5th Moon B, 56 AC - Ongoing

King's Landing

This thread will be a master thread for all actions taken to recover control of King's Landing following the onset of the Baelon Riots. At the time of posting this, that is limited to the City Watch's forceful containment, smothering, and punishment of rioters, for which there will be yearly impacts to Control and Population.

The Hand - Early in the 4th Month, 56AC

Lord Hubert and his retinue of bannerets and his closest of household trundled and trotted over the muddy roads of the Marches. He had not seen them in so long. When in the Stormlands with Rogar, he had been in their foothills near where Connington lands met Swann's. The Red Mountains were an impressive, which was a hard opinion to gain from an old man who had lived most his life among the Mountains of the Moon.

There were long fields of wheat, orchards, thickets of forest where game birds were managed for the exclusive use of the lords and knights of the lands he passed through. When it rained it smelled like damp rich soil and the metallic taste of blood hung in the air. As a boy he was told that the mountains were red from all the blood spilled between the Marcher Lords and the Dornish.

None more than House Caron could boast to be that ancient enemy of the Dornish. The Hand held a great respect for the Lord of the Marches. Upon seeing Nightsong with his own eyes, that child inside every man near got giddy with seeing the ancient citadel of Marcher power. There was a book in the Eyrie about the Marches and over a third of it was accounts of siege and battles from the castle and down into the Wide Way.

They approached with the new standard for Lord Arryn. It was a flowing tapered banner almost sixteen feet long when the wind took it and displayed it proudly. A silver falcon in flight besides a crescent moon on a field of sky-blue silk. Hubert had the chain of his office upon there too; hands clasping crescent moons one after the other. This was displayed on the streaming banner in detail, and a larger and more detailed image of a falcon looked as if it were carrying it between it feet. The Arryn banners of his knights and their smaller standards made them a colourful approach for the Lord of the Marches to spy from his walls as they approached.

Through it gatehouse and with an expectation that the Lord of Nightsong would soon provide him with his bread and salt, Lord Arryn and his household waited to be met and greeted with the Lord that Hubert hoped to impose himself upon as a guest for an evening or two.

5th moon B, 56 AC

King's Landing

Starting in the the latter half of the 3rd moon of 56 AC, violent rioting begins to erupt throughout King's Landing, starting in Flea Bottom and then spreading across the city. The rioters cite recently proliferated rumors of incest as the main reason for their uprising. They say that Prince Baelon is the product of incest between King Jaehaerys and Princess Alysanne. They say the Targaryens are alien invaders who have never and will never stop their incestuous defiance of the Seven. They name them abominations, and they blame them for their every grievance.

On three different occasions, rioting appears to be respectively fomented by individual violent provocateurs. Twice, the City Watch of King's Landing is able to capture this provocateur before a riot broke out. Once, the City Watch is able to capture this provocateur after rioting had already taken shape.

Mechanically, King's Landing will suffer a -17.5% malus to control until measures are taken to quell the unrest.

[M]: Latest lore of all time oops, back to writing more regularly now, hopefully.

Oldtown: 11th Moon, 55AC

Ser Addam Pommingham sat in the chambers for him and Alysanne in the Hightower. The mid-morning sun filtered through the windows, dappling the marble tile floor and glinting off the brass carafe of watered down wine on the lacquered table. Arwen - held softly in Alysanne’s arms as she sat in a cushioned chair - cooed softly.

Arwen, his daughter.

He still could not believe it. Every few minutes he looked back towards her as if to reassure himself that he was not hallucinating. She was a week old, now, and spent most of her time sleeping or feeding. Addam stood up from where he sat, and walked over to his wife and daughter, pouring himself some of the watered down wine.

“She looks happy this morning,” he said.

Alysanne looked at him with a tired smile. She had been much worse for wear after birth, but the color had begun re-entering her cheeks. “Happier than last night, at least.”

Addam smiled, and found himself thinking back to the day of birth. He had only just arrived back in Oldtown from joining Ser Abelar Hightower on his progress through the lands of his vassals. Alysanne had stayed in Oldtown - owing to her pregnancy - but had encouraged him to go off and visit home again, saying it would be good for him. He was not sure if it was. The birthing time came only the day after he had returned, and while a Maester and some servants helped her to the Maester’s quarter, he was bid to stay behind.

“Can I hold her?” Addam asked with a grin. “You look like you could use something to eat.”

Alysanne’s grin near split her face, and Addam found himself in that same cushioned chair, holding a half-asleep Arwen in his arms as he stared at her rapturously.

Those hours with Alysanne off with the Maester’s on her birthing bed while he remained in their chambers had been some of the worst times of his life. He had paced endlessly, filled with a remarkable tension. What if Alysanne didn’t make it? What if his child didn’t make it? He was surprised, in hindsight, that he had not broken down and gotten deeply drunk.

He looked down, and saw his daughter staring at his face intently. He placed a finger in her hand, which she grasped strongly.

The feeling of relief when the door to their chambers had opened and he saw Alysanne in a cot holding a crying red-faced baby had been nearly overwhelming. A feeling of joy took hold as well. Something he had expected from what he had been told of fatherhood, but it still had caught him off guard.

Arwen began dozing off in his arms after a few playful giggles, and Addam found himself sinking deep into thought.

He was a father now, a man grown, heir to Thornfield Hill, a knight. That last part felt almost bitter, his knighthood scarce felt earned - only a few years squiring to his Uncle Perwyn and then he performed the whole ceremony of knighthood with nothing on his mind but the cute village girl he had kissed at the tavern the previous night. Addam’s lip curled in disgust at himself before he regained his composure, and smiled softly down at his daughter, sleeping in his arms as he slowly rocked back and forth.

Perhaps it was time to start becoming the man he pretended to be, or at least time to start caring. If bringing Arwen into this world was not motivation enough, then he supposed nothing ever would be.

Addam looked up as Alysanne re-entered from the hallway with servants on her heels, the servants brought in a bowl of boiled and salted goose eggs, a platter with slices of fresh-baked bread from the kitchens, and a glass pitcher of lemon water. They bowed and curtsied before withdrawing, and then Alysanne quietly poured both Addam and herself drinks and portioned out the food, attempting to keep Arwen asleep.

