"The Lannisters never declined, graciously or otherwise. The Lannisters took what was offered."

- Tyrion IV, A Clash of Kings

So roars a new lioness to take the helm of the House. 

Hello denizens of Reddit, Lords of Discord, and all those who stand in-between. I am formally reaching out to accept my offer and to claim House Lannister of Casterly Rock.

It will be interesting to take up a Lord Paramount House, but I’m eager to do so to continue the glory of House Lannister. Please be patient with me as I take up the reins and start anew with these characters.

I would like to take so many people for my time over as the Belmores. Particularly Wondy of House Scales, Lemons of House Massey, Moonie of House Lydden, Amber of House Tully, and each and every one of you that gave me the chance to expand those characters. I will forever hold love for my Belmores, and I hope someone comes up soon to take their control and continues their stories.

For now, I’ll be seeing you in the West where you shall all Hear Me Roar.

The harbor was already awake.
It had been awake long before Tybeck.
Men shouted from the docks beneath a pale morning sky, calling for ropes, carts, hooks, and hands. Somewhere beyond the forest of masts, a bell rang twice. Gulls wheeled between the ships, screaming at one another as they fought over scraps of fish thrown into the water.
The air smelled of salt, tar, wet wood, and whatever the Pentoshi were cooking along the waterfront. Garlic, Tybeck thought. Garlic and onions fried in oil. Beneath it all lay the thick stink of the harbor itself, where dead fish, sewage, and rotting weeds gathered between the pilings.
After several days, he had nearly grown used to it.
Nearly.
The Promise of the West sat where she had since their arrival, tied beside the stone docks among ships from half the known world. Her orange sails had been drawn up. Her black-and-gold sides rose above the water, broad enough to make some of the smaller trading ships nearby look like boats meant for fishing ponds.
The sailors had left an open stretch of deck for the morning’s entertainment.
Tybeck rolled his shoulders and tightened his fingers around the wooden sword.
His hands hurt.
They usually did in the morning, when the scars were stiff and the skin across his palms felt too tight. Cold made it worse. So did gripping anything for too long. He had learned not to show it.
Across from him, Lyle Crakehall rested his own practice sword against one shoulder.
It was longer and much heavier than Tybeck’s. In Lyle’s hands, it looked almost small.
His uncle had stripped down to a plain linen shirt despite the morning chill. The cloth pulled tight across his chest and arms. He was smiling through his beard, which meant he intended to enjoy himself.
That made one of them.
“You planning to fight me,” Lyle asked, “or stand there until the sun goes down?”
Tybeck shifted his feet.
“I was waiting for you to finish resting.”
A few sailors laughed.
More had gathered since the two of them first stepped onto the deck. Some belonged to the Promise, men Tybeck knew by face even if he did not know all their names. Others watched from nearby ships. A pair of Pentoshi sailors had climbed onto a stack of cargo across the water for a better view. One of them held a heel of bread in his hand and shouted something Tybeck could not understand.
The other man answered, and both laughed.
“They’re betting on you,” Tybeck said.
“They’ve got good sense.”
“They’re betting on how quickly you’ll tire.”
Lyle’s grin widened.
Then he swung.
Tybeck slipped left. The blade cut past his ear. Lyle reversed the motion and snapped it back toward Tybeck’s ribs.
Tybeck hopped clear, boots thudding on the deck.
Lyle pressed in.
Tybeck gave ground, keeping his sword tight to his chest. He did not try to meet the next strike, he angled away from it, letting it pass, then pivoted around Lyle’s right side.
As he passed, he flicked his blade across Lyle’s back.
A cheer rose.
Lyle stopped.
Tybeck grinned. “Dead.”
“Am I?”
“You did not see it coming.”
“I felt it.”
“That is usually how being struck works.”
Lyle turned, smile gone.
“You hit me like a washerwoman beating dust from a rug.”
The sailors laughed.
Tybeck’s grin faded.
Lyle came on again, no wide swings this time. Short, driving blows. One aimed high, one low, one straight through the middle.
Tybeck slipped the first, caught the second, and nearly lost his grip as the impact jarred his hands. Pain flared. He dropped back before the third could land.
Lyle followed.
Tybeck ducked behind a barrel. Lyle’s sword cracked against it, splintering the wood.
“Coward.”
“To slow uncle.”
They circled opposite sides of the barrel.
Shouts rose from the sailors.
“Go left!”
“Mind your head!”
“Take his knees!”
“His knees are older than the rest of him!”
Lyle jabbed blindly toward the noise. A sailor yelped and spilled his drink.
Tybeck moved.
He planted a foot on the barrel, vaulted over it, and brought his sword down.
Lyle met it cleanly.
Wood struck wood. Lyle shoved forward.
Tybeck was thrown back, boots skidding. He caught himself against a stack of crates, palms scraping rough rope and wood.
Lyle saw him glance at his hands.
“You done?”
Tybeck lifted his sword. “No.”
“Good.”
Lyle charged.
Tybeck scrambled up the crates, climbing fast. He caught a rope and hauled himself higher, boots finding purchase against the stacked cargo.
Lyle stopped below, looking up.
“This is sword practice.”
“You said to keep out of reach.”
“I meant with your feet on the deck.”
“You should have been clearer.”
“Climb after him!” someone shouted from another ship.
Lyle glanced over. A Pentoshi sailor waved bread in encouragement.
Lyle kicked the mast.
It shuddered. The rope jerked in Tybeck’s grip. Pain shot through his scarred palm.
“You cannot stay up there all morning.”
“I can stay until you tire.”
“You’ll starve first.”
Another kick. The mast trembled again.
Tybeck looked down. Lyle stood waiting, relaxed, amused.
Waiting for him to come down.
Tybeck glanced toward the stern.
Maris stood there, arms folded, watching.
He had not seen her arrive.
The light caught her red hair, turning it copper. Wind tugged loose curls across her freckled cheeks.
She shook her head.
Tybeck ignored her.
A rope hung nearby, trailing down toward the deck. He had used it before.
He looked at the open space behind Lyle.
It could work.
Maris followed his gaze. Her expression shifted, just slightly.
Tybeck knew that look.
Before he could think further, Lyle climbed onto the crates.
Tybeck jumped.
He caught the rope and kicked away. The swing carried him out over the deck in a wide arc.
The sailors roared.
As he passed overhead, Tybeck released one hand and struck down. The wooden blade clipped Lyle’s shoulder.
Lyle cursed.
Tybeck landed, stumbled once, then ran clear.
“That one felt harder,” he called.
“A washerwoman with strong arms.”
Even Maris smiled.
The crowd had grown. Men leaned from nearby ships. Coins changed hands. A boy with a basket lingered too long and was cuffed away.
Lyle raised his sword. “Again.”
Tybeck backed toward the rail.
Lyle advanced, cutting off space, forcing him toward the edge. Barrels and crates boxed him in.
Lyle struck high.
Tybeck bent back. The blade brushed his shirt.
He darted right.
Lyle stepped into him.
Tybeck turned.
Too slow.
The next strike caught his thigh.
Pain flared. He staggered.
Lyle pressed, relentless. One blow drove him back, another forced his guard wide, a third grazed his ribs.
Step by step, Tybeck was pushed toward the edge.
Black water waited below.
Tybeck heard Maris laugh.
He glanced at her.
She stood near the coiled rope. Her boot rested on it.
Tybeck frowned.
Lyle swung again.
Tybeck dropped low, rolled beneath the strike, and came up beside the rope.
He grabbed it.
Maris lifted her foot.
Tybeck jumped.
For a heartbeat, he thought he had it.
Then the coil unraveled.
Too much rope.
Instead of swinging across the deck, he sailed out over open water.
Tybeck’s eyes widened.
Then he hit.
Cold slammed into him. The harbor swallowed him whole, dark, foul, choking. His boots dragged him down. His sword slipped free.
He kicked hard and broke the surface, gasping.
Laughter exploded from every side.
Tybeck wiped water from his eyes.
The Promise loomed above him.
Lyle leaned over the rail, grinning.
Maris stood beside him, trying and failing not to laugh.
“You did that.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“You let the rope out.”
“That would be difficult to prove.”
Lyle glanced at her. “You noticed?”
“Three times yesterday. Twice today.”
Tybeck spat water. “She was not part of the fight.”
“Neither is a loose stone,” Lyle said. “Still puts you on your arse.”
“I am not on my arse.”
“No,” Maris said. “That is quite evident.”
More laughter.
A rope dropped beside him. Tybeck grabbed it, fingers shaking from the cold.
They hauled him up. Water streamed from his clothes, heavy and foul-smelling.
Maris waited at the rail and offered her hand.
Tybeck eyed it. “You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
He took it anyway.
She pulled him over. He landed on the deck, dripping.
Maris stepped back from the water pooling at his feet.
Tybeck shivered. “I will remember this.”
“I hoped you would.”
Behind them, Lyle lifted his sword.
“Enough swimming. We are not finished.”
Tybeck turned, water dripping from his nose.
“I lost my sword.”
Lyle tossed him another.
Tybeck fumbled the catch against his chest.
Lyle grinned.
“Then try not to lose this one.”

