After his son Rickon returned from his campaign against the rebel clans in the mountains, Lord Cregan Stark seemingly lost all need to cling on. He had fought against his sickness for over a year, now, clutching onto his seat and retching alone in his bed. The heart that had once pumped strong and violent in the wolf was now battered, broken.

When he became the Lord of Winterfell, Westeros was a very different place. Even the North was different, now. The last few years had shown him that his grip was tentative at best, with such a poor grip on his family, and even his authority. It was restless, and his days were numbered.

"Are you sure about this?" Rickon pleaded once more. Cregan was hooded, seated in the back of a rickety cart, only a pair of guards for company. He was no longer a wolf, not even a dog, but a shrivelled skeleton of a man. Hair thin and wiry, eyes sunken. Cregan's life faded by the day.

"Aye." He wheezed in response. "It is your time, now. And this might be the only way I die with dignity."

Rickon was steadfast, not showing his fear. Ben and little Shiera had said their farewells, and now it was just Cregan's eldest son who stood over him. Head shaved and scarred, face beginning to line with his age and experience. "Then may the gods watch over you, father. I will see you again."

At that, old Cregan managed a half-assed laugh. "Maybe, boy. Maybe."

Defeating Wull's grand army proved to be only half the challenge. Once the rebel was captured, his army dispersed to the wind. Wildlings stalked the woods and tried to flee, like rats. The few scattered clans mostly surrendered as well, begging for mercy, some of whom received it. The mercenaries had their pay confiscated, but were glad to leave the north with their heads. In the end, it was a bloody and protracted few weeks of hunting, skirmishing, and eventually - victory.

Leaving the clansmen to establish their own new order, at least for now, Rickon and his few companions turned their heads south. Winterfell was a distant memory, replaced by the camps, hills, valleys, crags and cliffs of these accursed mountains. As he had suggested, the few defeated Wulls accepted Alyn Wull as their new chief. The last son of Krevyn the traitor, he took the leadership begrudgingly. Neither Alyn or Rickon wished to be parted from one another, though they knew it would not be their final farewell.

The Flints had set about restoring Breakstone Hill even further. The Pines and the Harclays, once at odds, now combined their strength to drive out any remaining wildlings in the mountains before summer began, and they moved their herds. Nan Knott returned to their lands, looking to stock up their battered supplies. Before they all departed, however, they swore renewed fealty to Rickon Stark, and to Winterfell. Slowly, Krevyn Wull's iron grip of treachery was loosened.

A journey home always seems to take longer than the journey away, yet the familiar moors and hills of Winterfell crept into view as Rickon and his few remaining companions cantered along the faded dirt roads. He had seen nor heard nothing from the castle during the entire campaign. For all he knew, it had fallen to ruins, or another sickness had struck, for him to return to a castle of ghosts. Thankfully, a horn heralded their triumphant return, and a pair of scouts rode out to meet them. The dire wolf of House Stark danced overhead, the only other he'd seen in over two years.

Unusually, the castle was suddenly abuzz with activity. Groomsmen rushed to meet the arriving party at the gates, Rickon dropping down to his boots on once-familiar ground. He was accosted by well-wishes and surprised faces the whole journey through the castle, toward Winterfell's venerable great hall. There was a swagger about him that few had ever seen; not only was he Rickon Stark, son of Lord Cregan Stark, he had become something new altogether. Now, he was a proven commander, a hand of justice.

Those ancient oaken doors swung open, flooding the hall with light. There were a few men-at-arms and other members of the household milling around eating their breakfast. Immediately, Rickon spotted the shocked visage of his brother Benjicot. At least he's still alive, he mused, stepping forward and seeking out his father. Cregan had not yet risen from his seat, a shrunken visage toward the back of the hall.

"Father. I present to you the rebel Krevyn Wull. Former leader of the Wulls." Rickon declared in a crisp tone. Behind him, one of his guards tugged along a beaten, broken man - leashed by hempen rope. He was bloodied, blindfolded and gagged. Whispers began to echo around the chamber. "I am sorry for the delay. But justice has been done. The rebel clans were broken. Hundreds died. The rebel used wildlings to coerce the other clans, and paid for sellswords with plundered coin. But the loyal clans of Harclay, Flint, Knott and Pine aided me in breaking them all. Now, the northern mountains once more know peace. I return to you, father, with the man responsible for this bloodshed."

After a few moments, while all stood with bated breath, Cregan rose from his chair. The man before him was no longer the young, green son that he'd sent away to handle the clans. This man with a shaved head, a braided beard, scars across his face and loyal men at his back; this was a dangerous man. A wolf with claws, and the strength of good companions by his side. His grey eyes drifted over to his prisoner; a complete stranger. Words stuck in his throat, while his lips dried rapidly.

"Rickon." He spoke absently, allowing half a smile to slip onto his mangy, canine features. Then, Lord Cregan Stark collapsed upon the dais.

It had been a long while since the brothers saw each other.  Where could Tommen even begin?  

He pulled out a chair for his brother.  That would be one way to start.  "Come sit."  He tried his best to make his tone familial and inviting.  

 Tion hesitated for a moment, then, ignoring the chair, clasped his brother’s hand.  "It has been a while brother."  

"Indeed it has." Tommen’s voice was caught in his throat by some witches brew of sadness, remorse, joy, and fear.   

A long silence passed between them.  It fell on Tommen to break it.  

"Tion I am so sorry.  I asked you to resolve a problem that was none of your concern and in so doing caused your ruin.  I do not know if you can find it in your hear to forgive me.”  

Tion looked at him with eyes that seemed to speak a thousand languages.  "You had no way of knowing what would happen, brother.  I confess I wished you had confessed your part in the deed.  But if you had done so it might have been the ruin of our whole house.  For Lord Loreon did not seem in the mood to show much mercy to anyone that day.”  

"You have no idea how many nights I have cursed myself for my folly.  How many times I wished to give the Lannister boy a taste of my mind and settle the issue as an honorable man should.”  

"But you held your tongue for the good of the family.  And for that, I am grateful."  Tion spoke as if he was trying to calm his brother.  An odd reversal, given the places they had come from.  

What?!  "Forgive me, for I must have misheard you, brother.  You?  Grateful to me?  After everything that has happened?”

"Grateful and angry.  I believe they call that feeling being brothers."

The two shared a laugh and a hug.

"Speaking of letting go of the past, you know what is funny”, said Tion

"No what?", said Tommen

The Lannisters of Lannisport, the family whose fate you asked me to find out?"

Tommen sighed.  His brother’s exile had put the plight of his friend’s family to the back of his mind.  But he had never forgotten the graves he saw.  The feeling that their deaths had not been all they seemed.  He shook his head.  "If Loreon went to such lengths to cover it up it must have been dismal indeed."  

"That is just it.  Ser Loreon and some of the others really did perish from the sickness, but there were survivors.  The Lannisters faked their deaths.  They were sent to the Reach and now live normal lives."  

"Why...Why then didn't he tell us?"  Tommen shook his head.  If he had known he would have guarded this secret with his life.  Surely Tyshara knew that?

"I have no idea."

"So many problems could have been averted."  

Tion laughed. "That is what I said."  

Tommen smiled ruefully, as one smiles when laughing at oneself.  "Well, that means any quarrels we have with the Lannisters are a thing of the past.  Leo remains fast friends with Lord Loreon and I have no intention of ever crossing him again."

"I hope that means you won't turn me in."  Tion chuckled with an air of concern.  

Tommen laughed.  "I mean besides that issue."  He would never lose his brother again.  Never ever.

"Do not worry, I intend to live a quiet life with Maia and the boys too, whenever I can arrange to see them.  No doubt they wish to live exciting lives of their own and not be tied down by an old man like me.”  

"You should see them.  Your three little boys have grown into three fine young men.”

 Tommen was about to relay their deeds when his brother interjected.

"Yes.  Yes, I must see them at once and and Maia too.  Whatever wrongs you have done to me I have done to her tenfold."  

“That….Tion I will never in a hundred years be able to make up for the wrongs I have done you.”  

Tion hugged his brother.  “Brother.  We all err.  You made you mistakes and I made mine.  Now let us move beyond them.  You wish to do right by me, then make sure to do right by my sons.”

Tears welled in Tommen’s eyes.  “Of course brother.  You and yours will always be welcome at Castamare.”  

Enhanced experience version

By the time Rickon Stark and his retinue had arrived at the front line, it was too late.The battle had begun in earnest, with Wull’s horde of rebel forces crashing against their formation like the freezing waves buffeting the rocks down below. Learning from their mistake in the summer valley, the Stark loyalist forces had made camp in the open, with cliffs on one side, and a clear view of the surrounding landscape. They’d seen the enemy’s approach, and saw its size.

