<Rickard Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove>

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Player Information

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**Reddit Username:** u/Axelholm

**Discord Username:** .axelholm (not active in my discord)

**Alternate Characters:** N/A

Character Information

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**Character Name:** Rickard Rowan

**Age:** 19

**Title(s):** Lord of Goldengrove

**Appearance:** Tall and muscular, with black eyes, medium black hairs and a short beard

**Starting Location:** Goldengrove

**Trait:** Shrewd

**Skill Point Pool:** 18

**Attributes:**

**Skills:** Manhunting (WAR) Tactics (WAR) Law and Justice (STA) Rhetoric (STA)

**Mastery:** Magnate (STA)

History

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247 AC: He was born in Goldengrove, His father was the lord of Goldengrove, but he was unpopular between the people. 
257 AC: People of Goldengrove started a rebellion against his father and burned his father alive, and arrested his mother, his older brother and little sister. He could escape the castle with Aurion of Lys, The guard of his father, they spent the days in the farms around the castle and stole food from them to stay alive. 
260 AC: One of the vassals in kitchen, named Rodrick, was the friend of Aurion, so he helped them poisoning the new lord's food. the new lord died. there was chaos in the castle because he had no heir, so Rickard and Aurion used this chaos and retook Goldengrove. his older brother became the lord, but after a few days he gave the lordship to Rickard because of fear of getting killed like his father.

Family

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Edrick Rowan - Father (Past Lord of Goldengrove) Born in 214 AC 
Elaenna Rowan - Mother (Past Lady of Goldengrove. She was Edrick's cousin) Born in 223 AC 
Samwell Rowan - Older Brother (Past Lord of Goldengrove and the heir to the keep. Gave the lordship to his younger brother) Born in 243 AC 
Lyanna Rowan - Younger sister () Born in 250 AC

Fourth Moon, 266 AC

The Godswood, Red Keep

Leaves bristled softly from the waves of a mild current of wind and birds sang and rustled branches overhead as Preston moved through the forest, dressed in naught more than a plain white wool cloak, padded doublet and breeches of the same color, as well as dark brown leather boots and a simple sword belt in which a reinforced scabbard held his storied blade firmly. The Godswood was the one place Preston had found relief in as of late, overwhelmed more than usual by the bustle of the city looming large outside of the castle when not occupied by rest or his duties as a knight of the Kingsguard.

Thus, once he had completed his last shift of standing sentry, the knight of House Penrose had retired to the acre of forest held within the Red Keep with nothing but a flagon of pear cider and a plain bronze cup to keep him company. He found a vast elm at which he would seat himself, and poured himself the first cup and then took a deep sip from it. The cider was good, not oversweet but pleasant on the tongue. Preston sat there for some time, contemplating upon a number of issues occupying his mind, some trivial and some more pressing.

4th Moon of 266 AC

The Rock

He had woken in sweat and fear again as he had for many nights, perhaps all of them, since the Great Work had begun. Damon gasped, clawed, sweated as he rose like a revenant from his bed, to blink in confusion at the flickering darkness around him. Seven he ached; his back, his neck, his ankles. Getting old was a vile thing, he had long decided that, an ill forced upon great and robust men, as answer for the great crime of living as a man should. Proudly. Strongly. Damon had long realised that was just how the Gods were; petty and cruel and greatly jealous of the true life they had created and lived in such splendour in the material world. Ones life was spent as a flash, and it was important to live that flash as the lion, not begging for eternity as the sheep.

Freeing himself from the tomb of his bedsheets, Damon shuffled to the door to his bedchamber, throwing it open to squint blearily at the dozing guard, leaning on his halberd. The man rightened himself in a clattering instant, trying not to show his fear at being caught unaware by his ruthlessly demanding lord. Damon's eyes narrowed, briefly, deciding casually in the moment that he'd have the man demoted to guarding the newly opened mines for the next moon or so in punishment before croakily voicing his question.

"The hour?"

"Nightingale, my Lord."

Damon grunted in response, turning back and slamming the door behind him once more. Well, at least the man had been quick with the time. Mayhaps just half a moon. The Lord of the Rock eyed his bed, but so close to dawn decided against returning to its soft embrace. He was almost awake now, and besides, Damon Reyne did not want to embrace his nightmares more than he had to. So it was back to the door, slamming it back open to catch the guardsman at very stiff attention this time.

"Fetch my servants; wake them if they are oversleeping. I will dress and break my fast early."

***

Damon was readied himself leisurely this day. The Lords of the West, and a few of the Riverlands, might have been waiting on him but that didn't mean he had to rush. Quite the opposite, in fact - rushing around after his vassals would indicate he was begging, pleading for their help and assistance, being ever so worried on whether they were enjoying themselves. That was the actions of flunkies and the weak. Not he, not Damon Reyne! So it was verging into late when the Lord of the Rock finally descended into the Golden Gallery, richly clothed, hands sheathed in a deluge of rings, arms spread wide to greet his leal vassals.

"What a day, my dearest vassals! Are we not overjoyed? Cheering, to see the start of this great journey? The first picks have been swung, the first teams march down, to clear out the rubble and restore to us all the glory of my mines. We have been dormant too long! Sleeping, but should a lion sleep? No! It should roar, and proudly, of course. In the face of the snubs from the Iron Throne, that mewling weakling King Aenys and his puppetmaster Bittersteel, we cannot afford complacency and weakness. These Kingdoms must be straightened, corrected, and only Western gold and Western steel. We are the men of iron, and we do not give! Now come - the feast shall be later, and I invite any with interest to come and see what we have unveiled with the Great Work already. We dig deep, my Lords, and uncover ancient mysteries already." For a moment, Damon Reyne's mask fell, sneering arrogance twisting into paranoid anxiety before he mastered himself once more.

"And one last thing, my Lords - ready yourselves. This new era is heralded across the realms. Within the year our swords are to fall upon the Dornish rebels, to bring Sunspear finally to heel. Prince Aegon will lead us to victory. When you go home, return and ready your men, that you may join us in vengeance upon the itinerant House of Martell, and a chance to enrichen ourselves upon the wealth of the Narrow Sea!"