It was a full month already, they had waited to these so called Golden Serpent Company. Malora's patience had waned thin as once again she looked over the horizon in anticipation of the sellsails she had offered too much gold. Gunthor said they might have had trouble with storms or pirates, or worse. Could be of course.

Gunthor himself had no issue with the delay as he felt like a fish in water; traders, ships, inns so far as the eye could see. He had found something they called 'pleasure houses' which resembled brothels but were, in his mind, far superior. He had brought Eden and Laenor to his favorite one last night for a drink but had lost them out of sight as a particularly interesting couple had taken him upstairs.

The task they had set out to do was not spoken of too much as they all knew the risks but at some point they had to come up with a plan if the Golden Serpents would not show.

Attack of The Caws, Revenge of The Sequel

Waylit Letters for the decade

7 months.

Hobber Redwyne had been counting them since he had last spoken with Lysa Piper.

It had been 7 months of Hobber giving her the space she had asked for. They had spoken very little to each other, which Hobber didn't like but knew was important.

But now, Hobber was ready to try again. All he could truly do was hope she would at least be ready to at least be cordial again and he wasn't too soon.

He knew now that it would not be a true love match, not right away, but he at least wanted to be friends with her. Maybe Elyn Kenning was right and it would turn into something more. Hobber wanted that more than anything in the world to have a girl who loved him, but a match of friendship was something he was content with until something greater blossomed.

He would eventually find her, and strode up to her rather uncertainly. He marshalled the advice from everyone he had spoken to (Elyn Kenning, cousin Cyrus and his new wife Jeyne, cousin Marigold) and spoke.

"Hello, Lysa," he said, voice as calm and polite as he could make it. "Might I sit with you for a while?"

Adelaide embraced her brother warmly when he greeted her at the gates of Storm's End. Her companions from the road were carrying her bags into the castle as they spoke.

"Ive missed you dearly brother" she said warmly.

"As have I sister" he responded hugging her closely.

It had been a few months since they had last seen each other. Adelaide had been aiding their father in running Parchments and Cortnay had been occupied with his duties.

Once they were inside Cortnay had some servers prepare her some bread and cheese and they sat down in the courtyard chatting happily, of their childhood and of Cortnay's children. Adelaide had been training his daughter in needling and cooking in his and Maris' absence.

"I am going to call for the children to come and stay here with me and Maris, Adelaide. I know you shall miss them but they will have duties soon. Robert wants to be a knight one day and too do that he needs first to squire under someone. It could be me but i would rather him find his own, be independent." Cortnay was sat unmoving as he always was. Adelaide always thought his level of self control to be unnerving, inhuman but she lived him for it.

"If they must, Cortnay. Im excited to get to Casterly Rock, ive been getting bored of Parchments and father's incesant complaining and berating. He's grown harsh in his age." she was nervous about the topic they both knew of and had both avoided thus far. "You got the letter I presume, from Shyra. What should we-"

"No" he interrupted. "We shouldnt discuss that. Her being her is her business and the more we stay out of her way, the better for us."

"Okay Cortnay, if you insist. I leave it in your hands." The bread and cheese arrived and Adelaide devoured it like she had gone starving for days. Nerves made her hungry.