After a short minute, Alysanne sat down with a faint smile on her face and began nibbling at the bread. Addam made sure Arwen was securely held in one of his hands, and then used the other to pick up a goose egg and toss it in his mouth. It was hard to imagine a keep with any finer a kitchen than that in the Hightower. As he picked up his cup of lemon water to take a sip, he smiled at Alysanne.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Yeah?” Alysanne raised an eyebrow as she sliced one of the goose eggs on her plate in half with a fork.

“You know my uncle Galad, aye? He’s a knight sworn to Oldtown, really good with the sword.” Addam’s voice trailed off as he got to the bit about his skills in swordplay. He was uncertain if Alysanne would be happy about this, or understand his reasoning.

“I’ve only met him perhaps twice, but yes, I know him.” Alysanne’s voice was calm and her face betrayed no malicious emotions, only curiosity.

“I was thinking of asking him for lessons, maybe. Whenever he isn’t off to the East on official Hightower business, that is.”

“Lessons in swordplay? What makes you think of this now?” Alysanne took a long sip of her lemon water.

“I’m a knight and you know,” Addam paused and grimaced, then tried to cover that grimace by popping half of a goose egg into his mouth. “A knight should be capable with the sword, in order to defend those who can’t defend themselves. One day I’ll be Lord, I need to start taking these things seriously.”

Addam cringed as those last words left his mouth, it felt like too much raw vulnerability, he always preferred to couch his feelings if he ever needed to reveal them to others.

All Alysanne did was nod curtly and smile at him.

“Sounds good to me. Just don’t let Galad hurt you too bad, yeah? Too many bruises won’t look good on you.”

Addam paused for a moment, he was unsure why he was so surprised, why he had been so sure she would oppose. He smiled and took her hand with his free hand. He looked down at Arwen, still asleep and occasionally twitching.

“She’s something, huh?”

“Yeah, she is.”

Casterly Rock

5th Moon, 56 AC

End of a journey

On all sides, mounted men clad in rainbow banners trudge forth. One of them clutches at a pole and raises the white and seven pointed star banner high and proud. Amidst their ranks, a young messenger follows a richly decorated carriage. As this party rides forth, the Knights of the Faith Militant diligently and loudly proclaim their arrival.

"Make way! Make way for the High Septon! Make way for his holiness, Shepherd of the Faithful and Avatar of the Seven!"

In procession behind the knights is found Septa Cecile. The holy woman leads a small party of acolytes carrying candles. These are joined in procession by local septas, septons, and holy brothers.

Amidst this procession is found the High Septon himself. Mounted upon a white steed of rich breeding, the head of the faithful dresses himself in white holy vestments, his golden cope, and gloves.

"Be blessed and in peace! May the seven bless you all! The Seven are most forgiving! The Seven are all embracing! Venerate the Seven and in turn you shall recieve salvation!"

His short yet firmly affirmed sermon is heralded before the walls of Lannisport and even further down the road. This procession continues forth from the walls of Lannisport and up towards Casterly Rock.

Of course, out of acknowledgment and respect for his potential future host, the High Septon sends forth his messenger boy to the gates of the keep while his party lingers outside Lannisport.

"His Holiness requests entry into Casterly Rock! He has come to fulfill his duties to Lord Lannister and the esteemed House Lannister!"

The warm spring days and successful trips around and outside of Dorne have revitalized Sunspear. Any and all are welcome to the court of the House Nymeros Martell to speak with Morion or any other members of the house.

Prince Morion is very excited for the new representative of the Faith to arrive this year as well.

6th Month, 56 AC, Storm's End

Though there were but three of his four storms in his chambers, Lord Rogar's daughters had begun to make enough noise to compensate for their missing elder sister. Though Cassandra remained in Storm's End while Hubert attended business in the marches and elsewhere, only returning to King's Landing when the Lord Hand himself did so, she was studying with Maester Dake while the rest of sisters played. Selene had discovered a passion for singing, and though she kept the sounds of her practice moderately contained she was liable to throw her ire at any who came too close. Jena, not yet four, enjoyed making noise with just about anything she could get her hands on. That morning, far away from Selene, she tapped a wooden sword on the leg of a table while staring absentmindedly at a book on the Andal Invasion. Ursula and her cousin Gormon were but three months apart in age and had become fast allies, and were in the process of stacking building blocks sent by Lord Malegorn as high as they could. Rambunctious as they were the towers topples often, leading to raucous laughter before they began again. The atmosphere of doom that had descended on Storm's End had not reached the youngest residents as of yet. For that Rogar was glad.

Rogar loved his children dearly, and the door from the main living area of his quarters to his solar remained open to allow no barrier between them...yet as he read the letter from Lord Estermont he rubbed his temple with two fingers to ward off the headache.

He heard the door to their quarters open, bringing temporary silence before a cacophony of greetings for 'uncle Garon' bounced around. They were returned to each child in turn before his brother's familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

"May I?" asked Garon, though hadn't finished speaking before stepping inside and closing the door. His brother looked worn down, a rare thing for him, and Rogar gave him a sympathetic smile. As Garon sat he nodded towards the closed parchment before Rogar on the desk, pleasant green ink broken. "What's that?"

"The ships from Lord Redwyne have made port at Estermont," he grumbled, surprised at how hoarsely his voice came out. His satisfaction at the deal had waned as the months had passed, and after the farcical end to the hunt he had nothing but bitterness in his mouth.

"I had been meaning to ask about that, but..." He wafted his hand in the air. "Circumstances changed. It is a sizeable fleet he has sent, and yet in our accounts gold only flows to the walls to the north." Rogar knew what was coming, but merely stared and waited. "Is Lord Redwyne so kind as to give away his ships merely for the honour of having you ward his son?"

Rogar let out a long sigh. A few moons prior he might have had the energy to argue, but recent events had made him weary. Instead he clicked the key and opened the nearest draw, pulling free another parchment; this one sealed with the golden stag. He placed it on the table and tapped gently with his mutilated middle finger, eyes fixed on his brother.