Banners snapped overhead, a colourful collage decorating the maelstrom of clashing steel, flesh and blood as two sides struggled. The blue-white flag of the Harclays, the earthen tones of Clan Knott, the First Flint’s ashen hand, the emerald cone of the loyal Pines. Among them, minor clans decorated in blood red and forest hues, good men one and all, wielding castle-forged steel, fighting as one. It was an impressive sight, that might have made for a good song, if they were anywhere but this frozen pile of mountains and hills on the edge of the world.

Their hooves kicked up dust as Rickon himself, the commander of this army - for that was what it had become - assessed the battlefield. The dire wolf of Winterfell danced along behind him as he drew his steel. Wull’s men were more like a tide of flesh and axes than an organised force. Wildlings, hired or forced, leapt over shield walls and dashed around the flanks to try and overwhelm them. Berserkers, clad in armour of oak and bronze, cut a swathe through their ranks. Mercenaries and outriders circled their own cavalry, peppering them with arrows. Good men were faltering, falling left and right, but the resolve held firm.

It became clear quite quickly that they were vastly outnumbered. The rebel clans were much more mobile than their organised troops, covering great distances. While they’d faced numerous raids and harassments, it seemed that every able hand had been pulled from the gift to the wolfswood. Neither side were pulling punches here, as lives were taken every moment. Whoever the victor; this would be the deciding battle.

“Bastard. He’s using boys.” A voice came from Rickon’s left, stirring him.

The commander turned to face Alyn Wull. His companion’s face was unusually sour. “What?”

The Wull nodded his head at a detachment of archers, who were firing from a treeline. Even as they watched, a dozen spearmen ran toward them. Scurrying away like rats, it was plain to see; these were no older than twelve, eleven, maybe. Not just boys, there were young women amongst this rebel force, most likely coerced to take part to save themselves. “My father’s forcing children to fight for him. He’s desperate.”

“Desperation does not excuse dishonour.” Rickon commented. They may have been outnumbered, but they were not outmanned. Wull’s rebels fought like panicked animals, swinging desperately, trying to overwhelm by sheer force. His force was more ordered, benefitting from good command and organisation. They locked their shields to form walls, their captains barked orders, hornblasts signalled charges and movements. He felt like an artist who’d painted some masterpiece, but could not sit by idle, leading from the rear like a southron. The time had come for Rickon Stark to swing the tide of this battle, and crush his enemy.

“Men of the North, warriors of Winterfell, loyal sons of House Stark.” Rickon spoke loud and clear, his overbearing frame sat astride a dappled warhorse. One hand gripped at his reins as he trotted back and forth at the front of a line of northern cavalry, the other rested on his blade.

“Today, at last, we stand united. Against the forces of rebellion, that seek to tear us apart, and kill our people. Clan Wull and Clan Liddle laugh at my father’s authority, balk at Winterfell and the North. They mock your way of life, too. No clan can rule any other clan, that is how it has always been. And now, it is time for justice to be done to these upstarts, after two long years.”

“Look amongst you. I see a band of brothers, bound by blood, shared purpose, and strength. We are outnumbered, aye, but not outmatched. They are a rabble, nothing more. Wildlings, sellswords, traitors and cutthroats. What can they hope to do against us?”

“Against you, Clan Harclay? Lead by the greatest warrior I’ve ever seen? What can these rebels do? Each one of you could slay ten men if you wanted, and never even break stride!”

The Harclays cheered, their red-haired chief Herod thrusting his axe skyward with a bellowing laugh. He and his champions had been kept in reserve, eagerly waiting their chance to scrap.

“And Wull - the last good Wull - a loyal friend.” He pointed to the companion at his left. “A testament to what we can do when we stick together! This is a man who knows his strength. To face one’s own family, when he knows they’ve done wrong. What can they do against him, while we stand by his side?”

“And the Pines. Daring and audacious. I bet five of you could be in and out of the bastard Wull’s camp by nightfall, and have his balls for baubles!” Rickon shouted, to further laughter. “We would not be here without your cunning, your wisdom. Clan Pine will live on forever in the hearts of my family, for generations!”

“Hear me now!” He pulled his steel from his scabbard, for what would be the last time in this campaign. Two years in the cold, away from home, he was a changed man. But today, it all came to an end - for better or worse. “Outnumbered. But not outmatched. Our hearts, the hearts of all the clans, they beat as one! Our gods watch down on us with smiling faces! We will show them what it means to be TRUE northmen!”

“Thousands of years of glory flow through us all, from the first men, down to us. Our ancestors have fought far worse odds than this, and succeeded. What can such brigands do against us? Let us add our chapter to the histories. Let us win this day. Let the enemy tremble in the face of our charge, buckle at the end of our blades. They will witness fury!”

“Pine, Wull, bring your riders with me and the Winterfell cavalry. Our charge will break their left with ease, but it will also conceal the advance of the Harclay’s and Flint’s axemen. Let us cut them a path, and let our brothers fill it with the blood of rebel scum! When they bend and break, we can ride them down, take their leaders, and the day is ours!” His few lieutenants nodded their agreement, each drawing their weapons, donning their helms, and steeling themselves for the charge that was coming. In the background, a vast sea of hundreds of warriors continued to ebb and flow, while yet more rebels flowed in from the distance.

“Victory awaits us on the other side of that ridge, men.” Rickon stated plainly, lowering his own helm so that it sat tight on his head. It was a steel warhelm, forged in the visage of a wolf. He lowered its visor, a snarling maw, and made ready. It was the same helm his father had worn in the Dance of the Dragons, a fearsome sight, and one that made him seem more beast than man. “Now come with me, and let us CLAIM IT!”

And with that, the Winterfell cavalry charged, with axes, spears and swords at their back, to join the maelstrom of battle, only the eyes of the gods and the strength of their arms to guide them.

The hair-raising scream woke him in an instant. Merely feet away. Rickon kicked away his bedsheets frantically, blinking himself awake, stumbling out onto the cold tent floor.

"RICKON!" Someone roared. Steel clashed. The sound of running feet. "AMBUSH!!" Another man screeched, before the sound of splintering wood cut him off. Stark was exposed, in only his smallclothes. It was all he could do to pull his sword from its sheath before two men burst in through the canvas.

Cornered, Rickon snarled, lunging out and catching one by surprise. The other lurched wildly with a handaxe, slicing his arm, but a quick parry and riposte threw off his second attack. Light on his feet, and heart pumping, he planted a fist into one of their jaws while bringing up his blade -

"ACK!" His foe cried, swordpoint piercing his stomach. Rickon had to drop to the ground to avoid the frenzied axe-swing, rolling away and grasping at his shield. A dull thud cracked through the tent as the remaining attacker assaulted him, the hard wood chipping away by the second. All he had to do was wait a split second, then CRACK the man's knee with all his might. As he toppled sideward, the would-be victim clambered to his feet, arcing his sword through the air and chopping haphazardly at his neck.

Blazing orange light surrounded them. He'd not seen it before, being so eager to save his own life. Pine had warned them about camping out in the open here. Harclay insisted on it. There was good forage nearby. This... for some fucking berries and frozen shrubs. Quickly throwing on his ringmail, Rickon sprinted barefooted out into the chaos.

His leg immediately collided with a mass of flesh. One of the dead, in fact there were heaps of them. Friendly or not, he had no time to assess - a shadowy figure sprinted toward him, framed by fire, a cudgel overhead that could cave in the brains of any living being. His wits more about him, Rickon ducked to the side, bringing his steel around to slash at his back before darting away further.

This was not a raid. This was a battle. Everywhere he looked, there were flames, men sparring - sparks flying as their steel clashed. The spring earth was soaked in blood, squelching as he dashed from scrap to scrap. After a dozen men had fallen to his steel, Rickon's arm ached, his feet cut and battered, forcing him to withdraw into the shadows. The ground caressed him as he dropped, breath coming hard and fast. Footsteps battered all around him as the maelstrom of this skirmish rang out all around him.

"STARK?!" A familiar voice yelled out. It sounded like a large group of men. Rickon scurried about in the dark, searching for who might seek him. A slew of warriors ran toward the yell, as he had, but all were cut down. Emerging from the din was the ox-like, axe-bearing Herod Harclay. He was surrounded by a circle of good men, each defending their chief as attackers charged, engaged, and fell. "RICKON STARK, SON OF THE WOLF! SHOW YOURSELF!"

Perhaps foolishly, Rickon grasped his sword, rose to his feet, and stepped out into the light. It wasn't until Harclay and his men laid their eyes upon him that he realised. A betrayal? Herod laughed, a booming sound, that might crack the mountains that surrounded them. "Thank the gods, boy. Thought you'd joined the gods."