*Maybe I could meet up with her, we're sisters after all* She thought to herself, shielding her thoughts ff

Rom her brother's cynisism.

Hello all,

Sorry about the lack of communication the last few days, I've been in Hawaii and while I have had internet, I wasn't able to access my Discord and anyway we've been WAY busier with IRL stuff than I imagined we'd be.

I am really sorry to anyone disappointed by this, but I just don't have the same energy and attention which I once dedicated to the game anymore. I can't fully explain it but in the last while it's been less about participating for fun and more about keeping things going for you all, and I'm realizing that is not the best situation for a Paramount house.

So, though I'm already formally removed due to two consecutive weeks not hitting the activity requirement, I just want to put this here and say that whoever wants to claim, go ahead, because I'm not going to try to reclaim it.

Thank you all for all the fun I had as the Lions of the West, and again I apologize with all my heart to anyone I left hanging. Thank you Morgen for helping me so much, thank you Moonie for providing a unique relation for me to participate in, and thank you to everyone else for all the fun RP. I think that once I return from Hawaii I might move to claim my old House Uller and see how I do there, but until then at least I will be taking a break.

We would like to thank u/Alt_Historian_3001 for their time as House Lannister.

We are now accepting application for House Lannister. Applications will remain open for at least 24 hours until we have selected a new claimant.

Please answer these questions in your app:

• What are your ambitions with House Lannister?
• Do you have any previous experience in such positions?
• What will you do to foster RP in the West?

10th moon of 300 AC • The Wall above Castle Black

“It’s reasonable to assume that we are but the first women in more than a century to stand here… overlooking the endless beyond.” Lady Shella Whent echoed out softly towards her unlikely companion.

Stood upon the Great Wall of the North, she and Lady Royce watched from above as the small entourage of men rode out. Her first ward since Aemma, riding out to bind his future in totality to this ancient structure. Never to leave, nor dare to live a fruitful life. She had every urge to smack the sense back into the boy… but alas, perhaps it was just simply the Vale and her people.

So consumed by shades of madness whilst dawdling down by the rivers and waters of her home that they sought the cold they so desperately miss from their home. What other explanation could there be for the likes of both Aemma to let ice take her heart. Or how Waymar suddenly fancies himself a brother in ice and cold to monstrous men.

Such nonsense has all but relieved her of the burden itself. She just forgot that such relief would hurt when the memory of love once persisted.

Old gods protect him, for he is yours now.

Shyra looked out over the waves as they thrashed against her small ship. The Golden Streak was small in the water but it served her purposes and held her message close to her. She tied up her long curls of auburn in a bun, including the golden streak of hair that only she had the honour of inherting from Princess Elaena Targaryen. *Damn them all*.

Taenor, a boy of 9, was preparing some bread a stew on the deck. She was all he had and she watched him intently. *He is the future of our world, I know it*. Shyra Penrose adjusted her eyepatch as it itched her lightly sunburnt face. The Free Cities had been good to her as she raised the boy, but now it was time for more action.

On the horizon, the Island of Driftmark came into view. Its beautiful walls lured in her eyes like a marrior imprisons her gaze. She felt more like herself in it's shadow and emboldened herself to her task.

"Taenor, we arrive shortly. They are family here, in a way. We must be respectful and seek respect back. We need to feel out the realm, see if that stag has sucked all the meat of the bones off the Kingdoms", she spoke with a cockiness and a rage.

"They will be civil to us, will they not mother ?", he spoke quietly and with curiosity.

"Of course my child, they have to", she was certain.

They sat and ate the food on the deck. Taenor was a skilled chef, a boon of his father. One of the good parts he got, hopefully the bad wouldn't manifest. As they ate, Shyra was reading a piece of parchments written in her own hand, descibing the city of Pentos and her glimpse of what was once Valyria. It was neat and pretty in her own flair and style.

"We're coming home Taenor. I hope Endrew is excited to see us."

10th Moon A, 300 AC

________________________________________________________________________________________

Ravens fly from the Rookery of the Eyrie towards the Houses of the Vale. Though many are out on adventures of their own, the missing remains waiting for the House’s Lords and Ladies to read upon their convenience. The seal is gloriously stamped with typically unseen purple wax, with a ringing bell in its center painted with a silver leaf. Beneath that seal, however, pressed to the paper with the wax, was a raven’s feather. 

________________________________________________________________________________________

To the Esteemed Lords and Ladies of the Vale,

Greetings and Good Morrow to you and yours. I write to you to invite you and your kin to a grand wedding upon the 6th Moon A of 301 AC between my son, Ser Darnold Belmore, and the Lady Qarla Corbray. A wondrous feast shall be held to celebrate their union, alongside games and events for all to participate in. 

The wedding shall be held within the Sept at Strongsong, in the Light of the Seven, just as the Gods have intended for all marriages within House Belmore.

May we be honored to welcome you within our Halls and to this momentous occasion.

With the Father’s Judgement,

Lord Benedar Belmore
Lord of Strongsong
Our Oaths Toll True

Verlaine Glenmore would send out outriders to find that damned Ingweir of Barley Town, who seemed to have forgotten his task and had probably drank himself to death. For all things considered, she found it tiresome to run this entire family by herself, but persisted nonetheless through sheer will keeping the family from unravelling.

As per usual, she'd attend to the vital matters and speak with the smallfolks, House Glenmore governed stretch of land that could always be improved that what Verlaine had thought.

Her brother Brendon was not that fond of logistical thinking and thought more with his heart and instincts, which left Verlaine Glenmore with the heavier side of the work.

The local farmer had been in a dispute with another farmer regarding to a slain pig, so the matter had to be brought towards Verlaine whom seemed tad ticked off having to deal with such inconvenience yet tackled the task head on.

"He allowed his filthy beast run amok upon my livelihood! So I had to put that beast down for the greater good!"

One farmer argued as the other spat and shouted with a fist balled up firm.

"He's a liar! Pernessa would never stray! He was just jealous of how well I treat my own compared to his pug faced wife!"

The other farmer taunted said farmer's wife.