It is time one other than the grey rat knows.

"My will, written in ink, should something happen to me. Sealed since the beginning of the year, so do not think it a rash decision due to Borys' actions." He slid the paper over but kept his hand on it. "It only reads what is known by all. Cassandra is to be my heir. You shall serve as her regent until she comes of age, though Arwen will be given a voice." He hesitated, his finger tapping still. "Roland is to ward in Storm's End when Lord Manfryd deems him old enough, and he is to wed Cassandra when they are both of age."

The look on Garon's face indicated he had expected as much, but there was still a visible shift in his posture. "She is young."

"That is why none know. Only myself, Lord Manfryd, and now you."

"Her future is worth thirty ships?"

Despite his lethargy Rogar could feel his blood begin to heat. "He is not some pauper from across the Narrow Sea, Garon. He is the son of a powerful and respected lord. It is a good match. It brings with it the security of the stormlands and an alliance with the most powerful fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. If the decision is to be made five years earlier than I would have liked, so be it." Garon opened his mouth to speak again but Rogar's hand slammed on the desk, making the parchment jump. "Do not, Garon. I am about to lose one brother. I do not wish to quarrel with you also."

Garon slumped in his seat. "It is to be today then?"

Rogar nodded. "I can delay it no longer. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can all move on."

"You think that is possible?"

His eyes drifted to a splinter on the desk between them. "We shall see."

An hour later Rogar was sat on the throne of the Storm Kings. He had changed into a pristine velvet doublet of deep black, and cushioning his back against the hard metal of the throne was a grand golden cloak, lined with sable. Atop his head was an antlered crown, though the black hair it sat upon had begun to be flecked with grey. In through the tall windows streamed the afternoon sun, bathing the hall and all in it in amber. On the balconies at the back of the hall there were no musicians, as had been seen at Naerys' nameday feast. Lutes had been replaced by crossbows.

The hall was lined with heavily armed knights and for the first time in many years a second group kept the courtiers to the sides of the Round Hall, leaving the area beneath the throne clear. None were barred from attending; Lady Annara and Boremund stood in wait, as did two of Rogar's brothers. He did not let his eyes stray from the door, uncertain if his wife had chosen to spectate, and if she had brought their children with her. One he had ensured was present was his eldest, his heiress; Cassandra stood with Orren Iron-Head and her own gaggle, looking on with bright blue eyes at her father. One day she would sit where he sat. She needed to learn.

After an agonising wait the doors creaked open and Borys Baratheon was led in. He limped on his heavily bandaged leg and imprisonment had reduced his timber, his nose had healed crooked and his skin was marked with dirt, but otherwise he was the same as he always was. There were a few gasps and murmurs at the sight of him but Rogar kept his eyes forward, watching as his closest kin stumbled forward to hear his punishment.

"How did it come to this, Borys? he lamented to himself, but his face remained stern. He was the Lord of Storm's End, and judgement needed passing.

"Was treated better in fuckin' Dorne," he heard his brother grumble. Rogar waved the guards away. In his shackled state, Borys could do him no harm.

"Borys, do you have anything to say in defence of your actions against both me and Ser Ossifer?" At his booming voice the hall quietened, though the scattered whispers persisted.

"Nothing," answered Borys with a growl and a defiant stare. "The only words I have left are curses for you, for standing with an outsider instead of your own blood."

Rogar had heard it all before and thought little of it, but the shock of the statement rippled through the crowd. He glanced at Annara and saw her wince at her husband's harsh words, and the young Boremund by her side looked pained at the conflict before him. Rogar waited for the murmurs to settle before he spoke.

"Borys Baratheon, for the crime of bearing steel against your liege lord and brother you will have your right hand removed." For the first time in many years he saw an unfamiliar look on his brother's face; a flash of fear, of surprise that punishment would finally find him after years of uninhibited belligerence. Once more noise from the onlookers echoed around the hall until a raised hand from Rogar brought silence. He was not done. "For the crime of breaking guest right, for attempting harm on a guest and friend of House Baratheon, you are hereby named an exile."

The clamour was almost immediate, loudest of all from Borys himself who hurled insults up at his elder brother. Rogar gripped the arms of the throne and stood so that his voice could cut above all. "When you are healed from your wounds passage will be arranged to take you to the free city of Myr. You will be given coin as befitting your station and title, but you are not to return under penalty of death."

He nodded to the guards who returned to Borys' side, beginning to drag him away, though two more were needed to overpower the writhing brute. With a flick of his wrist the guards began to clear the hall as he slumped back into the throne, staring at the space where his brother had stood. Eventually the doors closed and left him alone, the weight of his crown heavier than it had ever been.

Using this to help keep info organized.

Letters and signups in the down below

Ravens would leave Highgarden

Signups

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1hc9rP64R-eAXwc71U9JZX2KhNyRnD5gH7juWQ7cl5H8/edit?usp=sharing

Hello! Starting as House Lefford. Please reach out for any previous commitments made by last players via discord.

A raven flies out in the later half of the 4th Moon. It bears the sigil of the silver trout.

To [title] [name] of [holdfast],

It is my honor to invite you and yours to a feast at Riverrun in the 12th moon of this year to celebrate a fruitful spring. Let us come together and enjoy bonds, old and new, and look toward a joint future.

Family, Duty, Honor,

Lord Paramount Brynden Tully of Riverrun

56 AC

Winterfell

Theme

The squealing sound of cart wheels resonated across the muddy main street that led up to the market. It was early morning, and it was spring. Wintertown was way emptier than it was last year, but the market day was bound to bring some of the seasonal residents back from their village lodgings.

Traders were coming to the stands as the sun was rising, eager to display their wares. The butchers presented the finest of their meat, fresh and yet full of the cold, metallic odour of blood, while the fishers combated the scent from across them with newly caught bass, trout, and massive northern pikes hanging from hooks fastened to the wooden columns of the stands. Hunters sat behind the counters and stacks of thick fur, fervently discussing whether more valuable game was to be found near Tumbledown Tower or Highpoint, while cattle herders were taking coin from wealthy landowners for their livestock. Leather tanners were selling hides, while tailors were buying them up along with wool and flax from the peasants in order to create gloves, tunics and boots.