"Not just yet." Rickon sighed, clasping hands with the Harclay. Thank gods, indeed. He glanced around nervously - Alyn Wull was not among the Harclay's men, nor were any others he recognised. "A wildling ambush?"

Herod only laughed, spitting some crimson on to the ground. The two paced toward the centre of their camp - it was the size of a small town, with combatants still clashing left and right. A line of torches dotted the horizon, at the edge of the woods. He saw that Harclay left a trail of blood, a gash in his leg flowing free, but it phased him just as much as a flea bit. "Wildlings, aye. And sellswords. And Liddle men."

"Liddles?" Rickon cursed. So it was a trick all along. "Where is the dog? Come, let us make him answer."

"Scurried away in the scrap." Herod declared, frustration clear. He'd always wanted to cut the man down, yet he was not pleased to discover his deception. "I was still awake when they tried getting to me. Crushed one of their skulls with my tankard, ha! My sons and I went right for him, but he's gone. Like a fart in the wind."

Rickon thought as much. Liddle had concocted his story, to lure their force away from Breakstone. Now, they were out in the valleys, days away from home. Their next move would be to summon all their strength and push on into Clan Wull's lands. To turn back now would be to let this transgression slide. "Like a fart in the wind. Well then. Let us fight off this rabble, find who we can."

"YOU HEARD THE STARK!" Harclay roared, as though he'd had the words trapped in his throat, eager to leap out. His men cheered with him, as he leapt forward and cleaved a wildling's shield in two. "BLOOD!! BLOOD!!"

"BLOOD!" His men chanted. The clans were a brutal lot, half-wild themselves. It brought a smile to Rickon's face, as he firmly gripped his sword and ran into the chaos to join them.

By the time the stars had cleared, and the pink-orange of a sunset had begun to creep up, the battle was only just winding down. Most of their supplies and tents had burned to ash, but the forces loyal to House Stark had managed to survive. Though they took great casualties, so did their attackers. But they had reinforcements nearby. Wull was relying on this ambush killing the force's leaders. Come the morning, Rickon and the Harclay took stock of their damage, and tried to find who had survived the night.

A rough-looking stranger appears at the gates of Silverhill, clutching in one hand a large sack, which seems somewhat heavy. He asks to meet with the Serretts, claiming he has an important gift for them.

The journey had been longer than Alys expected. She wasn’t very well travelled and the North was larger than she realised — despite looking at maps before. Fortunately she had her brother, Jason, for company and the guards were not too dull. The journey was not especially comfortable. They’d taken a ship to Barrowton and hired a wheelhouse from there, however, so it was a more pleasant journey than most could afford. There were fears it could attract the wrong kind of attention. But given the terrain it seemed the most sensible way to travel. Riding all the way would be tiring, and they did not want to wait unduly.

Eventually they reached Winterfell, cold and in need of a good meal but they arrived nonetheless, not too much later than they had hoped. Will this be my home? Alys considered.

Warning: The following lore contrain bad refereeing and it may also contain foul and abusive language toward the corrupted bastard referee.

​

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In the Fingers Arena an important game was being played between two rival teams for the Vale Football League, Hersey’s Winged Chalices vs Egen’s Fingerers. The winning team will qualify for the Vale Football League’s play offs while the losing team would miss the chance for a ticket to next year’s Westeros Champions League.

Egen’s Fingerers kicked off the match,and the team's successive attacks to counter Chalice's slower, possession-based buildup. In the 9rd minute, a low shot by Chalice’s Ned Stone went through a defender's legs and forced a late save by the Fingerers Goalkeeper Jon Shitstone for the first effort of the game. In the 16th minute, Ned Stone played the ball across the Fingerers penalty area which ended up being hit towards goal by Malcom Moore before being saved by Jon Shitstone. Five minutes later, Theon Shiningstone played a ball through to Steffon of Myr who managed to make space for himself and take a shot which was saved on to the left post by Jon Shitstone. In the 42nd minute, Fingerers forward Rob Slab received the ball in the penalty area, swiveling and shooting the ball towards the goal which deflected off the inside of the left post and back into play. The first half ended scoreless, with Fingerers dominating possession but the Chalices having more chances to score.

Fingerers began the second half strongly and in control,though the play was stopped several times for fouls and injuries to both sides. Fingerers took a 1–0 lead in the 61st minute from a long-range strike from Rob Slab which deflected off Chalices’ midfielder, Sam Kelly and past George Hersey to the left corner of the net. Chalices equalized four minutes later with a tap-in by Steffon of Myr, who finished a header by Malcolm Moore after a corner kick by Theon Shiningstone from the right. The Fingers Arena erupted when Rob Slab scored Fingerers' second goal at the 88th minute, using an acrobatic bicycle kick to finish a cross by Nicolas Shitstone from the right in what seemed to be the winning goal. However, Chalices was awarded a questionable penalty in the 93th minute by the Duskendale Referee Tytos Waters after a shot by Malcolm supposedly hit the arm of Nicolas Shitstone. The Fingers Arena went crazy, among the spectators was also the loud daughter of Lord Egen, Elys.

“That was never a penalty you cunt! Go back to fishing shits from Blackwater Bay son of a whore! Leave Vale and go to fuck her!” She screamed with all of her strength before joining the rest of the fans in singing, “Your mustache is offside, your mustache is offside, Malcolm Moore, your mustache is offside,” to the striker of the Chalices as he is walking to the penalty area to take the penalty.

Penalty saved!

Malcolm Moore slides the ball to Jon Shitstonel’s left and Shitstone is there to save with his midriff. He gave Moore the eyes and went one way and then dived the other. The ball was in the corner but Shitstone read him and gathered it. He’s furiously celebrating. His dad Symeone Shistone, one of the victims of the Templeton attack would probably be watching him proudly from the seven heavens.

The referee blows for the final whistle and is over, the Fingerers win against their local rivals and qualify for the play-offs of the Vale Football League.

The fans entered the pitch to celebrate together with the team. Elys Egen is also there, followed by her two unfortunate guards that have to follow her between the Fingerers fans.

“Do you want to come with us in the dressing room to celebrate later?” the star striker of the team, Rob Slab, suggested to the Egen lady with a smirk. She would immediately agree and after the celebrations are over she would be left alone as her guards don’t want to get involved with whatever kind of celebrations will happen inside the dressing room between a lady and thirty half naked men.

Despite what was told in public though, Elys Egen never reached the dressing room. Instead she and Rob went to a secret side door leading to a small room where two other Finger’s players, the wonderkid right back Nicolas Shitstone and the veteran midfielder Harrold of Tyrosh were waiting.

“News from Maidenpool, I suspect?” She asked.

Harrold nodded, “The crown defeated the besieging army. Which complicates our plans, we need to be more active and I don’t mean just using the finger weed network to send messages and relocate resources for our cause, we need more.”

Elys was surprised at the request. It had been just a few years since she learned about the Rat organization through her investigation of Grafton's disappearance. Her information would lead her to the Fingers Arena which spaces under the seats worked as a major headquarter for the Rats. At first disguised by the idea of the rebel group, she became more and more intrigued as she learned more about their cause and their plans. In the end she joined and with her the fingerweed network would soon be infiltrated by rats and the Fingers Arena lost any suspicion around it. Throughout those years the rats would grow and Elys would get a more active role but apart from getting new recruits and supplying the Rats never actually used the Fingers area for something big, until now. Emma would take a breath and simply ask, “What do I have to do?”

In the quiet stillness of a cold spring evening, Lord Cregan Stark leaned casually, watching his young daughter Shiera at her needlework. She had her mother's fire no doubt, and would have made a fine princess, in a different time. But with Mariah and Barth gone and lost to him, the head of House Stark took a simple pleasure in watching his girl simply enjoy herself. I grow soft as an old fool, he mused.

From nowhere, Cregan found himself gripped by a sudden and unexpected pain. He slumped against the cold stones of his home, clutching at the brickwork, a searing sensation pierced through his chest, spreading like wildfire through his body. Gasping for breath, his heart raced erratically, its beats irregular and labored. FUCK, he tried to speak out loud. WHAT IS THIS?

As beads of sweat formed on Lord Cregan's brow, he clutched at his chest, his face contorted with both anguish and determination. He could not let Shiera see, and fell away from her chambers down the hall. It was in this moment, as he fought against the relentless assault on his body, that doubts began to settle in his mind. The once indomitable Lord of House Stark, a man of steely resolve and unyielding strength, was now faced with the frailty of his mortal form.