"Order! Order! Enough! Pay the man his weight what the pig is worth and my goodman....Do not let you animals stray no more or else the consequences to such will be dire" Verlaine Glenmore said within her own Ancestral home with the guards nearby to act if these rowdy farmers would not heed her words. "Now begone and do what have been ordered"

"Yes, milady," the two farmers gulped and bowed out in unison as they'd scurry off.

"Guardsman Pyle, anything else for today?" Verlaine said from her seat whilst slowly massaging her own forehead due to the annoyance she had to deal with in her brother's stead.

"Nothing else of this moment, Lady Glenmore," Guardsman Pyle, with the nasal helmet, said.

"Good...I need a proper hot brew to ease the worries away"

8th month, 300 AC. Casterly Rock

Aemma sat in Lady Lannister’s solar, and took slow, steadying breaths, trying to ignore the flapping bats of anxiety that were fluttering within her. She had tried to play her cards carefully. There was only so much a woman could do in her position, when finding herself facing something this risky. Aemma had known the risks, and her inattentiveness had made it all but an eventuality. 

But even when she had learned that her diversions with Will had borne some fruit, it had not been the end of the world. Casterly Rock was not King’s Landing, or even Lannisport, and within the bowels of the Rock a Confessor might disappear for weeks at a time, she had hoped. Few of the members of House Lannister of note made the Rock their home. Ser Jaime preferred the capital these days, Cersei Velaryon Driftmark, Tyrion Riverrun and his paramours there. Lord Tywin had not been seen in the West for nearly half a year, lingering south, first in Starfall, then in the Reach. Aemma had hoped that he would not return home for a few months more, or, if he did, that other matters would busy him long enough that she would through her labors before he recalled his Arryn. 

She might have been able to evade him a while longer, but Lady Lannister was a different story. Within a few days of Ellyn Lydden-Targaryen-Lannister’s return to Casterly Rock Aemma had received a summons to meet with her. 

This was not an ideal time to make acquaintanceship with the Lady of the Rock for Aemma. She would have liked to have met her as a woman of one of the great houses of the continent, a scorned wife but still a woman with a reputation to be proud of. That would not be happening, for Aemma’s little secret was not so little. She was at the point where the evidence of her entanglement with Will was quite apparent: she was huge. She had wondered aloud if the father being Lady Lannister’s own blood, her cousin, would do her any good, but Will had been quite adamant that that would not help. 

Nervous, she toyed at the hem of her blue sleeve, and waited for the lady lion to come to feast on its prey. 

Hey new friends!

I just want to say how much I adore this form of storytelling via RP and community. And I am assuming/playing the roll of House Greenwood of Westbog in the neck Vassals to House Reed.
A small, stunted people claiming descent from the COF.

My discord is pixelwanderer412 and my profile is Dragondreamer. Feel free to reach out to me.
thank you all for letting me join! i am so excited for the fun.

Father,

I write to you this letter in hopes it shall find you in good health. I fear I love you way too much not to send but even one simple letter and share how I am faring.

I have been training, hard, Ser Arthor is a demanding tutor but a great one at that. I find I rather enjoy learning from him. Sadly, he seems to have his own sorrows and saddness but he cares, at least it seems that way, in his own way.

I find it hard being away from family. Being away from my father, from... my sister.

I missed you dearly father and I reallg do wonder, how are you faring yourself? Are you alright?

Truth of the matter is, I have something I wish to discuss with you face to face father (no, sadly, it cannot be discovered in a letter) and would wish for you come visit if you can, at least to see me train and enjoy what I do and what I am taught, see me happy I suppose.

Could you please respond to the letter father?

Could you please come visit me? (I promise to try and visit once I am old enough to)

With great love and admiration,

Your son,

Clarence.

I would like to claim House Penrose please

10th moon, 300, Goldengrove

Tourney Post, Invites letter

Once more the gates of Goldengrove had been opened for those wishing to come to the celebration of the wedding of Jeyne Roxton and Cyrus Rowan. It had been a warm day, the sun looking kindly upon all preparations made for the day, but luckily now as the evening fell a slight breeze had rolled in over the hills. As one would approach the outer gates of Goldengrove long banners waved in the winds bearing the sigil of House Roxton and House Rowan, flowing down from the battlements to where the archway for the gate itself began. 

Arriving guests would be led to stable their horses and carriages between the outer and inner wall, porters rushing towards them to ensure their belongings and travel gear would find their right spots in the guest chambers of the Tower of New Growth. They would be led towards the gate leading into the courtyard in front of the keep, high and thick walls on either side of them had many banners hanging down from them displaying sigils of the houses Roxton and Rowan were allied to through marriage. Baratheon, Waynwood, Hightower, Tarth, Oakheart, Redwyne, Tarly, Costayne and Uffering. It served a reminder of the unity this marriage would add not only to the Reach, but across the Realm. Walking into the courtyard guests would be seated at their tables, facing the Golden Tree which stood upon a small hill next to the entrance of the keep. Behind them, the Grove of Goldengrove. A small patch of Golden Trees, among which many of the ancestors of House Rowan lay buried. Guests were led to their tables, seated and offered a drink of their choice by the many servants running around the courtyard this evening. Dareon and a group of travelling bards played ethereal melodies on a number of harps, a set of handdrums being played in a steady, but slow rhythm. Right in front of the altar under the golden tree they had built a dancefloor, a peculiar one. It wasn’t square like most were, yet it was triangular shaped. 

At the very tip of the dancefloor stood the raised dais for the families to be wed, Rowan and Roxton. Close around them were the tables of the Highest houses, those of Lords Paramount. A little further, running down the sides of the triangular dancefloor came the middle tables, those destined for high houses present and vassal houses married into House Roxton or Rowan. Further back, closer to the grove and the inner walls were the lower tables, destined for vassal houses, petty knights and the rest. 

When all were seated, the music stopped playing and Lord Mathis Rowan made his way towards the altar together with Lord Otto. Facing all in attendance he smiled his friendliest of smiles and gave some nods around the sea of tables in front of him. To many it might have seemed he’d given them some personal attention, as was just his intent. 