As he finished, those of his court who knew to perform gave up cheers, started the applause, called out for their liege. Damon basked in it; he deserved it, after all.

It would come to hostility, then.

Olyvar had hoped his nephew’s generation would have the pleasure of avoiding a war within their own borders. Both his father and his brother had been lost to such conflict, at the hands of a Caron and a Baratheon, respectively. Now it seemed he would have to step in once more, this time in defense.

He had pored over maps late into the night, working out the routes from Nightsong to Blackhaven. From Valorhold and Harvest Hall, as he knew the Carons would never come without support from their own vassals. From Broad Arch and Gallowsgrey, hardened men who swore to his nephew and would fight to protect not only their liege but Lady Vyrwel, the widow of their beloved Lord Owen, who had ever been a beacon of kindness in a harsh land.

Princess Daena had been so kind as to allow him access to her rookery, and several birds would fly this day. There were men to be called upon, and people to be warned. It would be a fool’s errand to expect them to send troops, but perhaps the right words could sway the Baratheons to further action.

Nephew,

Call the banners. I have received information from Princess Daena informing me that the Carons will be on the march soon, if not already. Gather what men you can at Blackhaven. The Princess has promised us men from Summerhall, I will be joining them when they are ready to march. I cannot say how long it will take to arrive but I swear we will come. You simply need to hold fast until then.

Remind these pigeons why birds do not fly into the storm. Strike them down, Erich.

Wings would take to Staedmon and Trant as well, reminding them of their oaths and the danger posed to their liege. Olyvar could only hope it would be enough.

4th Moon, 266 AC

Yronwood

"It all hinges on the rivers," Tristifer said, leaning with his hands splayed wide over a small table in one of Yronwood's many small courtyards and sitting rooms. The hour was growing late but elsewhere in the castle the great summit of the Red Mountain lords and ladies went on, the pride of the Stone Dornish houses planning what all here had known was coming: the long-awaited reunification of their country, revenge upon the Martells and their toadies for bloodshed gone by, and the peace that the end of the dynasts of Sunspear would finally bring.

And here he was, sitting in a courtyard with only his cousin for a companion, poring over maps and dated reports of the last war's battles. Some of them he recognized, penned as they were in the neat and exacting hand of Maester Orwyll, who had served his mother and grandmother as Skyreach's maester since before Tristifer was born.

He had read the texts, dry and clinical, yet fascinating in that it was his history, recounting the early battles of the last war, the raids by the men of Sandstone and Hellholt and Vaith which scourged the Red Mountain foothills. He'd read of the duplicity of the Dayne Usurper and the fickle perfidy of the men who followed him - men whose greed and ambition had compelled them to forsake their oaths and throw in their lot with the hated Martells. He had read of the death of Ser Arys Blackmont, his mother's first husband, at the hands of the Qorgyles. He'd read of the great Battle of the Wide Way, fought within sight of Skyreach's walls, where the Prince of Sunspear and a dozen other high lords had perished.

Including his grandfather.

Of course, he read of what came next: of his grandmother's grief and his mother's revenge. He read how, barely past her eighteenth name day, his mother had taken up bow and spear and ridden out to hunt down the men responsible for her father's death. For more than a year she'd lead as Nymeria had once done, living rough in the mountain crags, descending upon raiding parties with swift and mortal justice. He read how she finally outfoxed the Dayne Usurper, killing him and sending his head to Lady Yronwood, and his sword - the stolen symbol of House Dayne - to the exiled Lord of Starfall.

He read all of this, and of course he fixated on his mother's part in events. How could he not? Certainly he had known all of this before, but to read it firsthand in the histories - it was as if suddenly learning that his mother was a different woman from the one he had always known.

So, what had happened?

"The rivers," he repeated, tracing a finger along the lines of the map of Dorne spread out in front of him. "Greenblood, Scourge, and Vaith. The lifelines of the lowlands."

Aron, perched on the edge of a nearby flowerbed, craned his neck to look. "What about the Brimstone?"

Tris shook his head. "The Brimstone's barely fit to drink, and it only touches Hellholt. The desert rats don't need water any more than a fish needs air. But the further downriver you go..." His finger reversed its course, following the flow of Dorne's great heartland waterways down toward where the Greenblood finally emptied into the sea, "the more vital the rivers are."

Aron chewed his lip. This hadn't been his idea, but Tristifer had been pacing like a dog in heat, and the last thing he wanted was to be sitting around when his cousin finally boiled over. They had mended things between them since the tourney at Harrenhal, returning to their usual jesting and ribbing with the natural ease of boys raised together since youth. So, when Tristifer got to talking about going off to war again - and not just following where they were bid, but planning, so as to make themselves invaluable to the war leaders and ensure a spot of suitable prestige when the time came to march - of course Aron had to join him. If nothing else, it kept his mind off other things. Tonight, he thought as he lowered himself from his seat and approached the table to stand beside his cousin. Tonight I'll write to her.

"So," Aron said slowly, "it all hinges on the rivers?"

Tristifer looked at him like he was stupid. "Yes," he said slowly, "as I said. The rivers are the key." He shook his head, then pointed. "Look here. In part, it's about logstics. All the growing that feeds Sunspear and the Planky Town--" He tapped the central valley that cut through Dorne like a vein down an arm, "is done here, watered by the Scourge and the Vaith and the Greenblood. Whatever's grown is shipped downriver by the Orphans, from Vaith or Godsgrace. It's offloaded at the Planky Town and then carried overland to Sunspear. The Martell heartlands can't grow shit. They rely on these rivers - and the houses that control them, and the peasants that work the fields - to keep them fed."

Aron mused for a moment then added, "Planky Town's the largest port in Dorne. You can't siege a port without a blockade, and we don't have ships enough to do that. Dayne has a few, Yronwood too, but not enough."