His thoughts raced as his heart struggled, thoughts that echoed with a deep-rooted concern for his heir, Rickon Stark, who even still battled away far from home. While he once despised him, now Cregan yearned for his son's return, for the comfort and reassurance that only a man's son could give. The weight of his title, duty and fate bore down heavily upon his weakened frame, his mind filled with the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

The night seemed to stretch on, each moment agonizingly elongated as Lord Cregan's body fought against the darkness threatening to consume him. Even as despair loomed, the will to survive burned brightly within him. With an ironclad determination, he summoned all his remaining strength and called out for help, his voice carrying through the hallways of Winterfell. He'd gotten far enough, near-crawling, so as to not disturb his daughter. The rookery was much further than one realised, when every second ticking by meant an inch closer to death.

Swiftly, the maester was summoned to his side, his experienced hands working urgently to stabilize Lord Cregan's faltering heart. The maester's efforts, swearing, and frantic yelling, combined with Lord Cregan's unwavering spirit, seemed to bring this attack to heel. In the face of this perilous encounter, Cregan lie upon the cold floor. "I.. I don't. I can't die." He wheezed, torchlight blinding him, the sweaty face of his servants shrouding him fading away.

As the dawn broke, casting its pale light upon Winterfell, Lord Cregan lay in his bed weakened but resolute. The brush with death had awakened within him a renewed appreciation for the fragility of life and a fervent desire to protect his house and his legacy. Doubt no longer lingered in his mind, replaced instead by an unwavering determination to see Rickon return home safely. He could only lie there and pray that the rebellious clans would be defeated soon. Though weak, he'd made sure the maester explained his health thoroughly. This was common for men of age, it even hit those ten years younger. The stress and worry of losing his children had most likely been the cause.

"...Denys." Cregan spoke softly to the shattered maester, barely awake in the corner.

"Yes, lord." He answered promptly. Ever loyal.

"Rickon... you.." He began, trailing off. Each word felt like he was coughing up a boulder.

"Don't worry, lord." Maester Denys responded, offering a comforting hand for his master. "A rider is preparing now. He will brave the mountains to find Rickon and tell him of your health."

"No." Cregan snapped. That was the last thing that a commander needed, whilst years away from home. It would sap his spirits, to worry about his father, when his mind should be on his duty, and the battles ahead. "No rider. He must not.... know."

The maester nodded, a grim and puzzled look slapped over his face. "As you command. Now, you ought rest, lord."

And rest Cregan did. For days, weeks... he lost track. Shiera came to visit him, and remarked how much skinnier he looked. But for now, he lived on, and was merely thankful to be alive. He'd been on the edge, looking down, and the gods had nearly claimed Cregan Stark for their own.

1st Month, 161AC

Breakstone Hill

Against a din of hornblasts, the wide, reinforced doors cracked open as a pair of sentries marched into Breakstone’s main keep. The vast torch-lit chamber was the beating heart of Rickon Stark’s arduous campaign against the rebellious clans Wull and Liddle, and this morning it contained the man himself, stooped low over the central table. Vera Knott, the wisened widow of Clan Knott, sat by his left. To his right, Torrhen the Flint was engaged in deep debate with the bullish Herod Harclay, an overbearing man of meat and steel. Chief Pendel Pine sat nearby listening in. All heads turned to see the interruption, Rickon rising from his seat. The two young lads were beaten and windswept, but whole. The Stark fixed them with a gaze as they neared.

“What news from the pass?”

“Just like the Pines’ scouts said, commander.” The red-haired sentry reported. “Men are coming. Liddle’s colours in them, not covering their tracks. Riding straight for us.”

“An army?” Rickon pressed. “How many?”

“Not an army, no. Must only have been a dozen or two. Didn’t look to be raiders neither. Almost looked friendly.”

This was certainly an interesting development, and Rickon shared a glance with Torrhen Flint. In the months they had been fortifying Breakstone Hill, and securing the southern valleys and hills to establish a supply line, their foes had shown no peace. Wildling raids, hired mercenaries, desperate attacks were a weekly affair. Those clans and families that were downtrodden before had made their way to Breakstone, hundreds of lives had been lost, but it seemed that their foot-hold had become, now, an advantage.

“Could be a trick.” Alyn Wull, Rickon’s right-hand, suggested.

“Or could be some peace offer.” Old Nan Knott retorted.

“Either way. It is odd that Liddle men would come in such few numbers.” Rickon mused. “We must ride and meet them. Flint, gather twenty men and horses. Myself, the Harclay and the Pine will treat with these visitors. Alyn, you and Flint stay here, prepare a defense. If we do not return from this meeting, ride them down, find us.”

Flint simply nodded, and darted off. Whilst his presence here had been questioned and challenged at first by a hefty majority of these clansfolk, Rickon Stark’s authority was now absolute. He respected the leaders and it was returned. It made for a much more stable command, and he imagined this might have been how his father must have felt once.

It was a bitter wind that blew through the valley as Rickon first caught eye of Liddle and his escort. Tension fell on the air as one party crested a hill, and the other remained opposite them - two small forces of enemies only a bow-shot apart. Those few loyalists that had come with them to treat clutched at their axe handles, eager to fight. It was hard these days to find a single warrior who hadn’t lost a friend, a brother, a father or a son fighting against these rebels. But that is why we call it making peace, Rickon thought, we have to make peace with our enemies.

“Harclay, Pine, with me.” He spoke clearly, and trotted his horse on down the rocky hill. To their relief, only the riders detached from the opposing side, meeting their pace until the six men and their steeds could clearly see one another’s faces.

If this was the Liddle, he was everything that Rickon had imagined. The man squirmed in his saddle, worm-like, with a nasty brow and a scowl on his face. The type of man to kick a dog, then cower when it snarled. He approached with a bow of the head, and looked nervously to the heavily-armed man at Rickon’s side.

“Herod Harclay. Pendel Pine.” He indicated the men to either side, speaking with a tone as cold as ice. “And you know I am Rickon of House Stark. Son and heir of your lord, Cregan Stark, of Winterfell. Name yourself and your purpose. If it is anything less than surrender, I’ll be displeased.”

The lickspittle opposite curled his mouth into a smile, but not a pleasant one. “I am the Liddle. These are my sons.We bring news… good or bad, you decide.”

“Tell me.” Rickon commanded.

“The Wull is dead. Wildlings turned on him and his family. A bloodbath.” He spoke with disgust plastered on his face. “The hills are in ruins. I know we are enemies. But we seek your aid. Clan Liddle and Clan Wull bow to Clan Stark.”

Both Harclay and Pine were silent. No doubt each would have their own opinions ready to throw, own curses waiting to shout. There were many dead, on both sides. But there was a respect among the clans, their leader was not to be questioned in front of an adversary.

“If this is true,” Rickon began. “Why do you show no signs of battle? You and your sons look unharmed. Are you craven, or just lucky?”

While most lords or chiefs would balk or bluster at such an insult, the Liddle did not. “We were away when the attack happened. Much of my clan remains in our lands, fighting off the wildlings.We lost half our force.”

The man seemed pathetic and downhearted enough to believe, yet they were fighting against Liddle and Wull men only days past. This was either a clever trick, or a desperate plea. Either way, they would need some men. The time to move was now, and they'd better do it armed to the teeth. A show of force would scare this witless worm and his lackeys from trying anything stupid.

“We will aid you, Liddle, and what is left of clan Wull. But your sins decide that your life is forfeit. If you fight with honour by our side, you will be allowed to take the black and live the rest of your days in the watch to atone for your crimes against the north. If you try and cross me, or any of these good men, you’ll lose your head and be cursed forever. If you die in battle, then so be it, and may the gods look on you more favourably than I.”

“I..” He stammered. “I.. don’t know what to say. I don’t plan on dying. But we've nowhere else to go. Believe me, it wasn't my wish to come to you beggin'.”

"Well then make your camp out here. It looks like we fight as one." Rickon smirked. He'd need to return, and spend a day gathering his army. Flints, Pines, Harclays, Woods, Norreys, Knotts, a meager handful of Winterfell's men... They were stronger than ever, and it seemed that it was time to strike. Some of their strength would have to remain, to keep the peace here, and guard Breakstone against opportunists. Plus, the roads and valleys leading south were still unsafe. The rest would march, at the wolf's back, to finally bring peace to this forsaken set of rocks.

And, at last, I can go home. It was not often Rickon thought of such things, with so much conflict and doubt at his neck each day. *But now... I can almost taste it. Winterfell awaits."

#Strongsong

##4th Month, 161 AC

Though the mountain air was thin when the party of some hundred or so marched up the cliffside trails towards the ancient keep of the Belmores, so too did the sun shine brightly in the sky upon them. An auspicious day, so thought Daeron Targaryen as the waving banners of deep purple came into view, fluttering rapidly in the distance. Stopping only for a moment to loom above the sparkling lakes in pride at their feat of having finally made it, the royal procession continued the rest of the day's journey to Strongsong, Daeron riding out in the front with Lady Goda Belmore close at his side, guiding them through the lands she called home.