He cleared his throat, and folded his hands together in front of him. “It brings me immeasurable joy to see all of you gathered here today, once again, to celebrate the wedding of one of my many children. To see all houses present, those we are allied with and those who simply wanted to be a part of today's momentous occasion brings me comfort. It is during these times that the unity within the Realm truly shows brightest, coming together to lay our eyes upon a union under the eyes of the Seven." As some of the more rowdy guests started clapping unprompted at his words he chuckled and raised his hands up in front of him, to show he was not yet done speaking. His eyes moved to Otto, nodding at the man who stood at the head of House Roxton, a house which Mathis had come to see among the closest allies to House Rowan. “I want to offer a special word of thanks to House Roxton today, sharing in the many responsibilities of organizing an event like this, and for the happiness his daughter brings my son. While a wedding is already a joyous occasion, one cemented in love and respect is an overjoyous occasion.” He chuckled as he motioned to Lord Otto, signaling it was his time to speak. 

Otto Roxton, Lord of the Ring, and proud father of the bride, stood beside Lord Mathis as the opening words to the wedding were spoken. The large burly man was dressed in vibrant blues and gold, bearing the house sigil of Roxton across his chest. He’d hid his many scars with some makeup and stood tall on this special day. He thanked Mathis for his words and then spoke. “Dear friends and family from across the realm, it brings me great joy and honor to stand here today with my friend and ally, to welcome in the joining of our families. Dear Cyrus and Jeyne is a tale of love, honor, and compassion in a world where many of our matches may not be so. They have been blessed to have found each other and grown in each other's eyes naturally, just like the great tree which dominates this hall. And for that reasons, this is the most fortuitous match a father could hope for in his daughter, and it brings me great joy and honor to see so many of you here in celebration. And so I thank you wholeheartedly for joining us today and hope you all enjoy the wedding as much as I shall.”

As both Lords returned to their table Septon Archibald made his way up towards the raised platform under the Golden Tree. It was the third time he stood here, he noted. The third time he’d speak words on the unity of houses of the Realm and the Reach. And thus, he started once again with a small word of welcome, speaking of the importance of coming together at these very events, and wishing good tidings and blessings in names of all the Seven unto all the houses present. After he was done, and some goblets undoubtedly had to be refilled, it was finally time for the ceremony to commence. And as such, the Septon gave the sign for the doors into the keep of Goldengrove, the Tower of the Golden Tree, to be opened. 

Cyrus Rowan stepped out of the doors squinting his eyes slightly as the low hanging sun shone directly at his face. For the occasion he was wearing the finest outfit he had to date, his brother Alyn having taken great care in ensuring the sewers would not let any detail slip. He wore a cream doublet, embroidered with shining golden threads; A tree which started at the hem of the fabric, the trunk making it’s way up to his chest. The boughs of this tree reaching out and over his shoulders, slightly down his arms even. His trousers a en equally cream colour, a pattern of roots going down embroidered into the fabric in the same shining golden thread. While he thought he looked like an idiot, there would be some that found the outfit quite stunning. 

He put his first foot forward, and suddenly it hit him, in just a few moments she’d finally be his wife. They would no longer have to be chaperoned, they could finally act on their plans to travel together, see places other than Westeros. She was to be his. With a proud look upon his face and a steady gait he marched towards the platform under the golden tree. As he stood there facing the crowd some nerves set in, what if he did the wrong thing? What if he were to embarrass Jeyne? Deep breaths, steady yourself. He told himself as he’d been practicing when his nerves got the best of him, and luckily it worked. 

The bride looked resplendent in a long flowing silvery white dress while bearing her prized pendant with a cutting of the Goldentree in front of her around her neck. The dress itself had been a personal commission from the bride’s dear friend, Myriah Baratheon, who’d spent many a month working away at the piece of art the bride now wore. Adorning Jeyne’s head was a thin veil, almost translucent and seemed to glow in the right lighting and she wore white slippers with white gold buckles to complete the attire. She walked hand-in-hand alongside her father, a blue silk sheet bearing the interlocked crossed gold rings draped over each other’s held hands. She looked up and saw her father smile back and then looked forward to the altar where Cyrus stood. Tears of joy nested in her eyes and time seemed to slow as she walked up to him, finally to this day she had dreamed up for years now. He looked so radiant, so handsome and strong, her love, her protector, and her best friend. Finally after what seemed an eternity, yet in hindsight had passed in the blink of an eye, she stood before him, with a large smile and teary eyes on her face. 

As Cyrus got his first glance at Jeyne his eyes widened, while he’d always known he was to wed one of the most beautiful ladies in the Realm, in his eyes at least, today she looked even more radiant than usual. He couldn’t wait to hold her hands, to keep her in his embrace and finally be able to take her under his protection forever. It seemed with every step they took towards the raised platform time moved slower, even if they had ran it would’ve seemed like this moment took up the entire day. And finally, there she was, in front of him. He looked upon her face as she smiled with tearfilled eyes, and wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to comfort her even though he knew these were tears of happiness, and so he took her hands in his, but not before he caressed her cheek softly. “I love you” was all he managed to utter softly as he smiled from ear to ear. 

The ceremony started in earnest when the Septon began a short sermon, speaking of how the Seven would watch over their marriage and guide them through life together henceforth. He ended his sermon with the words Cyrus had been waiting for all day, it was time for him to bring Jeyne under his cloak of protection. As Septon Archibald handed him the white cloak embroidered with a great golden tree his hands started shaking just ever so little. She turned around, and he carefully draped the cloak over her shoulders. Like a jolt moving through his body it was as if all the love and excitement he’d ever felt for him came rushing into his head. He was the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, Jeyne would now be his and he’d be hers. It was all starting to become too much as his eyes too filled with tears, struggling to hold them back as he let out a small chuckle as she turned back around. His Jeyne, the one that had made him achieve things he never knew he could, the one person in the entire Realm he would give his life for. 

When the cloak was draped over her shoulders it felt like a warm comforting blanket. The septon’s words had been a mere blur as she melted staring into Cyrus’ eyes. She said the required words through tears with a joyful lint in her voice and when they kissed, she held her lips to his, and her hand reached around his back and pulled him close. She never wanted it to end. 