"Yes," Tristifer agreed. "That's one wrinkle. But cutting off the harvest shipments on the rivers could put the pinch on the Martells, force them to look elsewhere to feed their people, their soldiers. The Stepstones are infested with pirates, and the Ironborn are still sailing around raiding and reaving. To ensure shipping that could feed their people, Sunspear would have to divert attention and resources seaward."

He held up a finger, a sly smile creeping over his face. "But there's another reason why the rivers are crucial. Look here, and here." He tapped two points on the map, where a wending line representing the main east-west road that ran through Dorne crossed the Greenblood, first just south of Godsgrace, then further east, about halfway between the seats of Allyrion and Martell. "These are the only safe places to ford the Greenblood. Slow as it is, it's too wide to cross easily, especially with men and horses and baggage. Everything north of the river--" He gestured to form a circle that encapsulated the Tor, Queensrest, Ghost Hill, Spottswood, Planky Town and Sunspear-- "can be cut off from everything south of the river by controlling those two crossings."

"There a lot less south than north," Aron dissented skeptically, but his cousin was already shaking his head.

"Gargalen and Vaith are two of Sunspear's most powerful vassals," Tristifer noted with a smirk. "And Gargalen is one of the few that commands a fleet."

Aron's eyes widened slightly as he began to grasp the complexity of Tristifer's imagining. Seeing this, Tristifer's smile grew, and he laid all out in plain order.

"One army setting out from Yronwood along the road, with sufficient forces left behind in reserve to ward off raids by the Qorgyles and Ullers. At Vaith, they split: one goes further east to besiege Godsgrace, the other splits off to invest Vaith. Forces can be sent ahead of the eastern column to guard the fords: a thousand men can count for far more when defending a river crossing, and if need be they can withdraw back to Godsgrace and rejoin the main army. Meanwhile, the Dayne fleet moves against Salt Shore - they don't need to take it, just force the Gargalens to choose between defending their keep against attack from the sea, or from the land.

"Vaith is the smaller keep, and the less defensible. Once it falls, the army can replenish its supplies and cross the river, then strike out across the Red Dunes to take Salt Shore. The key is the Gargalen ships: if they can be captured and added to the strength of House Dayne's fleet, they'll stand a significant chance of threatening the mouth of the Greenblood. With the northern army holding the crossings, the southern can then swing north again to help siege down Godsgrace, while the fleet moves east to Lemonwood. With the heart cut out of their country, three of their most powerful vassals brought to heel, river traffic down the Greenblood cut off, and the Dayne and Gargalen ships prowling off the coast, the Martells will be forced to consolidate their forces around the Planky Town and Sunspear."

Aron chewed on the information for a long while. "It's... bold, certainly," he ventured. "But it leaves at least three enemy keeps to our rear. Sandstone, Hellholt, and the Tor. What of them?"

"Sandstone and Hellholt are worthless strategically," Tristifer dismissed. "They may try to raid into the mountains, but our houses can take steps to dissuade them, and if they overextend, forces can be dispatched back from the front to threaten their holdings directly. As for the Tor, House Jordayne can't muster sufficient forces on its own to threaten Yronwood, nor can they afford to bypass the Boneway without leaving themselves dangerously vulnerable."

Aron shook his head, musing at the breadth of his cousin's ambition. "If you bring this to Lord Yronwood, or whomever he picks to lead the army--"

"He may say no," Tristifer admitted. "He may say it's too risky. But if he at least hears me, and takes nothing else away, he should understand that the rivers are the key. Cut off the flow of men and supplies across and down the Greenblood, and Planky Town will be eating itself within a moon's turn."

For a long moment they sat, before Tristifer rolled up the map and slipped it into a leather scroll case. "I'll bring it up tomorrow," he said. "Let my uncle and the others talk tonight - nothing will be decided."

"I have to admit," Aron said as he poured them each a cup of wine from a glass decanter, "I haven't seen you put this much thought or energy into-- well, anything, really."

"Aron," Tristifer said, leaning forward intently. "This is my chance. Our chance. Four generations have come and gone while Dorne lay split in half - a wound in the belly of the Seven Kingdoms. Whatever part I can play in mending that wound, I won't hesitate to play it. This is a chance to prove ourselves, the same way our parents proved themselves twenty years ago."

"A lot of people died 'proving themselves' twenty years ago, our grandfather included."

"And a lot of people went to the Stepstones thinking to prove themselves, and died there instead," Tristifer shot back. He sipped the wine, not sure if the rush of warmth he felt was the alcohol or the exhilaration at finally having a chance to make a name for himself, to prove himself worthy of his name, his honor, his mother's respect. "When the time comes, I don't intend to sit on the sidelines, Aron. I can't. Not anymore."

4th Moon, 266 AC

Madness had transpired at Storm's End. An anointed knight drawing his sword against his liege lord with the intent of killing him, in that lord's own hall and under the hospitality of his guest right, no less. Though Lord Ormund Penrose was not known for a quick temper, everything that had transpired with the Lord of Nightsong's brother brought a sort of fury and confusion to him that he had not experienced in some time now. All those who had dwelt in the Stormlands for more than a few turns of the moon knew the men and women who lived on the Dornish Marches to be a quarrelsome and petty folk, but this was a new low for the whole lot of them as far as the Lord of Parchments was concerned.

Moving through the vast halls of the circular stronghold that houses Baratheon and Durrandon had called their own for many a millennia, Ormund sought out Lord Baratheon in his solar in the days following his cutting at the hand of Ser Lewell Caron. He informed the guards standing outside the door that he had business with Lord Orryn and waited patiently as they disarmed him of his sword and dagger, afterwards proceeding to knock on the door twice and speak a few choice words. "M'lord, the lord Penrose t' see you." The other guards kept their gaze firmly on Ormund as they waited for the door to open or a response from their liege.

Tarbeck Hall was hardly a... Splendorous castle. Nestled deep in the hills of the western shores, its seven walls were a dismal, grey color, and the insides were hardly any brighter.

