan which require Ramsey to be alive at least for now. The Plan would also include his other Bastard Rodrik, Roose knew the boy would be loyal to House Bolton but he'd likely less cold then the rest of the Boltons.

He had called for his captain Walton and a few other men to the Great Hall. Most of them were those close to Ramsey the "Bastard's Boys" as they were called yet little did Ramsey know they all bent the knee to Roose as he was the one who planted them around the snow.

"I've called you all here for a few simple reasons" He said as he looked across the great hall. " I plan to remarry as this House needs a true Bolton leading instead of a Snow" He said softly "I will be sending letters to the Karstarks, Blacklocke, Manderly's and any house which has an eligible lady." After he stopped speaking the room remained quiet ready to here what he would say next.

"Walton, I want you and Damon Dance to head to Winterfell to see how our boy lord is running these lands. Report back to me after you've checked up on my Bastard" Walton nodded acknowledging the mission

"I want the rest of you to ensure that Ramsey doesn't go hunting again" He said pausing "That ends now as it will cause far too many problems for us in the coming months if I allow him to do so. Now I've letters to write" He said as he left and headed towards his quarters where he would write a letter to the various Houses across the north asking if any would be willing to wed their daughter to him, Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. The first letter being to House Blacklocke, Roose understood that they were not a House of his caliber but he needed a true born heir and Blacklocke as a small house would likely see this marriage as being beneficial.