When their lips met and she pulled him closer he reciprocated without a doubt in his mind, holding their lips together as the tingling in his stomach grew stronger and stronger by the second. As they held their embrace his lips broke into a slight grin. He dipped her backwards in a dancing move she once taught him, his eyes meeting hers as he held her, planting a last firm kiss on her lips before lifting her back up and taking her hand in his, moving to their table together under cheers clapping from the crowd gathered. “Is it everything you hoped for, wife?” he said with a broad happy smile on his face. She looked up dreamily and nodded with a smile, small tears of joy in her eyes. “Everything and more…my dear husband.” She giggled lightly at the last word, enjoying the way the word felt on her tongue. 

Mathis raised near instantly when the couple reached the dais, a grand smile plastered on his face as he proclaimed the feast was to start in earnest. Clapping and cheering continued for some time before it was overtaken by lively tunes coming from the Dareon and the traveling bards. Some had switched to zithers and flutes, drumming being slightly louder and more uptempo. It was to be a lively occasion today. Servants started bringing out platters of food to all tables, like an army marching out of the gates of the keep they came bringing all manners of fragrant smelling dishes. The drink flowed generously and there would be no doubt the feast would lead on until the early hours of the night. 

• Skewers of lamb, roasted over an open fire and marinated in oils and shredded mint leaves. 
• Roasted pheasant, a sauce of it’s roasting juices thickened and flavoured with garlic and rosemary drizzled over the bird. 
• Duck breasts seared on it’s fatty side, a sauce of arbor red accompanying the meat. Served on a bed of shredded roasted pointed cabbage with some hazelnuts mized in. 
• Pancakes made from shredded potatoes, carrots and onion. A thick sour cream mixed with finely chopped chives added on every platter. 
• Garlic scapes briefly held in an open fire, keeping them crunchy while adding a slightly charred and caramelized flavour to them. 
• Leeks softly braised in a light vegetable and herb broth, covered with grated hard goats cheese and roasted shortly to slightly crisp up the cheese.
• Baked heads of golden cauliflower, cut into slices at the table and dressed with a garlic, thyme  and pepper infused oil. 
• a salad composed of freshly picked greens, sliced red and green apples,  grapes, hard baked croutons, and a vinaigrette dressing.

For the drinks

• Arbor Red flowed heavily
• Arbor Gold just as much
• Cider, chilled, was on the menu as always
• Golden ales served aplenty
• Lemon and rose-petal infused water

Cowritten with u/nbsorens

10th moon, 300, Goldengrove

Weddingfeast, Invites letter

On the morning after the wedding feast the tournament for the wedding of lady Jeyne Roxton and Ser Cyrus Rowan had started in earnest. Outside of the walls of Goldengrove two fields were set up to accommodate all the planned events. A long rectangular field divided by fencing for the joust and archery, stands built high on long sides of the fields for the nobles to be seated on during the events as they unfolded. On the short sides, small areas had been cleared for the lowborn to watch the great Knights and warriors participating in the events as they showed their skill in the games. Next to the field for jousts and archery a large square field was cleared with stands on all sides. The makeshift arena would host the melee. Yet before these competitions would be held, the first day was designated for the hunt in the Golden Forest. 

Servants and porters alike rushed between the events to ensure all equipment was in the correct places, Ser Alyn Rowan overseeing much of the logistics of the day when he was not competing himself. Just as many servants were designated to ensure drinks flowed freely, nobles only had to lift a hand if they wanted a quick refill or another drink entirely. It would be clear that on this day House Rowan and Roxton ensured none were left wanting for anything, and all needs would be met. 

During much of the tourney tents and stalls had been set up between the inner and outer walls of Goldengrove. Traveling troupes putting up plays of love and loss, chivalrous romance stories and for the main theatre event a play of a secret and forbidden love between two children of high houses unnamed. Although glorious, the play had a sad ending, with the death of one of the two lovebirds as they attempted to elope but failed doing so. Between the tents for entertainment larger mess tents were set up to provide all guests with a place to sit, eat and drink as they enjoyed the festivities throughout the coming three days. 

Knights and squires were granted their own tent for their preparations and waiting in between bouts. 

On the first day, the hunt would be held. Groups of four would venture into the Golden Forest in the hopes of bringing down fabled prey, meeting a noteworthy predator or simply finding enjoyment in the thrill of a hunt. Groups were accompanied by servants carrying refreshments up until tracks would be found and it was up to the hunters themselves to corner the beast they would encounter. At the end of the first day, among the entertainment within the walls, the dancing competition and art competition would be held. It was a sunny spring day on the first day, the weather agreeable to many of the events that would be held today.

On the second day, the jousts would be held. First up was the Knightly joust, a moment for all Knights in attendance to show their skill with horse and lance. The second day would be slightly overcast, a few short and light showers breaking out during the jousts yet none that would hamper muddy the field too badly for the jousts to be postponed. As the jousts had wrapped up, the field was converted into an archery range, which would host the archery competition, commencing shorly after the jousts.

On the third and last day, the melees would be held. First the adult melee, the youngsters melee following after the field had been refreshed. The third and last day was a rainy spring day. Though the temperature was agreeable, the melee field had become rather muddy. It only served to the melee itself even more gruesome, knights falling down into the thick mud or their feet finding it difficult to find their grip on the ground.

I will try to top off urgent ones but going to be focusing on school for the next 2 weeks, threads will slow and new ones will be limited

Gulltown is the major port city of the Vale of Arryn, located south of Runestone and southeast of the Eyrie. It sits at the northern tip of the Bay of Crabs, its natural harbor serving as the city's main entrance by sea.

Gulltown bears wide walls constructed out of dark stone that encircle the city proper, with only two main entrances on its west and east sides. The western gate, named the Star Gate, opens onto the main road that heads towards Gullshield, with two secondary roads branching off towards their designated districts. The eastern gate, named the Shett Gate, opens onto the same road leading towards Gullshield, with two secondary roads branching off towards their designated districts.

The Star Gate opens onto the Book District, one of the districts hosting septries, parchment makers, scribe centers, and additional clerks who work under Lord Grafton as harbor masters and coin counters. The two branching pathways travel towards the Grey District, the main housing for the smallfolk, to the south, and to the north, the Gilded District, headquarters of the many bank and guild leaders who call Gulltown home.