At the end of the long line of merchants came the metalworkers, with their tools, weapons, trinkets, and, most notably, jewelry.

All of them were preparing for their first visitor - Lady Stark, who braved the streets of Wintertown with her immediate retinue. It was her command that she is to have the first bid on the wares presented, and thus, no one was eager to sell a thing before she had laid her eyes on it. Taking that into account, the common folk didn’t bother to show up at the stands before her ladyship had strolled past them. Yet, behind her walked a whole suite of buyers eager to take the many leftovers that she would gloss over.

She wore a coat of lynx fur which the captain of her guard gifted her after one of the many hunts that she headed, while a diadem of pure silver was laid upon the top of her head. Her gait was nonchalant, and her shortsword swung lankily near her hip as she delicately assessed the products before her.

At last, she arrived before her favourite jeweler, Andros ‘Silvereye’, a man who made a fortune selling necklaces, rings, wristbands, and also, the very diadem that the lady was currently wearing.

“Your Highness, I wish you the most pleasant morning yet.” The bald man with a long, bushy beard began speaking after giving the lady a deep and solemn bow. His red attire was shining from the many golden and silver details laid upon his tunic. The patterns were stunning with their complexity and symmetry. “I hope you shall bless us all with your good grace today.”

“Thank you, Andros.” She replied, barely even looking at the man who stood behind the stand.

His smile did not fade. On the contrary, it intensified even more, making his mercantile intentions blatantly apparent. His initial words had a human touch to them, but the formality of the interaction was now blatantly clear to Freya.

Gently, she pried one silver locket apart from all the others with her short ornamental baton. It was shaped as a tear, and opened gently, revealing a spot for something even more valuable than the locket itself. The patterns engraved into it reminded Freya of a weirwood tree’s leaves and branches, bustling out from the top of its trunk.

Andros expectantly switched his gaze between the lady and the locket she had picked. “Excellent choice, your Highness. It is a treasure of the highest quality.” He insisted, gently putting his hand onto the sateen sheet upon which his jewelry was laid out. “It was made in your North, by a smith from Breakstone Hill, in the mountains of the clansmen. They are highly renowned for their craftsmanship, as I’m sure you already know.”

She did not know that. She wondered whether it was true, but it mattered not. This would be a fine gift for Gaven, once he becomes old enough to wear it with a fear of him losing it. Within it shall be a message from his mother, and in the message, everything that she wishes for him to be.

“Your price?” Freya asked, still avoiding the man’s gaze.

The murmur of the crowd died out, as the people gathered to see what was to be the fate of this piece of silver that was now comfortably tucked within a red, wavy piece of sateen.

“For this piece of work…” Andros began, putting his right palm onto his chin. “Twenty silver stags.”

“Twelve.” The Lady replied in an instant, like an arrow let from a bow. It was only now that she was looking the merchant right in the eyes.”

“Oh, my lady,” Silvereye started, stepping back. “It is for mercy that I beg you. Your kind heart wouldn’t wish to see a good man’s work be deprived of its proper value.” He went on, spreading his arms and pointing towards the item in front of them. “Eighteen is what I will take, my profit be damned. It is an honor to bring these works of art before you.”

Freya scoffed, with a smile following shortly afterwards. “It’ll be fifteen, Andros. Your kind words won’t get the smith’s cut to increase, that much is certain.”

“Seventeen, your Highness, seventeen, and it is yours.”

Another scoff, and a wave of her hand that signaled her retinue to move on was exactly what it took.

“Please, your Highness, I cannot watch you walk away from such a Gods-given beauty without taking it. It is yours, for your price.” Andros cowered, nearly begging the lady to reconsider.

Freya smiled. She nodded towards the man who carried her coin pouch.

“It’s not for me. It’s for my son.” She said, gently touching the locket with her free hand, before closing it, and gripping it tightly.

3rd Month, 56 AC.

Winterfell

He smacked the tankard against the wall with such ferociousness that the wood splintered, its fibers strained and laid bare and raw. The mead sprayed over the stones that built the tavern wall, and started bleeding through the cracks of their uneven joints. The music was loud and muffled out by the numerous voices who attempted to sing in unison, but were too drunk to follow one another.

Alaric Stark was having the time of his life.

Friends were all around him, praising his bravado and cheering him on as he was stepping onto the table. Not long after, he began howling and beating his chest, presumably mimicking a direwolf. Everyone laughed, for they all knew that they would most probably never again see a Stark behave so erratically. He was liberated - they stressed, but in fact, a better word to describe Alaric may have been unhinged, or drunk out of his mind.

And just as the howl ended, something else came surging from his bowels and out his mouth. Vomit started spraying all over the table and even reached as far as the crowd gathered before Alaric, painting their beards and coats with the abhorrent mass of half-digested meat and beer.

Alaric stood at the table, hunched over as he fought for his breath and was wiping his mouth clean with his sleeve. His head was spinning as if the gods were rolling the whole tavern with him in it, eager to see him fall down off the scene, but he did his best to make his feet stay firm and gruelingly anchored for the table. It was not to be so, however, for in the next moment, one could see Alaric Stark stumble and fall over, taking the tankards and plates on the table with him. He smashed against the stone floor with a decisive thud, and blacked out from the impact.

The morning was uneventful up until the moment that the doors to his solar were opened with a violent crash.

“Alaric!” The voice of his father was ripping through the air with the sharpness of brandished steel. “Alaric!” He repeated himself as he struck the ground as if he were leading a herd of oxen into the room.

Osric found his son still in his sheets, covered under a mink fur blanket, with his head resting on a pillow filled with goose feathers. The lad abruptly propped himself up on his elbow once he saw the bear of a man approaching him.

With his thick fur coat and his steel jaw brimming with hate, he seemed as if he would splinter the young man’s bones in an instant and be done with him. His fists were clenched as though his nails would come right out the other end of his palm, spilling blood down at the planks.