"I must advise against it. You were wise to remain aloof before-"

Emrick's uncle scoffed. He waved off the maester of Tarbeck Hall the same way he had a hundred times before. "That was then, this is now. A King had no need of our might, after all."

Cyrelle Vikary, on the other hand, lady-wife to the Lord of Tarbeck Hall, would not be so easily dissuaded. "And the Prince does?"

Ilyn grunted. "Most assuredly. King Aenys has a few friends yet, and Dorne is a good place for inconvenient royalty to perish."

"It's also a good place for old men to die. And you think you can save him?" His wife responded bitterly.

"Margot will manage, all the better with a Prince at her side. And victory is a good shield."

Emrick sighed, this was going about how he had expected. His Uncle would get his way, as he always did. But once, he might have tried to justify himself, explain his actions and his plans, but age had robbed him of his patience or ability to do any such thing.

So it would fall to his nephew.

"Dorne is part of the Seven Kingdoms, their little revolt changes nothing. Successions of kings have failed to even attempt to bring them back into the fold, and now a Prince finally has the strength to reunite the realm, and we should balk?!"

Emrick pointed at Maester Ogman. "We will call our banners, as my uncle has already commanded you, and we ought to sail to Dragonstone."

Lord Ilyn blinked. "Sail? Would be faster to march overland."

"Sailing will allow us a chance to see what the Reavers have done to the land already, before they moved onto the east. A landing along the coast, whilst the Red Mountain Lords march, would be wisest, I suspect."

"We have no grand Fleet, my nephew. We'd be prey for corsairs, and worse." Ilyn replied, raising a knobby finger. "We will travel overland, then Dragonstone can send ships to retrieve us from King's Landing."

"Uncle I-"

"I grow tired of the arguments." He waved a hand dismissively, and just like that, it was over. Emrick's hand clutched into a fist.

Outside, the dying gusts of the storm still whistled through the stonework. A relentless winter storm, the worst Estermont had felt in living memory. It had pulled merlon’s from the castle walls and uprooted trees, and there was still a sail from a ship draped across the harbourmasters home. The Sept, however, had been spared the worst of it on account of being sheltered beneath Greenstone. Now that the storm had mostly faded, damage could be rebuilt and the dead could be tallied.

The Seven Septons made another round of the effigies, swinging their burning incense two and fro in gilded thuribles. Kasander wondered how much his family had paid for them. He stood in silent vigil within the Sept as the sixth hour of service merged into the Seventh. The townsfolk who inhabited the docks shuffled quietly around the room, paying their respects to their Lord before filing out. Kasander paid no attention to them. His eyes remained locked upon the three stone slabs in the centre of the Sept, with a wooden carved Turtle on each. They were made of driftwood, the only thing recovered from the wreck of the Stormbreaker. The ship had lived up to its name, in one sense of the word.

He had witnessed the moment the ship went down. The storm had been at its height, waves higher than castle towers crashing all around it as it sailed for the island. Stormbreaker had crested one of these waves, but then it rolled and crashed down into the murky depths, smashing as it hit the surface. That had been two days before, and only wreckage had washed ashore since. Wreckage which had been carefully collected and carved into effigies.

His mother’s Turtle was the simplest, its brown colour unaltered to match her birth house. His brother and father’s effigies were both dyed green, though his father’s had been gilded with gold. Beside his brother’s lay a small silken cloth, white in colour with a green pea pod on it. Roslin’s work, he thought, her own form of mourning. Without their bodies, it was the best that could be done. The tradition was for them to be set adrift, then burned with a flaming arrow, but Kasander planned on having them buried within Greenstone’s Godswood, beneath the twisting and moss covered Heart Tree at its centre. His hand tightened around the pommel of his sword. The sea had taken enough from them. It would have no more.

He could see Maester Qhorin out of the corner of his eye now, pacing at the passageway back to the Castle. He had been like that for an hour at least, hopping from foot to foot and impatiently glaring at Kasander. He felt no sympathy for the old Ironborn though. The Maester had tormented him all his life, a little revenge was surely in order. Qhorin clutched a letter in his hand, its seal broken though Kasander couldn’t make out who had sent it. It didn’t much matter, the Maester would have to read it to him anyway.

Kasander lowered his head and muttered another prayer. One more hour, he thought. Then I’ll see what the old man wants.

Summerhall

Many plants did not enjoy Winter. Indeed, most positively, actively disliked it. But there were some, a few, that revelled in it. Their berries were small, and rarely pleasant to taste, sometimes poisonous. But not without uses, which was why Ellyn Massey was gathering some, both for herself, and some that the Maester had requested too. Moss always had its uses, either for staunching bleeding or wiping oneself (or someone else), and endured better than grasses did in the ice and snow. There were leaves of use too, often harder to work than those of warmer times, waxy and frequently pointy, as a deterrent to being eaten. Fortunately, the Massey was prepared, with suitably sturdy leather gloves to avoid any unwanted pricks of her finger. Or anywhere else.

Of course, there were also a selection of winter blooms to be found in the garden, that the Crownlander looked after with great care, almost tender in her doings. They were primarily red, white and blue, the last being roses from the North acquired some years before. Unsurprisingly to anyone who knew her, they were her source of blooms for wearing, and less frequently in this season, for being woven into flower crowns.

Ellyn Massey was skilled with a needle. That in and of itself was not usual for a lady of noble birth, for sewing garments for the needy was a staple of a Lady’s duties, as well as the act of giving them and other acts of charity. However, she was more unusual in that her skill did not stop at soft fabrics, but extending to leather, and she’d even been known to sew up a wound or two. Some did not care to bother the Maester, either not trusting them or embarrassed by how the injury had come about. Combined with her knowledge of plant lore, it made Ellyn an attractive alternative, one that knew the value of discretion, if one knew to begin with.

She could be found at various perches throughout Summerhall, with a variety of projects. At the edge of the training grounds, fixing a piece of leatherwork for one of those on the field. In one of the smaller halls during the day, with a gaggle of others, sewing shirts for the poor. A piece of embroidery in the gardens, wrapped in a cloak. One only had to look.