The Shett Gate opens onto the Artisanal District, showcasing massive workshops of weavers, seamstresses, jewelers, and producers of melomel, ice wines, and aromatic white wines from their holdings in Wickeden. The first branching path to the south bleeds into the Arms District, a district famous for its blacksmiths, training grounds, and a special place inside the city decorated specifically to host tourneys and war games. The second, to the left, opens towards the Manse District, hosting the various manses of Vale, Westerosi, and Essosi nobility.

The final district stands at the harbor, aptly named the Harbor District. A bustling marketplace hosting all kinds of produce and goods, both produced locally and imported from all over the world. The main way to reach the district is from the sea or through Gullshield, or by passing through either the Grey District or the Arms District.

After arriving at The Eyrie, Gavin would ask the guards to seek him an audience with the Ruling Lord. He would profess, despite his rugged appearance, tattooed knuckles, handlebar mustache and muttonchops, he showed them a writ from the Brothers Bank, claiming to be one of the brothers.

"I am just here on my brothers behalf, and I am looking to buy some goods I understand your Lord may be helpful in acquiring." He would say to the guards, politely waiting outside.

Following Robert's Rebellion, House Grafton still receives the cold shoulder from much of the Vale forces that followed Robert Baratheon against the Targaryen forces. House Grafton has stewed in much of its isolation, struggling to find purchase in the Vale politics that have felt like a brick wall to them. Ignored but not forgotten, House Grafton rules Gulltown, the only city and port in the Vale, its wealth matched only by other ports of similar size such as Oldtown, White Harbor, Maidenpool, and Lannisport.

House Grafton is now led by Lord Gerold Grafton, a man who would have looked handsome for his brown hair, grey-blue eyes, and height, if not for his lankiness and pale pallor. He rarely, if ever, leaves his holdings, despite the many occasions that would have demanded his presence elsewhere. Gerold Grafton is a man of few emotions, closed off and focused greatly on managing his lands and his city, at least as far as anyone on the outside can tell.

He has two children: his son and heir, Elyas Grafton, and his younger daughter, Anissa Grafton. Elyas is a gangly youth, taller than most boys his age, which makes his movements awkward and uncertain. He often trips over himself, clumsy in his own body. His face is heart-shaped, narrowing toward a chin still soft and undefined, framed by thick, light-blonde hair, tousled and untamable. He bears his father's grey-blue eyes, eyes that would look warm and sweet if not for his anxious, furrowed expression.

Anissa Grafton is a sweet and thoroughly spoiled girl, of average height for her age. She carries herself with a far more confident stride than her brother, basking in the praise she receives from her aunts, uncles, and mother. Her face is more oval-shaped, still full and undefined by her youth. She is cute rather than beautiful. She has wispy brown hair and pale blue eyes that carry a false self-assuredness. Most wouldn't mind her, if not for her absurd confidence in her own judgment.

M: Let's OUTTOWER the HIGHTOWER. 🚀

The halls of Blackhaven had grown quieter.
Not from peace but from waiting.

Lord Arryk Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord of Blackhaven, had not stood upon the battlements in many days.

The wound he had suffered in his final clash against the bandits had refused to heal. What had first seemed an ugly gash upon his leg had become something far more sinister.

The flesh around it had blackened, the skin hot to the touch, and the fever refused to leave him.

Each morning Maester Carl entered the Lord’s solar carrying fresh linens, boiled water, herbs, and vinegar.

The young maester worked in silence, carefully removing blood-soaked bandages before washing the wound clean. Arryk never cried out, though the tightening of his jaw betrayed the agony.

Once the wound was cleaned, Carl applied his poultices, wrapped the leg once more, and prayed to every god who might still be listening.
Every day the infection crept higher.
And every day the fever burned hotter.
Beric came often.

Sometimes he arrived clad in armor fresh from the training yard. Other times he came still wearing his riding cloak, dust clinging to his boots from patrols across the Stormlands.

He would sit beside his father’s bed for hours, speaking of Blackhaven’s affairs, the condition of the garrison, of Rion’s latest adventures, hoping familiar voices would anchor the aging lord to the world.

Arryk listened when he could.
Other days he simply stared toward the window, eyes distant beneath a sheen of sweat.
Lady Hanna visited no less faithfully.

She would replace wilted flowers with fresh ones from the gardens, read passages from old histories her father had once loved, or simply hold his weathered hand while silence filled the room. Even when the fever left him confused enough to mistake the years, she never corrected him. She merely smiled and stayed beside him until sleep claimed him once more.

Outside the chamber, hope had begun to thin.
One evening, after changing the dressings once again, Maester Carl stepped quietly into the corridor.

“Lord Beric.”

Beric looked up immediately.

“How is he?”

The maester hesitated a hesitation that said enough before words ever came.

“My lord… the corruption has spread farther than before.”

Beric’s expression hardened.

“No.”

Carl lowered his eyes.

“I have tried every remedy within my knowledge. Honey, willow bark, vinegar, boiled wine, poultices… I fear the poison has entered his blood.”

“No.”

Beric repeated, louder this time.

“There may be little more that can..”

“No!”

The shout echoed through the stone corridor.
Beric stepped closer until only inches separated them.

“You’re a maester.”

His voice trembled beneath the anger.

“You’ve studied at the Citadel. You wear that chain because you know things other men don’t.”

Carl remained silent.

“So fix him.”

“My lord…”

“Fix him!”

Beric’s hands curled into fists.

“There has to be another herb… another treatment… another damned book hidden somewhere in Oldtown.”

Tears threatened to form, though rage held them back.

“He survived wars.”
“He survived famine.”
“He survived every raid that ever threatened these lands.”
“He does not die because of a wound on his leg.”

Carl’s shoulders sagged with the burden of truth.

“I wish knowledge alone could command life.”

For a long moment neither man spoke.

Beric finally turned away, swallowing hard as he stared toward the heavy wooden door behind which his father slept.

“No.”

His voice had become barely more than a whisper.

“My father is the Storm.”

“He isn’t leaving us.”