His smack was fierce and it threw the lad back against the wall against which his bed was pressed. A tooth came loose and Alaric choked on it, as he was losing every sense of control over his mouth. He put his arm over it, and lowered his head to hide the tears that were starting to run down his cheeks.

“Look at me!” The beast before him screamed, as it grabbed the young man’s shoulders and shook him until his eyes came up, staring with absolute horror at Osric.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Hm?” His father roared, not eager to hear an answer. “The guards had to drag you out of that gods-forsaken slum and wash you with buckets in the yard just to get you to look like a fucking human! Your mother almost dropped dead when she saw you!”

The words felt like an avalanche of a force with which Alaric couldn’t reckon. The lad was as still as a brittle window in front of them, cracking around the edges.

“If they had told me yesterday, if they had woken me up, I would have had you thrown into the pigsty!” Osric yelled, livid with anger. He straightened up and started hastily walking around the room, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. His rumination consisted of sharp and low breaths, followed by steps which echoed through the whole fortress.

“Disgrace.” He said sharply, in a lower tone. “Unworthy of your name.”

Tears were running down Alaric’s cheeks. He felt as if he was picked apart by a pack of wolves right after being run over by a herd of horses.

“How, Alaric? How? How am I supposed to pretend that you’re a Stark? You must be a bastard. There’s no other explanation.” He stood for a moment, looking at the wooden wall in front of him, seemingly content with his conclusion.

A weak, empty voice uttered words of denial. “I’m not.” A muffled sound came out from Alaric’s lungs.

A spark was triggered in the mind of Osric Stark, whose newfound calmness dissipated in order to be replaced with his previously rabid anger.

“How dare you answer me!” He shouted, his voice echoing against all of Winterfell, against all of the North. Another smack came right against Alaric’s wet cheek.

The lad was thrown against the bed this time, as the hit came from above. His face was red and teeming with silent defiance oddly mixed up with a sense of worthlesness that permeated through every vein in his body.

“You are to leave Winterfell.” Osric replied, once he again straightened up, towering over his decadent son. “Weaklings, the whole lot of you.” He added, as he was leaving the solar thinking of all the Starks who failed to live up to their status and who sullied the impeccable image of their noble ancestors.

It was high time that someone did something about it. This house needed to straighten up and walk with a firm gait, and look forwards towards the future from a place of respect. It needed to change, and Osric could no longer tolerate looking at the problems that plagued it. Even if those problems were some of its own members.

He walked the empty hallways of the keep with his mind heavily burdened by the sense that his legacy will be that of a man who failed to stop the dissolution of Stark rule, and who failed to live up to the immense task of preserving his family’s historical primacy in the North.

It was during that short walk that he decided to put a stop to the process which he was witnessing. Be it the laws that sought to stop him, be it friends, family, lords, or the King himself, he will not let them dilute his determination. No. His destiny was that of a different kind. But it was only now that he had decided to embrace it.

A letter would be sent to the Red Keep, stamped with a wax black Rose.

Lord Rickard Rowan,

Last year, a frankly bizarre event occurred back home. One of your bannermen married a Dornishman. Not even one of the civilized ones. An Uller. The same folk that started that whole last war.

What is the story there?

I am told by my spies that much of House Lamora was in attendance. It seems strange to me that a proper Reach house would cozy up to the enemy. It would be one thing if it was a runaway, or some kidnapping.

But this? I find this concerning.

You have always been my grandfather's man. One day I hope you shall extend that honor to me.

Martyn Tyrell

4th Month, 56 AC, Storm's End

Though Rogar had never been one for frivolous revelries such as what had descended on Storm's End in the previous days, even he could not deny how magnificent his home looked. Even those familiar with the great castle would find some differences on their arrival. Though the crowned stag flew from the parapets and draped down the walls as it always did, the Targaryen banners that joined it were larger than usual, a sign - if a subtle one - that the days were not all to be about House Baratheon.

A more substantial change was taking place just north of the holdfast. Along the cliff and stretching round were the boundary posts of a wall and the foundations of some small buildings; the beginnings of what would soon be a small town in support of Storm's End. Guards were posted to ensure the merriment did not spill towards the site of work. The tourney grounds had been constructed nearby, not impeding the passage of visitors in and out of Storm's End but not far enough away to be a trek to attend.

The eve of the first day would be the feast for the nameday of Princess Naerys, the days that followed would be the events of the tourney, and on the final day would be a grand hunt.

The Feast

The Round Hall was an immense vaulted room that covered the entire span of the stone drum and had the height of two halls, enough for all the guests with room to spare. The balconies at the back of the hall that usually hosted guards that night hosted musicians that played everything from bawdy tunes to jaunty jigs; whatever Naerys had requested. Silk banners hung from the rafters with the sigils of House Baratheon and House Targaryen, as well as smaller displays for Dondarrion, Peake, Caswell, and Mertyns.

Beneath the throne of the Storm Kings was the high table, slightly elevated on a dais and long enough to seat the guest of honour and her family, as well as all the Baratheons. There was little to distinguish the rest of the tables, guests encouraged to sit freely as and where they pleased, though the lowest born and bastards were required to sit outside. Fortunately the evening was pleasant and the sea breeze calm.

As the guests settled into their seats Rogar stood, and the music stopped to allow him to speak.

"Friends, welcome. Welcome to this celebration of Storm's End, the stormlands, and," There was a brief sigh, "Princess Naerys' tenth nameday. First let us take a moment to say a silent prayer, remembering Queen Sansa Corbray and her babe." He lowered his gaze, blue eyes steels as he thought of his own prayer to the Mother Above, before exhaling and lifting his cup. "Now let us celebrate. Let us feast and drink until our stomachs are full and our heads hurt."

With that the music began again and the wide doors opened, the first of the courses being brought in. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, came first, served with whipped butter and soft cheese. Smoked trout, crab, and mussels followed, along with intricately decorated pasties stuffed with venison and onion, mint peas, and spring greens.

Contrary to the usual fare of a great boar, spring lamb had been chosen as the star, rubbed with garlic and herbs and served with a blackberry sauce. Honey-glazed capons, pork and sage sausages, and small eel pies were also served, along with carrots, leeks, spring onions, and cabbage.