"The stories do not do it justice." Daeron remarked quietly as they rode, the idyllic mountain countryside broken by the impressive mass of stone of the keep and its surrounding town. "Come, Lady Goda. Show us home."

A party of nobles and 100 Targaryen Men-at-arms have arrived at Strongsong

Loreon walked through the halls of his home, and felt something was wrong. From the walls, a scratching and squeaking sound followed him, and from around a corner he could never turn quick enough, the sound of steel scraping on stone. He came to a balcony, spotting his family peering out over the railing.

"Step back!" he tried to tell them, but his words were heavy and sluggish. All that came out was a murmur. Suddenly the world around him trembled, rock splintering like a flimsy shield, and the balcony shifted under his feet. He scrambled back, watching as his wife, his daughters, his son, all tumbled into a sea alight with wildfire. He waited only a moment before plunging after them, everything rumbling about him.

"Seven hells!" Loreon gasped as he woke up. His pillow was damp, drenched in sweat, and his mouth felt dry. He groaned, holding his head. He turned to Julienna, stirring after his outbursts, his wife's face just visible in the faint grey light of pre-dawn. Loreon tossed off the covers but moved closer to his wife, wrapping an arm around her and taking comfort in the familiar feel of her hair tickling his nose.

"It's been months, and still..." he said. He felt like they were beneath him still, plotting, learning from their mistakes. He sighed. "The mines are functioning again, barely," he told her. One of the blasts actually opened up a whole new area of ore, the road to Lannisport opens back up today..." he sighed. "What if we have worked so hard to fix it all only for them to come back, to take revenge for their men who died here? Vermin," he muttered. "I wish I had just one, just one to feed to the lions. That's what you do with rats, right? Rely on a cat to take them out?" he groaned, shifting his face into the pillow and voicing his frustration. "I don't think I'll ever sleep well again," he admitted to her. "I am just... so tired."

#Riverlands, Along the Kingsroad

##Early in the 1st month, 161 AC

A light mist lay low over the Riverlands as the Royal party continued its travel from Maidenpool up north along the Kingsroad. It was a cool spring evening, just a few days travel from Lord Harroway's Town while the sun was beginning to set that the young prince held up his hand to halt the line of some hundred-odd men on the march.

"Here." He said to Ser Jon Mooton, white cloak draped upon the knight's shoulders. "We'll make camp here for the night, and continue in the morning. Packed and ready to go again by daybreak. There's little time to waste." And indeed the young man spoke true. Their mission was one that could no longer wait, not while the fire of rebellion burned throughout the kingdoms. They had a dragon's egg to hatch, and Goda Belmore knew how to do it. The journey to Strongsong would mean battles fought in the south without them until they returned, but when they did... the power of a dragon, even small as the newborn monster would be, would be enough to send the message to the rats who thought the time of House Targaryen was over. The Dragons lived, and would continue to rule over Westeros.

Before long, the men had begun to unpack their canvas, set up patrols and started establishing a perimeter around the camp. As they did so, one scout rushed up to the prince.

"Your Grace, a pair is already camped just in the woods there. A hedge knight, by the looks of it, with a squire." The runner spoke. "I can see them off the—" He began, only to be cut off with a wave of Daeron's hand. "Don't be silly Ser Corwyn, they arrived first, no?" He asked. "Only polite to greet him ourselves, not shoo them away like stray cats."

And so it was without much delay that the two camped off into the woods near the Kingsroad would be approached by a small group. At their head, a young man of eight-and-ten rode ahead, his left arm tied up in a black sling while his right held the reins of his steed. To either side of him a pair of knights. One was unmistakably wearing the arms and cloak of the Kingsguard, while the other wore a cloak mottled crimson and white.

"Good evening, Ser." Spoke Daeron as they approached.

The Autumn winds blew in from the north sending a chill down Galry's spine as he strode towards the river. After sitting vigil all evening at the feet of the Warrior, stretching his limbs was a welcome release.

Years of working for Ser Arys had lead to this moment. He had saved money and scrounged used armour. Galry fixed what he could, paid blacksmiths to repair what he could not. It took him years but he now had his own set of armour. It had been a fortnight ago that Ser Arys presented him with a Longsword of his own and told him it was time for him to take his vows.

Galry kneeled by the banks of the Tumblestone. The cloying scent of the holy oils, imparted by the septon, mixed with the leafy smell of the algae from the river. The ceremony progressed, with the call and response, the placing of Ser Arys blade on his shoulders, and finaly Ser Arys announced Galry as a knight. "Ser Galry of Tumblestone", the words echoed across the river and it rumbled without change, showing no recognition that its name had been stolen.

Galry was not born in a castle, or even a hold fast. He had been born to a seamstress from a town he never knew the name of. His mother always claimed that he was the baseboard child of some landed knight, but Galry had never found anyone who knew the name of the knight or had even heard of his house. That hadn't stopped Galry from becoming squire to Ser Arys, nearly 15 years previous, in hopes of finding his father on the road. What he had found instead was a love for tourney and adventure.

Ser Galry of Tumblestone is a 23 year old knight from the Riverlands. Bastard born he has been squire to Ser Arys since he was 8. Seeing great potential in the boy Ser Arys took him from his mother for only a few copper and a new cooking knife. The boy is now a man grown and is ready to take on the lists himself and take on a new chapter of his life in the hedges.

###Below Casterly Rock

Following this post.

As the battle began to die down, Gregor Snow would fall back behind the initial line of Rats. The bodies of those slain had begun to pile, and smoke would fill the sparse airspace available within the mines.

"Fuckers won't know what hit them.", said the bastard beneath haggard breathes. Flanked by two of his remaining knights, he'd enter a small cavern just past the site of battle. Three miners stood watch over a cache of barrels, a collection slowly built up over the past year.

"Prep the fire.", he'd say simply to the men, a bead of sweat falling down his forehead. "Once they get down here, we blow this all down with Lord Lannister inside. Understood?"

As the sound of steel drew nearer, the five other men present grew silent.

"Am I being understood or have you all lost your wits? We have a mission to fulfill here, can't turn back now. They'll slaughter us all either way if you refuse."

One of the miners would shift on his makeshift seat, a modest stone, before standing to face the Northern Bastard.

"We... we refuse. We'd rather have a chance at life than the certainty of death."

In an instant, any semblance of the planning and preparation that had been diligently built up seemed to crumble. Without hesitation, Snow would plunge his sword into the belly of the traitor before him.

A moment of silence would quickly be followed by a new battle among the five men. There were no sides to discern, just a flurry of blows and blades against rusting mail. No words were exchanged, until, in a twist of fate, one of the knights would fall upon the barrels nearby.

"N-"

###Lannisport

"That will be 3 coppers please!", said the little lad behind the fish stand, his father standing behind him as he sorted through snappers, tuna and a small crate of crab.

As he passed the wares over to the older woman with cane and greying hair, the ground would shake beneath them. The cries and shouts of the people of Lannisport grew louder as it continued for a few seconds more, before, off in the distance on the short road between the city and the overlooking castle, a cloud of rock. Murmurs would fall over the populace, with one word on everyone's mind as the green amongst the cloud began to grow more visible with each passing moment.

Rats

###Back Beneath The Mines

As the Lannister troops fought on, a sudden violent shake would take hold of the mines. Some of the rock ceiling would begin to fall down on the men below, largely the remaining Rats and the poorest Lannister troops. Crushing them in an instant and cutting off the passage down below them. It continued for a moment or two, before the dust began to settle and the coughs grew louder...

The Battle Beneath The Rock was over.

[M] Sorry for the quick wrap up, have to leave and drive so had to write the second half quickly. Part of the road up to Casterly Rock has collapsed, but the castle and city itself are safe.

In that quiet chamber in the heart of the Tower of the Sun, sequestered away just above the throne room, the midday rays peered through heavy glass windows. A shimmering light was cast over the dark flagstones that made up the chamber’s floor, over the intricately carved shapes that danced across the walls, over the broad rubywood table that had seen generations of counsellors gather around its solar disc. The spear, piercing through it, pointed directly toward the seat at which sat the Ruler of Dorne.

Princess Aliandra Nymeros Martell had returned, and once more sat at their head, quiet and contemplative. At her right hand, too, she was joined by the figure of the Lord Marshal. Her uncle, Prince Cyrus the Ironscale, was joined by Maester Feldon, Maester of Sunspear and Ser Antwell Rush her Seneschal. She was joined too by her heir, as she sought to immerse Vyanna in the duties she would one day inherit.