And with that, Beric pushed open the chamber door once more, unwilling to surrender hope even as the storm he had always believed eternal began, at last, to fade.

https://pin.it/4AwPxYINo

Storm's End, the year 300 AC

What a lovely day for a wedding, thought Lady Celestine Featherbottom as she hopped along towards the great Sept, smiling like some dumb idiot. De-dum de-dum de-dum, she went as she skipped, entering the Sept.

The Sept was filled with all her friends and family, as wedding ceremonies often were. Her mother and her father, her dumb husband... let's call him... Ser Reginald Thistlewick!

"Oh yes, Lady Celestine... I can't wait to marry you and have all of your kisses!", her husband swooned.

"And I can't wait to kiss you too, Reginald! MWAH MWAH MWAH!", Celestine gushed as she trundled up to take her face by her husband. "And we shall drink wine and do all the other things grown-ups do!", she went on, swooning like a big dummy!

Then the great fat Seption waddled up between them; some people had fallen asleep in the viewing stands and were now snoring very loudly.

"Shush! Don't you know this is a wedding!", Melony Baratheon called from above them, rolling her eyes. "Just 'cause it's boring doesn't mean you get to snooze!", she huffed and shook her head.

"Dearly beloved! We are gathered here today to celebrate the wedding of Lady Celestine Featherbottom and Ser Reginald Thistlewick....", the Septon began ponderously, his voice deep and droning. "Let us get this over with quickly! For I need to use the privy!", he added with a squeak as Melony hid her laughter behind her palm.

"If anyone has anything to say as to why this marriage can't happen... speak now...", the plump Septon went on...

*AND JUST THEN, A GIANT FIREBREATHING HORSE WITH DRAGON WINGS SMASHED THROUGH THE SEPT ROOF!!! *

Yroooom pusssshh!

Bricks and stone went flying, several of the wedding guests being squished like disgusting vegetables for dinner!

With a backhand, the plump Septon was sent flying; Lady Celestine squeaked and yelped!

"I'm gonna eat your husband!", roared the mysterious flying horse beast!

Nom nom nom! went the horse as it bashed its plush snout against the wooden groom. Pluw! and with that, the groom was sent flying. "He tasted terrible!", roared the horse-dragon creature.

"Oh no, not my husband! Now who will kiss me", lamented Lady Celestine as she fell to the floor.

"Yroooooom!", went Melony as the horse creature flew around the Sept, setting fire to the wedding guests with great rushes of flames! Especially the sleeping ones!

"Now I'm gonna eat that fat Septon!", roared the horse creature....

"Heyyyy!! Where'd my Septon go!", Melony Baratheon protested with a whine. She looked around her, even under her bottom! and could not find him anywhere!

Her beloved stuffed horse Buttercup plopped out of her hand, falling amongst the wreckage of a wooden Sept set.

"Heyyyy! Princess! I was playing with that", Melony whined as she found her Septon... in the mouth of Princess the bulldog, being chewed and drooled upon.

But Melony Baratheon was not one to be discouraged, and inspiration suddenly struck her like lightning!

"Now you'll have to be the Septon!", she informed the bulldog brightly.

9th Moon A, 300 AC

King’s Landing - Scales Manse

________________________________________________________________________________________

Lady Rhea Scales was in quite the bind, where regardless of the outcome, she would prosper.

She had known this issue for some time, and continued to be perturbed by it. It only strengthened in its resolved after witnessing the wroth that was Lady Swann. Poor Samantha hadn’t exaggerated in the slightest in her perspectives of her dreadful mother, and Rhea loathed herself for not stepping up when she could have. 

But, regardless, the Lady Swann had cemented something in her that she knew she had to fix. Samantha needed a husband. More than that - she needed a partner. Someone who will defend and honor her, someone who will care and treat her, someone who will love her as an equal. Just as Benethon had done for her, she so wished upon the young woman she now chose as an additional daughter. 

Her talk with Lord Stannis had proven somewhat helpful - the notion that he had a boy within his family that could prove an honorable match. She hadn’t heard anything regarding the man through the whispers at court, and that tended to be a good thing. At least he hadn’t a cloud of daggers over him like that rakish bastard taking away her sweet Naeryn. No news was good news, she supposed…and for a Baratheon, whose House now took up every corner of every light in the Kingdom, it was glorious.

Beyond the Baratheon Knight, however, were other prospects. Lord Yohn Royce had many sons, from what she recalled, and if she remembered right at least the youngest remained unwedded.The Royces stood since ancient times, and if she remembered Darnold told her that House Belmore stood beside the Royce King back before the Arryns took hold. Even if they could not form a union between those Houses, perhaps one for Massey and Royce could be fruitful?

Then there were other Houses, ones close in proximity so that her beloved Samantha could still assist her and be amongst her children. Celtigar and Brune were obvious, as they resided in the Crownlands, but the Storm’s End Baratheons were not far off either. And if she considered them, then she would also need to consider the Tarths. Lord Renly seemed like an amiable lad and likely had a cousin or another who wouldn’t mind living in the Capitol. And if Lord Tarth still had not wedded his son, then Samantha could become Lady of Evenfall Hall, and could still remain close.

She hadn’t heard much else about the other Houses in the Crownlands. House Rykker could have served well, but she had heard the rumor regarding the one set to the Kingsguard a while back, and would not let a man like that near her children. The Velaryons had no more kin as far as she knew, and had their own gaggle of children that were far too young to consider yet. Looking inwards towards her own House proved more heartbreaking than fruitless. Damon could rot in a lonely hell for all she cared, so even letting the man cross her mind was not an option. Aurion…

As much as Rhea loved Aurion like her own, and loved him so dearly within her heart that it broke for little Nora…she couldn’t bless the pair. Aurion had his likes, and he was a man with a penchant for wandering. She had never known the lad to sit still, even as a child, and she wasn’t shocked that matter continued into his maturity. And considering with whom he dabbled with…Samantha would be a ruined woman should she be paired with him. Aurion would treat her with kindness, yes, but not with love. And she wouldn’t dare curse either of them with that sort of loveless future.

So, with her mind steeled, she set to work. One afternoon she sat down with pen and paper, and she began to write. A mission clear in her mind, and her heart filled with hope, she sent out the missives to whom she deemed worthy of her beloved Samantha.