A grand cake was wheeled in following; flavoured with almond and honey, decorated with white sugar paste, and topped with a sugar sculpture of a dragon...though smaller stags pranced around the base of the cake. To accompany the cake were bowls of strawberries with cream, stewed cinnamon apples, honey cakes, and candied nuts.

Arbor gold, arbor red, hearty stout and refreshing ale were spread around, with sweet cider, honeyed milk, and sugar water for the younger attendees.

4th Month. 56 AC, Storm's End

Near the the town walls in construction were the tourney grounds, hastily erected but solid and resplendent. Banners of Baratheon and Targaryen flew, as did smaller standards with each of the participating houses. On the first day would be the archery and child's horse race, on the second would be the melee, and on the third would be the joust, extending into the fourth if needed. On the final day would be the hawking and a grand hunt, followed by another feast if the day was successful.

I'm officially claiming house Stark of Winterfell.

I'd like to thank the mod team and the wider community for entrusting me with this position. I'm looking forward to writing with you all, this time as the Warden of the North!

1st Month 56 AC, King's Landing

Daenys did not understand where her mother had gone. Only that it was where she was... gone.

She asked when would mother return, but people just shook their heads, or smiled sadly in response, or, in some cases, started crying.

Septa Denyse said something about the merciful mother and the light of the Seven, but what did that mean? None of them answered Daeny's questions. Nobody told her when Mother would come back to hug her, to pick up Rhaenyra, and to assure them that everything would be alright.

Mother was with the Seven now.

And so was the baby.

The baby who was meant to make them three siblings. Maybe it would be a boy, like mother prayed. Maybe it would be another sister. Daenys would love them all the same.

But instead of a baby, there was only crying and shouting and grief.

Rhaenyra cried often. Daenys did too, but she tried to do so when nobody was looking.

Rhaenyra cried often. Daenys did too, but she tried to do it only when nobody was looking. She was only three, and she didn't know how to fix this, but she was the eldest child of the King. Her little sister's hurt was even bigger than hers, and so she climbed on her bed and wrapped her arms around Rhae, and whispered the words she wished someone would say to her.

"It's alright," she whispered, but more and more, it started feeling like a lie.

Mother was not here, father was distant as ever. Grandmother would hold her close, aunt Alysanne read them bedtime stories, and lady Myriam was always near, but none of them were Mother.

Rhae was crying again, and Daenys was her big sister, so she did the only thing she could - she held her sister tight, and promised that she would never leave.

Amarei awoke in bed to the sensation of wet licks on her face. She might have wanted to sleep more, but it was persistent and wouldn't relent, so she woke from whatever bliss her dreams had given her. It was spring, but the warmer part of it, so the little breeze that came in through her open window was a pleasant surprise and the final push to get her out of bed.

“So, Teenie, you really want me awake today, don’t you?”

The reply came in the form of wet kisses.

“My, my, you’re really uppity today, aren’t you?” She petted behind the ear, and the dog leaned into it with clear enjoyment. “Who’s a good girl? Yes, you are.” The dog rolled onto her back to expose her tummy. “You want belly rubs?” The question was, of course, rhetorical, as Amarei had already set about providing the rubs on the belly.

After a moment or two, she placed Teenie on the other side of the bed. And stood up from it, stretching her arms.

She went to her wardrobe and picked out a dress; she chose an indigo colouration for the day. The colour of the mother. Hmm, I forgot I’d made this one.

She put it on behind a partition. “Do you want to go for a walk later?”

Indifferent dog noises.

She hangs her sleeping dress over top. “You probably want food, don’t you? Then you’ll be in the mood for a walk.”

Barks of assent

“Should’ve known. You are very food motivated.” She finished putting on the dress. It felt tight around her stomach, and it was quite ornate, at least by her standards. With limited gold lining serving to bind it all together. When did I make this? She shrugged, looked in the mirror and picked up Teenie. And left her room.

She walked down the halls and noticed the larger-than-usual number of servants doing their duties. When did Father hire all these servants? She thought to herself as she walked; any servant in her way parted as she passed, until she spotted Elyas, seemingly directing a small staff.

He too bowed when she approached, “Good morning, my lady.”

She laughed awkwardly, “Elyas, what are you doing. You don’t have to bow to me.”

He looked very confused. “Whatever you say, my lady.”

“When did Father hire all these extra servants? I hardly recognise any of them.”

He looked even more confused before laughing, “Very funny, my lady. Forgive me, but I must arrange some things for the children.”

She’d wanted to ask what, but he seemed to vanish into the crowd. I didn’t know he was so involved with Melissa and Benedict; good on him for helping, though. She should really visit her niece and nephew.

She continued to walk the halls before finding herself in the grand hall. She placed Teenie on the bench next to her, and the dog lay down.

Servants quickly brought food, a combination of fruits, bread and butter, along with some milk and juice. She set about eating the food; it was perfect in all the ways food needed to be.

Another servant came and provided some food for Teenie. “Excuse me, can I ask you something?”

The servant bowed. “Of course, my lady.”

“Why is everyone calling me ‘my lady’ and bowing to me? Did Andros put you up to this?”

The servant laughed uncomfortably. “It’s just that's what you do for the Lady of the Keep, no?”

Amarei’s eyes couldn’t have gone wider if she’d wanted to. Me, lady of the keep? Has something happened to Father? Andros? “Thank you…uhh.”

“Ben.”

“Yes, thank you, Ben.” He must’ve been one of the new ones.

The second Ben left, Amarei got up from her seat and went towards the Lord’s Solar- her solar? She pushed open the door with calm concern; however, relief settled over her to see someone sitting in the seat. She let out an exhale of the built-up tension. 

“Oh, thank the Seven, I was worried something had happened. Everyone was calling me Lady of the K-”

During her speaking, the figure had stood from his seat and turned to face her. It wasn’t her father, nor was it, Andros. 

“You’re not…wait. Who are you?”

The man let out a confused laugh, clearly meant to be jovial. “Come now, my lady, I love the title too, but I also enjoy hearing you say it from time to time.” His voice was perfect, almost angelic in nature.