The room was as it had ever been. A tall, circular chamber, twelve high windows. The same geometric patterns wound their way across the ceiling, at first catching the eye of the casual viewer, then drawing them in, as one began to spot where the scheme repeated. Atop that great dais of stone, just as they had done since they were fist commissioned by those rulers whose names they bore, still sat the twin thrones of Nymeria and Mors. That same ancient and oft-varnished wood remained. The court had a refined, secure air, charged with enlightened discourse of philosophy and the arts.

Even though the Princess had returned to the court, there were still some days whereVyanna would hold court, and increasingly the Tower of the Sun was dominated by excited gossip concerning the imminent marriage of the heiress to Sunspear.

Deep beneath Casterly Rock and with nowhere to go, the Rats make their stand. The twisting tunnels of the mines provide some protection, but ultimately the soldiers of Casterly Rock far outnumber the rebels.

Attackers:

1500 Lannister MaA

Lord Loreon Lannister

Total strength: 3000

Defenders:

30 Rat MaA

400 Rat levies

Gregor Snow

Nyles the Narrow

Defenders receive a DV of 3 for defending the mines.

Total strength: 1380

Lannisters are 117% stronger and so will receive a +6

###Duskendale

1st Month, 161 AC

The bodies beneath the walls of Duskendale had only just begun to rot as Rodwell Dustin was dragged from the bloodied field, up into the heart of the Rat's nest. There were no signs of Darklyn rule, nor the presence of the city watch that had been a constant for decades.

Instead of a cold embrace of a prison cell, the Northerner would instead be dropped on the floor of a modest but well-equipped chamber. Crudely made bars had been placed in the windows, replacing the open air that had once been there.

"Only one we managed to get, I'm afraid. But he's a highborn all right.", said the Poorest Fellow, flanked by two men of the cause and Tyberro of Yunkai'i before him. He kept his hand upon his stomach, holding back the fountain of blood sustained from his duel with woman of House Egen.

Tyberro would sigh, his eyes falling upon the wound for a moment before looking at Rodwell.

"Fetch a maester, for you both.", he'd say as he gestured to the Dustin's own injury. "We'll have him looked at and then prep him."

The zealot's brows would furrow for a moment, a decision to protest seeming to fall across his eyes, before being whisked away.

Tyberro would crouch down, coming only four or five feet away from the newest prisoner.

"Man of House Dustin, what is your name?"

The Red Keep

Life in the Red Keep existed outside of Court, despite what some might say. The privacy of the Royal Family was to be respected, with a Kingsguard posted at the bottom of the Serpentine Steps to make sure of it. The Outer Yard and the Middle Bailey, for the most part, were open to visitation through the year. Quite what this involved could vary quite a lot.

The Outer Yard was popular as a place practice at the lists. It was a little hard on the rump, admittedly, but it was rather closer than going to the Tourney Ground beyond the King’s Gate. Not to mention that it was not unheard of for ladies to congregate to watch the unfolding spectacle, which the participants no doubt regarded as a plus. Equally, those queuing to get to Court would also see it, with the prospect of employment and distant status being another motivator. The stables there were popular, therefore, with those going for a ride, or perhaps simply preferring to spend less time in the wider city of King’s Landing, making use of it to swiften their journey.

The Middle Bailey was a little more modest in that respect, with squires and knights going at it afoot rather than ahorse. From time to time, the King would be amongst their number. For those feeling more spiritual, both the Godswood and the Sept could be accessed from the Middle Bailey, the Godswood offering a quieter place for contemplation, and such like. The castle library could be found between the two. Not as old as that of other cities or regional seats of power, it was nonetheless well stocked, if lacking the regional pieces of interest that make places like Oldtown or White Harbour all the more worth exploring. Hooligans are severely reprimanded for causing trouble there. For the more animal orientated, the Middle Bailey was also home to the kennels, with it’s broad assortment of hounds, from wolfhounds to lapdogs, and the pig yard, where slops and kitchen waste were disposed of as feed to the pigs, who would happily accept what finer fare they were offered with equal grace, should anyone give it to them.

King’s Landing, 161st Year After the Conquest

The city of King’s Landing had grown quickly since its founding, with all the growing pains that that entails. No longer the smallest city in the Kingdom, it remains smaller than Lannisport and Oldtown. Jaehaerys the Conciliator and his Queen did much to ease those growing pains. The Dance had both helped and hindered that growth, with many dying in the strife of that war, but the damage also allowed for bigger, better buildings to replace those lost in the years of peace that have followed.

Three hills dominate the skyline of the city. The highest, Aegon’s High Hill, named for the founder of the city, is home to the Red Keep, and dominates the south east corner of the city. This fortress replaced the earlier Aegonfort and took a total of 10 years to complete (35 AC - 45 AC). It’s name comes from the red stone that it is made out of. Renovations have occurred since then, but as a whole it is much as it was completed then. Map (Ignore the Maidenvault, it doesn’t exist (yet?)) Below the Red Keep, fine accommodation for the nobles not living atop the hill can be found; the higher up the Hill the finer it would be.

The Hill of Visenya, named for the Conqueror’s elder sister, dominates the south west of the city, though it lies entirely within the perimeter walls. At its summit stands a large sept, built in the reign of Aegon the Conqueror and sponsored by the High Septon of that time. It has endured where other structures have not, and much like the city it serves as developed somewhat in piecemeal. It remains an impressive structure, though not the finest in the realm amongst septs. It does not cover the whole summit; a square is also present in which the Faithful may gather on certain feast days, or for other major events held at the sept.

The Hill of Rhaenys, named for the Conqueror’s younger sister, dominates the north north east of the city, though it too lies entirely within the perimeter walls. It was once crowned by a magnificent sept, built in honour of Rhaenys after her premature death in Dorne in 10 AC. A towering structure, it was fortified by the Faith Militant then subsequently destroyed by King Maegor I Targaryen during the spell of confrontation between that King and the Faith. In its place, Maegor ordered the construction of a great domed structure to house House Targaryen’s dragons. Unsurprisingly, it was known as the Dragonpit. 77 Dragonkeepers were tasked with guarding it, though given the scale of it they are likely not the only people there. It was badly damaged in the Dance of Dragons, though much of the detritus of that conflict has been cleared, and the Dragonkeepers reformed, along with the other groups that work there. The dome remains unreplaced as yet, the King’s priorities being elsewhere.

The perimeter wall of King’s Landing is roughly rectangular in outline, with turrets near evenly spaced along its length. It is pierced by a total of seven gates, for the Seven aspects of the One God. Anticlockwise from the Red Keep: Iron Gate: Coastal Road to Rosby, Duskendale, Staunton and beyond
Dragon Gate: Inland Road also going to Rosby, Duskendale and beyond
Old Gate: Cross Country Road through the Fertile Crescent of the Crownlands
Gate of the Gods: King’s Road (North) for Harroway and beyond
Lion Gate: Gold Road for the Westerlands
King’s Gate: Access to the river upstream of the docklands, with the road going east to meet up with the Gold Road before crossing the Blackwater upriver.
River Gate: Access to the docks, for both connections abroad and ferrying across to the King’s Road (South) for Storm’s End and the Rose Road to Oldtown, via Bitterbridge and Highgarden.

Beyond the walls are the suburbs; much ravaged by the war, you would not be able to tell so now, having returned to their vibrant form of yesteryear. Mainly located around the gates other than the River Gate, they primarily cater to the poorer members of society, though there are also more respectable establishments to cater those late arrivals that miss the closing of the gates for the night.

The bulk of the city is dominated by squares & plazas, the broad tree lined streets that run between them and the narrower alleys that branch off them both. Trades tend to cluster around the first two, though not exclusively. Fishmonger’s Square is just inside the River Gate, and is where a market selling fish can be found each day.
River Row leads from East and West of Fishmonger’s Square, to the King’s Gate and the foot of Aegon’s High Hill respectively. The properties of those who work in or around the sea can be found here, be they merchants, insurers or shipbuilders.
The Square of Staves can be found in the lee of Aegon’s High Hill, and is the domain of the coopers, who supply whoever needs them. The most popular inn is called the Cooper’s Court.
The Street of Steel goes from Fishmonger’s Square up the Hill of Visenya. The higher up the hill you go, the more expensive the smiths are. It continues down the far side of the Hill to join the God’s Way.
The God’s Way connects the Central Square and the Gate of the Gods.
The Street of Sisters connects the Hill of Visenya to the Hill of Rhaenys, reaching the top of each.
The Central Square is at the centre of the city, and is the largest square. It is where the Street of the Sisters, the King’s Way, the God’s Way and the Blackwater Way meet. There is also a road leading to the Iron Gate.
The King’s Way connects the Red Keep and the Central Square
The Blackwater Way connects the River Gate and the Central Square
The Hook is a curved street that connects the two, sweeping around in a long arc to do so. A fashionable inn is found where it meets the King’s Way at the lower reaches of Aegon’s High Hill.
The Street of Flour contains numerous bakeries. It runs around the south eastern side of the Hill of Visenya.
The Street of Flies contains many butchers. It lies on the Hill of Rhaenys about halfway between the Dragonpit and Flea Bottom.
The Street of Silver lies below the Street of Steel on the western side of the Hill of Visenya. It is home to the jewelers and workers of silver and gold.
The Street of Silk lies to the north west of the Hill of Rhaenys, and is home to many houses of pleasure.
The Street of Seeds lies to the north east of the Hill of Rhaenys. It is home to not only sellers of grains, but also of flowers and their bulbs.
The Street of Looms lies in the north west of the city, running parallel to the northern wall. It is home to numerous weavers, along with other processes associated with that industry.