[m] Open thread at Summerhall for Ellyn Massey, feel free to approach.

The first night of feasting was marked by a chill that came off the harbors in a thick fog. Above the fog, the Hightower stood tall, a blazing light to guide sailors safely to the docks of Oldtown. The Hightower was just as brilliant inside as it was outside. Warm hued light danced across the stone walls and elaborate tapestries from a myriad of candles in various stages of melting. The hall was well heated by carefully tended fires, of which no party had been placed directly next to. Although a few benches had been placed nearby atop rugs to allow for guests to sit beside the fires should they so please.

At the head of the hall sat the Hightower party, lady Olenna headed the table, and her family branched off from her. Olenna wore gray once more. The tower was embroidered into the skirt of her dress and her sleeves. Her hair had been gathered atop her head and bound with bejeweled clips. To her left sat her heir, Meredyth, who wore a dress of sunset orange that had been tailored to her form upon their return from Highgarden. Around her neck hung a many looped golden necklace with a Seven Pointed Star pendant. She wore a red circlet decorated with embroidered towers that held a sheer white veil in place. Beside her sat her sister, Rohanne, who wore gray like their mother, the cut of which was bold and earned her glances from her mother. From there sat the rest of the Hightower party and their wards. To the right of Olenna sat her husband, Aegor, and their daughter Helaena.

The tables were not divided by great and small houses, save for one special seat which had been reserved for Ormund Tyrell. The majority of tables had been arranged in a ‘U’ shape to encourage everyone to mingle and talk with one another. The tables were laden with delicacies to suit just about any palate. Roasted geese were surrounded by turnips, carrots, and mushrooms. Boats of gravy and drippings were placed strategically around the table. Ham glazed in honey was sliced upon request. Bread was offered with dishes of salt and yellow butter. There was a salad of sliced beets, onions, winter greens, apple slices, and goats cheese dressed in oil and vinegar. Pomegranates with their ruby seeds on full display and apples were on offer aplenty. For dessert, there was a delicate cherry and cheese pie that was creamy and smooth on the tongue. Beverages included spiced ciders and meads, Arbor Red and Gold were offered as well, and spiced rum for those who partook of the beverage.

The Tyrell table had been set apart from the other tables, and heavy curtains were draped on all sides of their table with two sides drawn open so that they might see everyone in attendance. They were waited on, especially by buxom women who were known to those who frequented the brothels of Oldtown. Soft skin and heady perfumes, they had been paid well to tend to these guests and to give special attention to Lord Tyrell. They were only assigned to one table, while the rest of the guests were served by household staff.

Music was as abundant as the food. The sounds of well tuned instruments reverberated around the room and punctuated conversations as they played songs at request. Space had been cleared for guests to dance as they pleased, and refreshments were offered by staff who watched the crowd with eager attentive eyes.

“We welcome you to our home,” Olenna said as she rose and lifted her goblet of wine to toast their guests. “You all have my gratitude for joining us in celebration of my eldest daughter and heir, Meredyth. I hope that this tourney will allow us all to grow closer as we hold back the colder days of winter. May we lean upon each other in this time and all of the times to come as kith and kin.”

She paused to beam at her eldest daughter.

“And soon we hope to join our family to one of yours once more in matrimony. Now, please eat, drink, and be merry!”

Olenna raised her goblet high and then brought it to her lips to drink deeply from.

^(4th Moon, 266 AC | Summerhall |) ^(Mood)

The first time she saw her face, Willow wept for so long she lost her voice. Every time she took notice of the fact that she had been made ruin it made her sick to her stomach. She kept her face shrouded most days - not that she left her room anymore - and spent her time by the window in her chambers, surrounded by broken glass and chipped wood and droplets of blood that would serve only to soak into the floor below her.

The scars on the palms of her good hand, she was sure she’d given herself in a fit of rage and sorrow, had been healing nicely at the very least. She liked to pretend that comforted her.

The nights must have been growing longer. A sign of a long Winter perhaps, or perhaps it was always this dark at this time of year. By now she was certain she could identify all the constellations in the night sky, though she didn’t know their names. Sometimes she made up names for them, or she made up stories in her head about their origin, which saddened her in a way she couldn’t put her finger on.

One evening, a particularly cold one at that, she grew tired of sorrow. Even if it lingered, even if it might have always lingered, she wanted to be brave again.

(Bravery was what made her ugly, she knew.)

With the nights getting longer, Willow was able to muster enough courage to venture out of her room for the first time in what felt like an aeon. Donning a veil to hide her face, and dressing as simply as she could to save her bad arm the agony, Willow retraced Summerhall under the cover of the night.

Night. Where she might have come across nobody. Where she might have come across anybody.

Her hands were shaking too much to pretend it was a result of the cold. By the time she grew to regret ever leaving, she’d gone too far. Just before she felt she might keel over, she came across the Library.

It was warmer in the Library. Towers of books shielded her from the eyes of the Maester, who was too busy with his eyes in some book or other to pay her mind anyway, as she made her way as deep into the rows and rows of books as possible until she came across a small, sequestered corner that looked comfortable enough to make a home in. She was sure this belonged to someone - or moreso that someone had been here recently - and that they might return to claim their spot, but she misliked that thought. She made herself a throne of pillows and cushions instead; Methodically, robotically, until it was more a pillow fort than it was somewhere nice to sit.

When she finally sat she made sure to face the wall, made sure to focus on the smell of old books and burning incense, in the futile hope that she would eventually feel brave again.

An upscale tavern in Oldtown...

Zhoe had her own quarters in the Hightower that were near enough to those of House Tyrell that she could be of service to them in an emergency but she found that she wasn't using them as of late. It was far too easy for her to find herself in one of the several dozen taverns drinking herself to oblivion and unable to make it back to the castle.

On this particular evening she was in an establishment she knew well given the fact her friend and partner was using it as their base of operations on this trip. She was in a room she knew well on top of a bed she knew well and under a lover she knew almost as well as she knew herself. Julian was peppering swift adoring kisses along the side of her neck as their lovemaking reached its natural conclusion, their copper hair falling into her face. Zhoe let herself fall into oblivion.