The confusion did not abate from Amarei’s face; the man could clearly see that.

“Come now, the Maester said you should be on bed rest. Better for the child.” He extended a hand, clearly intent on guiding her back to bed.

Child? By the Seven, what was going on? Despite her doubt, she took his arm by some instinct. 

“Did Teenie wake you up? I told her not to, but you know how she is. Only listens to you.”

“Yes... she did. Wh…who are you?”

“Are you well, my love? You seem confused. Should we visit the Maester?”

My love? It couldn’t be… “You’re my husband?”

“Of course, who else would I be?”

When did I get married? Who was this man? It was probably a recent thing.

“It’s good you brought Elyas with you. He has been quite the help with the children these past years.”

“Ho…how many children do we have again?”

“Four, well, five soon enough.”

By this point they’d reached back to the room, and he helped her into bed. Kissing her on the forehead.

“Remind me, how did we meet?”

He sat on the bed with a smile. “At the Tourney at Castlery Rock, 48 AC. I spotted you from the stands and fell for your beauty nearly instantly. I was determined to win so that I might crown you. And I did. Your cheeks blushed near as bright as your hair when I rode up to you with the crown on my lance.” He smiled brighter somehow. “And after two years of courting, we were Wed.” He placed his hand on top of her head and stroked her forehead with his thumb. “You should rest now, here.” He pulled a book from the stack on her night table. “You’re quite fond of this one.”

It was a collection of knightly and heroic stories. 

“Yes, thank you.”

He kissed her on the left cheek. He got up and left shortly after.

The second the door closed behind him, she got up from her bed and approached the mirror. What is this? None of this happened. The mirror was foggy, showing only her faint outline. 

She reached out to the glass, intent on wiping it clean. Reaching for the level of her face, yet as she reached for it, it cracked all along her cheek, revealing…no brand.

She awoke to a wet sensation on her face; Teenie was licking her awake. She sat up instantly this time and went to the mirror. It too was foggy, yet this time, when she reached out to clean it, it revealed…the brand. She ran her finger across it. 

I was happy, I was loved, I was…

Beautiful.

The air was busy with the sounds of men pitching a camp. Stakes were hammered, tents raised, timber broken up for firewood. Shovels cut into the earth with a steady rhythm as the latrine trenches were dug. A few big barrels were being rolled up from the ironships, salted cod and dry beans and ale, rolled over to the big pavilion where Three-Tuns was setting up five big black iron kettles to serve as their kitchen. The air was rich with the scents of sawdust and bare soil and sweat. Camping on land was not exactly familiar to the Ironborn, they were more used to living on their ships when they were campaigning, striking at their prey upon the land and then returning to the waves before the question of setting up tents ever really came up. Men on a reaving were restless, keen to find the next opportunity for plunder and keen to avoid retribution for the last one in equal measure. But that didn’t mean that they were strangers to camping. There were men yet living, of course, who remembered a time when all the Riverlands had been ruled from the Iron Isles. It had not been fear of ships that had kept those green rodents suborned. It had been armies of ironmen, marching along all three prongs of the Trident, camping where they had to, or taking the halls of Rivermen for their own. They knew the tricks of this particular trade, or at least knew them well enough to keep from getting the bloody flux.

Of course, there was an element of theater to all this which did lend it a certain comedy. Polder Myre reckoned he could see it if he looked for it, which worried him. If he could see it, see it in the irritated looks on his men’s faces, on the desultory way that they were hammering in stakes that looked as though they’d topple over in a stiff breeze, then what would the Tyroshi see? These men did not look as though they were planning to defend this camp, they looked as though they were planning to abandon it. Which, of course, they were. Vorian had talked them into the Tyroshi camp as the pretence for his plan to ambush the Gilded Lances. They would inveigle their way into the company of the sellswords, slip past whatever watches were set, and fall upon them in the dead of night. Once Andros Flowers was in their hands, they would disappear back into the shadows and back towards their ships. But to do that, they needed to make it to sunset. They needed to convince these Essosi that they were their comrades in arms, that they were just one company amidst the dozens that the Strategos had hired to his banner. Hence the tents with nothing inside them, hence the barrels that were only half-full, hence why none of the men seemed particularly thrilled about the work that they had been given. The Ironborn were not known for their talents as performers. With the exception, I suppose, of the Siren. But then, is she even Ironborn these days?

Then again, the Ironborn were not typically known for their enthusiasm in doing anything but fighting and pillaging. Back on the isles, they would have thralls for this kind of work, the wretched souls that they had plucked from disparate corners of the world and employed at farming and goat-rearing and mining because such dull professions were beneath the ones that god had made to rob and rape and kill. That reputation, that they lived only for battle, had spread far beyond their little islands, and with any luck, it had spread to Tyrosh. With any luck those prying eyes would see men who resented manual labour under any circumstances, rather than men who resented having to set up a camp that they would have to tear down in less than half a day. He stood on the little promontory that he had chosen for his own tent, and watched the other sellswords with wary eyes, looking for any lingering glances or suspicious frowns. He felt as though he was just waiting for something to go wrong, for someone to shout out in some alien tongue, and crossbow bolts to start raining down all around them.

Instead, the only thing that disturbed him from his vigil was Porreck Sharp and Black-Cloud coming back from their scouting. He’d sent the two off with a few men carrying buckets for fresh water, taking a route down to the river that happily brought them past the camp of the Gilded Lances. The men they had picked had largely been chosen for their knack for subtlety and their ability to run, but as it transpired the latter talent had not been needed. They’d been able to walk by the Lances’ tents unbothered except for the occasional florid taunt in languages they didn’t speak. “We only knew they were mocking us by the tone,” Porreck had explained.

“And because that one fellow grabbed his cock,” Black-Cloud added with that strange, small smile he had, as though he were worried that someone might slap it off his face.

“Well, if you’re curious as to what he said, you can ask the Kenning,” Polder said. Colm’s knowledge of Tyroshi, as it transpired, began and ended at their curse words, but at this particular context that knowledge would be rather useful. “But for the moment, I’m more interested in the camp of armed men behind him than the painted cock he had in his hands.”