Flea Bottom is the poorest area within the city, consisting of tightly packed slums criss-crossed with narrow alleys. It lies between the road to the Iron Gate and the southern foot of Rhaenys’ Hill. Woe betide anyone of worth who goes in there, for they are unlikely to come out again.

King’s Landing, Westeros, 161st Year After the Conquest

One aspect of lordship is the holding of court, where the lord hears from the people they rule over and the issues they have. These can range from natural troubles, like drought or blight, to manmade troubles, like bandits or broken men, or more commonly disputes with neighbours or other parties, from lowly cases of someone’s rabbit escaping and impregnating someone else's rabbit, to rent payments. Not the most exciting aspect of the role, but a vital one.

In King’s Landing, court was held at the Red Keep. Naturally. To get there, one would likely have to join a queue in the Traitor’s Square before the gatehouse of the castle, unless you got there early enough, before slowly shuffling forward through the gatehouse, beneath the murder holes and portcullises, into the Outer Yard. Fortunately for those waiting, there was often something or other to watch going on. The stables were on the far side of the Yard, so those with an appreciation for horse flesh could enjoy the comings and goings. Perhaps if they were lucky then they would get to see young men of the Court practising at arms, both afoot or ahorse. The broad, studded gates of the Great Hall would be open, with the queue entering on the right hand side, so that people might leave easily enough on the other side.

The decor of the Great Hall was simple but tasteful. Large Targaryen banners of red and black hung between the windows. Whilst the queue stuck to the large central aisle, spectators could stand in the smaller aisles on either side, with a line of columns separating them from each other, with men at arms in Targaryen colours to fill the gaps between. White cloaked Kingsguard stood at the foot of the dias, regardless of whether the King was present or not: there were more if he was, fewer if he wasn’t. Of course, it also depended on whether the rest of the Targaryens were in residence or not.

Atop the Iron Throne, the King brooded. He still cut a striking figure, his dark attire contrasting sharply to his pale hair and skin, the former so pale a silver as to be almost white. It had lustre, though, as did the simple band of gold that rested there easily as a symbol of his authority. As … preoccupied as he seemed to be, Aegon Targaryen, third of that name to sit upon the Iron Throne, remained as courteous as ever with people who came to court, though it never be said that he used three words where one would suffice.

Otherwise, only the Princess Daena Targaryen might be found at Court, in one of the wings, surrounded by her coterie of ladies in Waiting, all of noble stock, though the squires were also starting to gaggle around her and her ladies. Inevitable, where ladies of status were concerned, but how welcome it was is another matter entirely…

The Red Keep, King’s Landing, Westeros, 161st Year After the Conquest

Within the Red Keep there are many rooms, with many corridors, landings, staircases and yards to connect them all. Some, like Maegor’s Holdfast, are instantly recognisable. Others are more unassuming, and the Small Council Chamber is one of these buildings. It is a single storey building that stands off the Outer Yard, overshadowed by far by the Great Hall to it’s right, and the Tower of the Hand that looms over the internal wall, or the Small hall that lies in front of it.

If you didn’t know what it was, you would dismiss it out of hand, but it was within those walls that many an important decision was taken, for good or ill. Where old Lyman Beesbury had had his throat slit by Criston Cole for staying true to the oath that he had made. May he remain an example to us all.

Being but a short distance away from the main kitchens, having refreshment in the meetings was simple enough. The same applied to the cellars that stored assorted casks, bottles and jars of drink. Not that the King ever partook in much, but the other councillors were allowed, so long as it did not impede their participation.

I know the endgame event isn't finished, and I'll probably keep paying attention to what happens with it, but I think my involvement is mostly wrapped up. I had some ideas for new plotlines to write, but I think my characters have largely reached a good conclusion to their various arcs, and I don't really have the time to give new ones justice. Plus, I'm interested in greener pastures. I might post a broad epilogue post or two, once the endgame event is wrapped up, but for now, this chapter in the history of the Blackwood Vale draws to a close.

The Blackwood forces currently raised can be commanded by Lansdale, or if they're inactive, Tully or Daeron. All my PCs who were with the force are now dead. Lansdale has full mechanical control over Raventree Hall, due to Tristifer's position as Lord, Osmund Butterwell's position as castellan, and Bethany's withdrawal. If Estermont and Mooton wish it, they can assume that Bethany introduces Warren to Zhoe once their mission is over. As for Bethany's mission in King's Landing, Warren can take over completely.

It's been an absolute blast writing with you all this game, and I've loved my time as Blackwood, for all its unexpected twists and turns. I've enjoyed conversing about lore and history, and I've enjoyed watching all of these little plot threads play out - and trust me, I've been paying attention to nearly every plotline in the game. I'd especially like to shout out ingan, Norlium, Vierwood, TT, Tellural, Mads, Art, Mia, Plasma, Goch, Stank, Pitchy, Bob, Prester, Rangi, and Razor, all of whom were wonderful writing partners. I know I can be abrasive at times, especially as this iteration got older, but I really do appreciate all of you who have taken the time to write in this community.

I'll see you all in 9PK, and I hope to see you all there to, along with whatever unexpected twists and villainy we come up with.

Context

The battle had started exactly as planned. Baela's instructions were simple; draw them out and hold a firm infantry line, with the heavy cavalry waiting in the flanks. The Crown forces were outnumbered but Arron had faith in their commanders that they would win the day. He looked to his right where another of Baela's men could be seen at the head of the cavalry, then to his right where Baela stood, stone-faced and determined. With a huge clank the gates of Duskendale opened and the Rats sallied out.

It had not taken long for the two to get separated. Despite Arron's detemination to stay by his Princess' side to ensure she escaped unharmed, the chaos of the field had different ideas. His head swiveled as he looked through the sea of bodies and flailing limbs to try and spot his commander, but to no avail. Luckily for Arron, in that moment he saw the one person on the field almost as deserving of his attention. A Rat, black of hair and moving across the grass with unwavering confidence. The Raven Queen.

"RAVEN!" he hollered, raising his free hand and pointing at her. His voice must have carried across the sounds of battle as her head turned towards him. There was very little chance she knew who he was or who he represented, but he was noticaebly not of the rank-and-file. That seemed enough for her. As they approached one another he gripped his halberd with both hand. "I grew up in Dorne and serve Princess Baela. I shall not take you lightly." The Raven Queen said nothing and readied her sword. Arron attacked.

His first swing was sidestepped easily and he had to jump back to avoid her reply. The blades clashed a few times as they each felt for a weakness, neither willing to lunge and risk leaving themselves exposed. Arron feinted with the blade and quickly pivoted to attach with the butt end, staggering her slightly. Arron swung for her head which she ducked easily, though she was not prepared for him to spin, allowing the momentum to bring him round and swipe at her legs. She evaded, but not before the tip of his halberd nicked her thigh. He smiled as a small dark patch grew from the wound.

His confidence was short lived. The cut did not hinder her as much as he intended, and his next jab was parried with the returning slice of her blade splitting the fabric by his shoulder. Their blades locked again and stayed grinding as each took the opportunity to catch their breath.

"Yield," he growled, but she would not. As they parted he brought his weapon around his head in a wide arc for a downwards blow. The Raven Queen steadied her feet but this time her wound did not allow it. Her right leg buckled and she could not avoid his blade; the best she could do was soften the blow as it left a deep wound in her shoulder. Yet again the injury seemed give her strength, and her next swing would have taken Arron's head clean off but for a late block.

Arron's chest rose and fell rapidly and he had to wipe his hair from his face as she two stood opposite. Neither would last much longer, but she had shown that one slip up would be all she needed to end his life. He moved his halberd over his head in a wide arc but before bringing it down he reversed his stance, swiftly swiping across her body. The injuries she had sustained limited her movement greatly and there was a spray of crimson as the blade cut through her hand. Her sword flew and Arron reversed his stance again, embedding the steel head of his weapon deep in her thigh. With a cry of agony she fell to the floor, defeated.