A few moments later and she was descending the staircase back down to the bar alone as though nothing had happened. Her hair was pulled back smoothly from her face. Her pale violet gown showed no wrinkles and no lace out of place. The raucous din of the already drunk patrons filled her ears like music. With a few brief strides she'd made it to an empty table and called someone over to bring her some ale. This was one of the places Zhoe felt most comfortable.

The alcohol was a bit too overpriced but she begrudgingly handed over the coin. She'd become stingy now that she actually had gold to spend. Her dark eyes surveyed the room with glee. And besides, maybe someone else would get the next one for her.

[Open; Come have drinks with a disgraced noblewoman turned sworn sword]

Kasander Estermont, Lord of Greenstone

Reddit Username: u/Emergency_Sky_2806

Discord Username: SideBarnes

PC Application

Character Name: Kasander Estermont

Titles: Lord of Greenstone

Age: 22

Appearance: Kasander has stormy blue eyes and a thick mop of tangled chestnut hair. He is still green, with not a single scar on his face, whilst his strong jaw is rounded by a thick brown beard. He has a warrior's frame. He wears a thick woolen green cloak, adorned over the left breast with a pair of green sea turtles.

Starting location: Greenstone

Trait: Strong

Skill point pool: 19

Skills: Weapon Proficiency (Swords, Shields), Endurance, Siegecraft, Manhunting, Fortification, Military engineering.

Mastery: N/A

History: Kasander Estermont was born during a time of peace in the realm, but the Lords of Greenstone are not accustom to such joys. They see themselves as bastions of the Stormlands as much as any Marcher Lord, and Kasander's upbringing was no different.

The second son of Estermont infuriated his Maester as a boy. Though not a dim child, he could never understand language, such as reading or writing. All attempts at teaching the brash child failed, for he was more interested in training in the yard with his older brother Alyn than any book in Greenstone's library.

In 260, when Kasander turned 16, his father sought to marry him off to another Stormlander house. Despite protest from his youngest son, Lord Estermont soon found a match for Kasander, and preparations were underway to ship him off. That was, until war broke out.

Lord Estermont took his eldest with him to war, leaving Greenstone in the care of his brother, Ser Arthur Storm. Ser Arthur saw the boys potential and finally ended the Maester's lessons, instead teaching Kasander warfare and tactics, especially the systems and tactics of siege warfare. In this, he thrived. He understood siege craft and warfare better than others understood reading and arithmetic, and it showed. By the time Lord Estermont returned, his once half-witted son had grown into a fierce warrior, his knowledge only undercut by his brash nature and inexperience.

Kasander stayed on Estermont whilst his family left to attend the Royal Progress. And, as their ship finally sailed over the horizon, Kasander's life changed.

Family Tree: https://familyecho.com/?p=START&c=y3c6piwop7ia5y7c&f=964942885878415869&lang=en

SC: TBA

Player Information

***

Reddit Username: u/MoreQuantity

Discord Username: cathal2159

Alternate Characters: N/A.

Character Information

***

Character Name: Alysanne Peasebury

Age: 20

Title(s): Lady

Appearance: At first glance, Alysanne might easily blend into the background of any gathering. Her fair skin and brunette waves, while pleasant enough, don't demand attention. A closer look might reveal a faint, natural blush on her cheeks, downcast brown eyes, and hair that falls simply to her waist. At formal events, she's often seen in gowns that whisper of seasons past, their fabric a touch less luxurious than those of her peers. Yet, there's something in the way Alysanne carries herself - a quiet assurance that doesn't ask for notice, but earns it all the same.

Starting Location: Poddingfield 

Trait: Sly

Skill Point Pool: 19

Attributes:

Skills: Espionage, Deception, Diplomacy, Rhetoric, History & Culture 

Mastery: N/A

History

***

246 AC: Alysanne Peasebury is born to Lord Donnel Peasebury and his wife, Sybelle Peasebury, the fifth daughter in a row. Lord Donnel's disappointment is palpable, though he tries to hide it.

247 AC: Alysanne's younger sister is born, the sixth daughter of House Peasebury. The lack of a male heir begins to weigh heavily on the family.

250 AC: The conversations around her can be rather interesting. During a feast, she repeats a snippet of gossip she overheard, causing embarrassment to her family. This incident teaches her the importance of discretion.

252 AC: Alysanne begins to show an aptitude for observation. During a feast, she notices a servant acting suspiciously around the wine. She mentions this to her grandmother, who investigates and discovers the servant was watering down the wine to sell the excess. The incident earns Alysanne praise for her attentiveness.

253 AC: Alysanne starts her formal education with a septa. She learns the basics of reading, writing, and the Faith of the Seven. During needlework sessions, she listens to her older sisters discuss betrothals and the politics of neighboring houses, sparking her interest in the wider world of Westeros.

255 AC: During a visit from a knight of House Tyrell, Alysanne overhears talk of a dispute over grazing lands between Poddingfield and a neighboring house. She innocently suggests to her father that they could share the land during different seasons, an idea that rather takes the man aback, but it's an idea that has merit.

257 AC: At her first formal feast in Poddingfield, Alysanne is made to help her mother with the seating arrangements. She places two quarreling lesser lords next to friendly mediators, helping to ease tensions. Her mother praises her understanding of social dynamics.

259 AC: As part of learning household managing, Alysanne begins to assist the castle steward with household accounts. She notices small discrepancies and brings them to the steward's attention, who explains how easy it is for errors to creep in. Perhaps not particularly noteworthy, but it teaches her the importance of meticulous record-keeping.

260 AC: Alysanne takes on more responsibilities in the household. She oversees the castle's food stores and suggests preserving more food for winter. When her father questions this, she cites a passage from a maester's book about long winters, though instead of impressing him, it has the opposite effect.. for some reason. Still, her father starts to take notice of her capabilities, though he still focuses more on the lack of a male heir.