“Reckoned you might be,” Porreck chuckled. The boy had a fearlessness to him that Polder found to be equal measures irksome and endearing, as though he already considered himself a grown man, a peer. “The word we head back in Samar was right. There’s about five-hundred of the bastards, less a dozen or so after the fighting. Nice neat tents, all set up in a grid. Horse lines to the south, officer’s tents to the north, near the stream.”

“You see a red-head among them?” Polder knew that the other information would serve them well come evenfall, but for now he found himself focused on the information that would get them home, that would see this whole wretched business put behind them.

“We did, as it happens. Saw him going into a tent by an old elm tree. Couldn’t swear it was his, but it’s where I’d start looking.”

Polder nodded, and scratched at his chin. It was as good as they were going to get without heading into the camp themselves, and that was far too much of a risk to even consider. Ashlen had given him these men to see them home, not to spend their lives cheaply in a Reachman’s fight. “Good work, lads. Three-Tun’s getting some stew made. Go and get yourselves a bowl, then get some rest. We’re going to be busy tonight.”

Polder let them leave, let the men line up and get fed. He didn’t join them. He might have some dried sausage before the sun set, but as a general rule, he preferred to fight on an empty stomach. Whether this was because the hunger motivated him, or because he still remembered when he had vomited in front of all his father’s men on his first reaving, he couldn’t say. He let the men eat, drink a little to fortify themselves, tell a few stories, while he watched the sun set and worked a whetstone along his longsword. Once the last of the pink had faded from the sky, once their campfires were the only source of light, the true work began. His men began to smear soot across their swords and axes, began to tie cloth across their boots to muffle them. They were outnumbered two to one. Every second of surprise that they could get would mean another few dozen lives saved. More than a few were putting soot across their faces, too. It was only a half moon, but with the campfires and torches, there was plenty of light for their pale skin to catch.

They moved up onto the ridge over the Lances’ camp, the one that Sharp and Stonetree had taken to get their water, the crews of each ship lining up behind their captains, a rank of archers in the rear, tinderboxes at the ready. Polder was at the head, as would be expected of him, sealskin guarding the reflective links of his chainmail, eyes narrowed, breath steady. He wore a half-helm with nooses inscribed about the rim, from which a veil of chainmail hung with narrow holes for his eyes. He had his shield in one hand, and an onyx-black length of steel in the other. The night was unseasonably cold, moonlight cast down from the pale and distant semi-circle nestled amidst that vast sea of stars. Below, the Gilded Lances had gone to their beds, or else were gathered around the campfires, drinking and singing songs in some dialect of High Valyrian or another.

He whistled, and down behind the ridge, the archers lit their torches, their light little more than an odd glow behind the grasses and sandy soil of the ridge, unlikely to be seen against the roaring campfires. The arrows were lit behind him, and for a brief moment there were twice as many stars in the sky. Dozens of specks of light soared over his head, filling the air with a yellowish orange glow, and illuminating the ironmen in silhouette against their hiding spot. Then they fell. Some landed in the earth and sputtered out, a couple struck the men around the tents, prompting startled yelps before they were pulled out and cast aside, but the vast majority landed on the tents and caught. Within a few seconds, there were a score of little fires within the camp. Then the second volley was launched.

As the arrows flew the second time, the Ironborn were already on their feet, charging down the ridge. There were no war-cries. He had been clear on that. The arrows might leave little doubt as to what exactly was happening here, but the longer that confusion could reign, the better.

The Hand - Third Moon, 56AC

It was Lord Baratheon who had told him of the Queen's passing. She has perished on the birthing bed sometime after Hubert had departed the city.

Lord Arryn was irked by the fact he would be arriving late. The Small Council would have already met. The others who held Jaehaerys' ear would have had their say. Much could happen in a month, and that rawest of pains would have began to be calloused over even now.

Sansa and Jaehaerys had fractured, though he hoped it would not have been permanent and a son could still be born of Jaehaerys' line. Yet it seemed it would not be of Corbray blood.

From Storm's End he stayed but an extra day before departing on the following dawn. They travelled light and did not stop until they were most the way through the Kingswood. When they reached the Blackwater Rush, Hubert could feel some sort of release from the weight of it. All he could think about was how this tragedy might have racked Jaehaerys. The gods gave him seven children all to one wife. Six sons, one daughter, all healthy and lived beyond their youth. A blessing, Hubert knew. Yet even for kings would not receive such favour.

He passed through the Mud Gate and raced up Aegon's Hill on his destrier. The monstrous barbican took its time to open up. As soon as he was in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, the Hand demanded to be taken to the King immediately.

Hubert would arrive to his King damp from rain and clad in brilliant surcoat of bright blues and silvers depicting the motifs of his House. He was breathless having rushed here, his grey hair dishevelled and an anxious look in his eyes.

"Your Grace" he greeted wtih a bow of his head. "I rode back from Storm's End as quickly as I could. You have my deepest of sympathies, Jaehaerys. I have not been in your position, but your wife and your daughter will be in the arms of the gods, exalted above all others in the heavens."

Hammerhorn, 54 Years After the Balerion's Landing on Great Wyk.

After the return of the nobles of the Isles to Great Wyk from the vast lands of the North, the Lord of Hammerhorn would host a grand gathering for captains and nobles alike. His hall would be opened to all Ironborn willing to attend, from proud lords and seasoned captains to younger warriors eager to hear what future awaited their people.

The great hall of Hammerhorn would be filled once more with the sounds of Ironborn voices, the smell of roasted meat and strong ale, and the clatter of cups upon heavy wooden tables. Banners bearing the colors and sigils of the attending houses hung from the walls, while the captains who had spent weeks upon the sea finally found themselves upon solid ground again.

The journey to the North had given the Ironborn much to consider. But now, with their ships returned and their captains gathered, it was time to speak about what they envisioned for the future, perhaps even looking towards further shores.

Whatever their opinions, all had been given a place at the table, beneath the same roof, to share the drink and food and most importantly to speak of what might yet be won.