He stepped up quickly and with a flash of anger in his eyes went to end her life, aiming his blade towards her throat. It took a moment before he realised her life was not his to take. He had not beaten this rebel for vengeance of personal glory; he was but an extension of Princess Baela. He took a quick look around to ensure he had time to secure his captive, but as he did so it seemed the battle was turning. The sheer number of the Rats was becoming too much for the Crown's forces and the battle was almost lost. At least their commander would make a small consolation.

The Raven Queen clearly would not be able to stand, not could he drag her safely across the battlefield. Her injuries made her little threat and she was barely conscious, her sword some distance away. He knelt down and with great difficulty lifted her over his shoulder, retreating towards their camp.

The Crown's camp was equal parts worry and disarray. Followers were hastily packing away tents and tables in preparation for a hasty retreat, which from their poor viewpoint looked more and more likely. At the sight of Arron a few rushed over as he unceremoniously dumped the Raven Queen on the ground. "She is important," he said as he caught his breath and stretched his back. "Ensure she does not die. Princess Baela hold the reigns on her life now." He saw a nearby horse, clearly not fit for battle, and made his way towards it. As he mounted and looked towards the battlefiend, it was clear the Crown's forces were overrun. The battle was lost, but the order had not yetcome to retreat. He snorted in wry laughter; who could expect anything less from Baela Targaryen? "Now, to find her."

The morning light teemed down into the broad and airy chamber of the solar of the Princess of Dorne, golden hues spilling across the warm orange-coloured stone as the flitting shadows of songbirds danced across the arch-shaped aperture. Aliandra Nymeros Martell reclined in the high-backed rocking chair that she so favoured, her fingers steepled as she considered her Lord Chancellor. Her brother Qyle stood by the broad mahogany desk that had been their father's before it became hers. He seemed to be settling into his role well, carrying himself with an assuredness that had not come so easily since the passing of his wife. His luxuriantly blue robe drank in the light, highlighting the darker patterns that danced across his torso. "There are many, you know, who remain quite vociferously opposed to the match," He observed, idly rotating a silver cup upon the tabletop, glancing across at the sheet of parchment that laid upon it. A strange thing, for a wedding invitation to carry with it such an air of menace.

"Oh that's only natural," Aliandra rocked back in her chair a little, grinning as she tapped her fingertips together, "But similarly, I don't think there is all that much they can do about it."

"Indeed not," Qyle smiled, "And don't mistake me, I approve of the idea, my concern is only that... It might not be the most attended affair. Especially when one considers the present unpleasantness that is unfolding to the north." He laid his hand out upon one of the other stacks of paper that lay across from the drafted invitation.

Aliandra's gaze darkened a little at that. She knew exactly to what her brother was referring, and she had her own worries around that. This rebellion had the potential to turn Aegon's kingdom on its head, and having so recently arranged such a substantial agreement with the Iron Throne it was only natural to fret over its future. Especially if my beloved daughter is to be bound to that great hulk of blades. She did not doubt that the lords of the north would be reticent to travel to Dorne in the midst of such upheaval, but her own throne had greater concerns.

"Of course the marriage of the heir to Dorne ought to be a prestigious affair," She nodded, fingertips tapping together, "But Vyanna will be four and twenty next year. Our greatest concern is that she be wed." She took in a breath, looking seriously towards her brother. "Send out the invitations."

To Lord/Lady X of Castle Y

Let it be known that on the Sixth month of the Eight Hundred and Forty-Sixth Year by Dornish Reckoning Princess Vyanna Nymeros Martell, the heir to Dorne, shall take Prince Daemon Targaryen, son of Princess Rhaena Targaryen, for her husband. The event is to be marked by a grand tournament of jousting, archery, and horse racing, as well as a feast to be held in the Sandship. You are hereby invited to witness the ceremony, and to attend the joyous festivities.

Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,

Aliandra Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne, Sovereign of the Stepstones, Mistress of the River, the Sands, and the Mountains.

Castle Darry, 160 AD

Ronnel Darry, once Lord Ronnel, had had a bearable time of penance on the Quiet Isle. His father and brothers might have raged against such confinement, but Ronnel's response had been of solemnity, of resignation. Darry's flourishing was down to him, and even stripped of his title, he would not be forgotten. His spent the time counting down the days until he was free, and then it was time to settle into his new life.

It was not long after he returned that a messenger, shrunken and solemn, with no emblem on his raiment but clutching a piece of parchment, was summoned to the great hall. Lord Lucas was the one to meet with him, but he insisted on seeing Ronnel as well.

The man whispered to Ronnel, almost unable to speak. "Your son has fallen in battle against the Rats' rebellion. It seems he was part of the Crown Prince's battalion and perished defending his brothers-in-arms."

Ronnel went cold and white. His hands dropped to his knees and he leaned over, hardly able to keep his head up.

"Is this---"

"It's true, m'lord. My condolences. His body and armor will be returned. The battle was won. Your son died a hero." The man removed his hat and bowed, then quickly left the room.

As Ronnel retired for the night, still wracked with pain, a servant approached him. Not a man whose name he knew, but a familiar face at least. The man held a cup of Quiet Isle mead, not what he had expected and mayhaps not what he would have wanted at a time like this. Ronnel pushed it away, but the man nodded and offered it again. "For your sleep," he whispered.

Ronnel took the cup when offered it the second time. The penitents had not been permitted to drink the liquors they brewed. After a year without drink, it was sweet to the taste and overtook his senses quickly. It was not long after he drained the cup that he closed his eyes, and barely a minute after that before his breathing slowed into the deep rhythm of sleep. What Ronnel did not hear was the continued slowing of his breath, and his heart with it. When a servant arrived to summon him for the morning meal, he was found motionless and growing cold. A quick evaluation showed that he had died in his sleep.

The next day, there was a new guest: an envoy with a banner, red dragon on black. "The battle's won! Your lord's, er...your cousin was instrumental in their success and was knighted on the battlefield!"

"Before he was slain," Lucas responded in a low voice.

The man made a double-take. "M'lord, he's alive and on his way back."

Lucas fought to remain calm, but his jaw dropped. The envoy looked at him in puzzlement, and he simply shook his head.

It had been just over a month since they had ridden to the border of the Stormlands and raided the various Dornish villages along its edge. It had been a dangerous game, yet they had escaped unscathed for now.

One sunny afternoon, after far too much waiting, Larron Rivers would spot what he had sent for: a group of five riders, each carrying part of the agreed-upon payment.

With a grin, he'd whistle to them as he approached, quickly chatting with them before the Iron Dragoons could have their own chance to speak with them.

"Your gold, just as promised.", said the bastard as he turned back to face the sellswords. "Feel free to count it all, of course."

#Maidenpool

##8th Month, 160 Years After the Conquest

###Following the Battle of Maidenpool

"I must say... it's always interesting watching them... watching them negotiate the passage. From here to there. To the other side, watching them try to make sense of it as they pass to that other place. I do like looking into their eyes as they try to make sense of it." -The Englishman.

Taking the gates was one thing. Held open by the brave defenders in Ser Rolland Serret, Ser Jon Slab, Jonos Darry, and 14 of Dragonstone's finest men-at-arms. Not all of those brave men remained standing by the time the royal armies poured through, ladders thrown up against walls to the east and west while battering rams at the port smashed against the wooden doors. But all of those men would be remembered for their sacrifice in letting the bulk of the royal forces flood into the town, intent on taking it once and for all, and freeing it from the grasp of the Rats.

It was the battle that followed however that saw the most bloodshed. Against an army of rebels, guerilla warfare struck down from windows and alleyways, broke apart the lines of organized warfare, thrust the battle-hardened men into a chaotic whirlwind. Hundreds perished, many of whom would receive posthumous honors of knighthood. But while the men of the Rivers and Bay begun their solemn duty of washing blood from the streets and crumbled ashes of once-homes and inns, so too would they need to begin the work of rebuilding their strength, and understanding what was to come next. For this battle was won at high cost, and while they stood unshaken now, so too must they remain.

While young Prince Daeron led his troops against the Rats of Maidenpool, another Targaryen arrived to take a city back from the rebels, perhaps with just as much to prove. Princess Baela and the men of the Crownlands had arrived at Duskendale.

Arrivals:

700 Targaryen MaA

400 Massey MaA

300 Stokeworth MaA

300 Staunton MaA

300 Bar Emmon MaA

Baela Targaryen

Arron Qorgyle

Elric Stark

Edwyn Thatch

Cedric Prester

Total strength: 4000