262 AC: A dispute arises with a neighboring house over fishing rights in a shared river. Alysanne suggests inviting the lord's daughter, who is of a similar age, to stay at Poddingfield. During the visit, the girls become friends, which helps soften the dispute between their fathers.

264 AC: Donnel's heir is finally born, a boy named after his father. Amidst the celebration, Alysanne realizes that her position in the family, even her mere marriage prospects, if they have not already, stand the risk of plummeting - the Peaseburys have six girls to marry off, all comely in their own right, but the eldest, of course, get all the rich pickings. And what for the youngest?

Scraps.

Alysanne begins to plan.

266 AC: With her prospects at home diminished, Alysanne begins to quietly seek a sponsor outside of Poddingfield. She carefully crafts letters to select.. older noble ladies, offering her services as a potential lady-in-waiting for their daughters or nieces. Her efforts are met with mixed results, but she persists, knowing this may be her best chance at securing a future beyond being a minor lord's forgotten daughter.

Family

***

Peasebury Family Tree.

<Donnel Peasebury, Lord of Poddingfield>

***

Character Information

***

Character Name: Donnel I Peasebury

Age: 48

Title(s): Lord of Poddingfield

Appearance: Lord Donnel Peasebury cuts a stern figure, his countenance rarely softened by mirth or revelry. His brown hair, a common trait among the Peaseburys, is habitually swept back, lending him an air of perpetual readiness. A well-maintained mustache and beard frames his face, speaking to his attention to detail even in personal grooming.

But perhaps his most striking feature is his cool, grey eyes—a trait inherited from his mother and passed down only to his heir, young Donnel II. These eyes, often described as piercing, seem to reflect the practical nature of their bearer. True to his frugal nature, Lord Donnel's attire speaks volumes of his character. While he dresses appropriately for his station as befits a lord, he eschews excessive finery in favor of practical, well-made garments. This sartorial choice serves as a visible reminder of his pragmatic approach to leadership and life—adequate, functional, without unnecessary extravagance.

And if you look closely, you can spot a small mole, just below his right eye.

Starting Location: Poddingfield

Trait: Diligent

Skill Point Pool: 13

Attributes:

Skills: Stewardship, Law & Justice, Marshalling, History & Culture

History

***

They say he was born frowning.

It's nothing more than a foolish jape, of course. Those who assisted with his birth are long dead or gone to settle down. The only ones who would remember his birth, however, would be that of his mother, and elder sister Leonette.

Garlan enjoyed teasing him with that, calling him 'Ser Smiles-Not' - of course, as annoying as it was, he took no offense with it. After all, his younger brother was born two years after the fact, making it impossible for him to know he was 'born' frowning.

Donnel does not take pride in the fact. The fact that he is considered difficult. Unyielding. Cold.

He was groomed from birth, to take over his fathers lands and position - the heir, the firstborn male. That is not something easy. Being the heir to a minor noble house, did not make it any easier.

You see, for being minor nobility, you have to claw and grasp for every inch of respect, every morsel of influence. The great houses may play their grand games, but for houses like the Peaseburys, survival is the game. And Donnel learned this lesson early and well.

His father, Lord Garth, was a man of ambition, always reaching for more than Poddingfield could realistically grasp. It was Donnel who saw the folly in this, who understood that true strength lay not in grand gestures, but in careful stewardship and pragmatic alliances.

As a young man, Donnel watched his father's schemes often fall short, leaving House Peasebury to weather the consequences. It was then that he vowed to rule differently. Where his father sought expansion, Donnel would seek stability. Where Garth dreamed of glory, his son would ensure survival.

This approach earned him few friends and fewer smiles, but it kept Poddingfield secure. When he took over as Lord, following his father's passing, Donnel's first act was to scrutinize every expense, every alliance, every tradition. Anything that did not directly benefit the house was carefully reevaluated.

His marriage to Sybelle was one of practicality, an alliance that strengthened House Peasebury's position. And while affection grew between them over the years, it was always tempered by Donnel's unyielding focus on duty.

The birth of six daughters in succession was a trial for Donnel. Not because he loved them any less, but because each birth reminded him of the precarious nature of succession. It was a relief beyond measure when young Donnel II was born, securing the future of the house.

Yet, even in this joy, Donnel remained stern. For he knew that in the game of thrones, even minor players like House Peasebury could be swept aside if they showed weakness. And so he continues, ever vigilant, ever stern, safeguarding his house's future with every frown, every careful decision, every coin saved.

For Donnel Peasebury, this is not coldness. This is not difficulty. This is survival. And in the harsh world of Westeros, survival is no small achievement for a house like his.

And for House Peasebury? "We Endure and Prosper."

These words are not just a motto, but a promise - a promise that Donnel renews each day with every decision, every frown, and every coin carefully spent or saved. For in these words lie the very essence of House Peasebury's strength: the will to survive, and the wisdom to thrive.

Archtypes

***

Ser Garlan Peasebury - Tourney Knight - Donnel I's younger brother, born 220 AC.

Lady Meredyth Peasebury - Pennypincher - Donnel I's mother, born 190 AC.

Ser Gerold - Warrior - Lady Sybelle's nephew, born 243 AC.

It was a cold day out. The voices that occupied the halls of Storm’s End had vanished as Lords and visitors alike returned to their homes. In a dimly lit room in some corner of the only tower within the mighty walls of Storm’s End, the Lord of the Stormlands had come to a realization.

He’d lived a long life and the sole regret he had was rulership. It ate away at his values, his beliefs and the goodness that he once had.

Orryn was in the Maesters chambers when he realized that. The duel was something he should have regretted but Orryn couldn’t find himself to. Even now as he’d sat in the Maesters chambers with bandages across his head.

Daven had been in far worse condition. Lewell was nearly dead last he checked. The pain of it all left his mind and body as soon as the little one had shown her face.

Argella had been brought forth by Orryn’s mother. Danelle knew that few could bring a smile to her son's face but that beautiful little girl. She was not his child by blood but Argella was his child nevertheless.

The young Lady of Storm’s End sat in the same chair as Orryn, hugging her uncle as he looked towards his mother.

“I’ll write to Grandison, Penrose and the houses that hold the Narrow Sea. Prepare them for war in the Stepstones.” He’d begin, “You write to Uncle Aemon. Tell him the Caron accused him of playing a role in the death of my brother and that he is unfit to rule. That his son, Jasper-” It hurt to lie to his mother but Orryn knew that tales would be all that could aid him in building a fire under the Lords of the Stormlands.

Just as those who hated him built the tale that he’d slew his brother.

“Should send him off to the wall to rid his house of such an accursed ruler.” Orryn would say as he looked down towards Argella. The young Baratheon who was just away moments earlier had fallen asleep against him. Slowly he’d wrap his niece around in his arms before looking back up towards his mother.

“Lewell Caron then moved to slay me. Ser Daven did his best to stop him but he was no match until I put down the Caron.” He’d say those words without emotion, defeated as he looked up towards his mother.

“As they did in the Stormlands after Rog-” Danelle shook her head as her vision became blurred with tears. “I’m so sorry.” His mother would add as she moved closer to him, embracing the Baratheon.

He’d wince in pain as she wrapped her arm around his head. The Maester had given him something for the pain but to have the wound touching anything. It hurt but not as much as the pain he’d felt in his heart.

It had festered since the Stepstones. Orryn had tried to move past it when he could. He’d believed the best way forward was to keep the blades away and destroy his enemies through politics.

At least then nobody would die.

How wrong was he for thinking that?

“I failed.” He’d say to this mother, “I should have killed them all in the Stepstones. I should have done what father, what Rogar would have done and declared them all traitors. They’ll never let me live a life.”

“Shh. Think not of what they want.” His mother said, “Tonight you just rest and tomorrow speak with your Lords tell them what happened and I swear you shall see that more support you than you think.”

She was wrong. Orryn had spoken to them. He’d been in the same rooms as them. He’d seen their stares. The look of disgust upon his Lords when they locked eyes.

“Argella should be with her mother.” Orryn added, “Find Lyra and put her to bed.”

Danella wanted to say something but she knew that once her children had made up their minds, one could not change it. Tomorrow she’d try again but tonight she just hoped Orryn rested up.

It was a nice day out, from all that Hal had seen. At the edge of winter, so not the warmest, but Hal Hunt had enough hair on his chest to best a bit of frost from time to time. It was nice to see snow fall under blue skies, and that would be rarer as the days dragged on into gloom and cold.

Though he was not out, at the moment. Instead, he was in a deep, dark dungeon. Maybe it was a cellar, or a basement, but either way, he would be loathe to be locked away there. The ceilings were just a hair tall enough, but he had to crouch to get through each and every doorway. Built for smaller people, Hal supposed, although Maekar had been large and far too broad of shoulder for them.

Perhaps his father had not thought of him when he'd built it. The thought made Hal frown, although he usually would have little sympathy for the treasonous son of a bastard. Even blackblooded kings did not mind the comfort of his ilk. It was a thought he would not share, lest Bittersteel come snipping at his heels.

It had been his decision to come down here, so he felt foolish to be so spiteful of the locale. The halls of Summerhall were filled with outsiders. Daena had taken a free and open hand with visitors as of late.

It was not Hal's place to question his Princess's activities, but they had more and greater enemies than just the stag. Orryn Baratheon had been far less ardent a foe than Bittersteel, yet Orryn's kin he had been told to watch and Baelon's creature wandered about freely. Swann was trusted, and half a dozen other spineless men of the storm. Hal wondered at times if Daena did not see the very same threats he did.

Then again, Daena had a better head for politics than the knight, and he did not wish to be a raven on her shoulder crowing caution at every step. She had a mother already. What she needed was a protector.

Regardless, they were free of such worries underneath the floors. The only rats he needed fear had fur and whiskers. Unless they had been followed, but no such concern made it apparent. Hal had glanced behind him on more than one occasion, and the place was silent.

With a deep breath, Hal took a breath and a position leaning near the door. He gestured for Daena to sit, if she'd like, although the accommodations were probably not up to her usual standards. She had said they would talk at Summerhall. And now they would talk.

Hal waited for a moment, before belatedly realizing it was probably on him to start.

"Lord Caron intends to start a war in the Marches." Hal noted bluntly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "And not against the Dornish. Wylde and Swann, he says, stand behind him."

To the venerable Prince Aegon of Dragonstone

Words of your endeavour to finally bring all of Dorne into the fold has reached our humble home in Crackclaw Point. Whilst others may quiver and quake at the prospect of such a daunting task, there are still brave and good men ready to lay down their lives for the crown. I write to you with an offer, from Brownhollow I command four hundred fighting men, loyal to the crown. If you would have us, we would add our numbers to yours and join you in this glorious conquest. Let us prove to you that not all men of the Crownlands would turn their backs on you in your time of need. All I ask in return is passage on your ships, and a fair share of the spoils seized as we paint the dunes red with the blood of the defiant.

Should you accept this offer, I will gather my men and ride for the Pincers to await your ships

Your loyal servant

Lorren Brune, the Knight of Brownhollow

The droopy-faced maester looked up from his writing desk after reading aloud this fifth draft of the letter for the Prince of Dragonstone. The crumpled remains of the previous four attempts were burning in the open fireplace, the crude and informal language that would have done credit to a flea-bottom whore turning to cinders.

“I should think this will be good enough.” Maester Arnel said with an uncertain smile as he looked towards Lorren. The Knight of Brownhollow was sitting on the windowsill of the only window in the wooden tower, watching the activity in the courtyard below. He turned his beady eyes to the maester, giving him a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yes, yes. All bloody well and good, sweet as rose petals on the Queen’s arse and all that.” Lorren lacked many common virtues, among them courtesy as well as patience. “Gods forbid we offend the delicate sensibility of the sibling-fucking warmongers.” The maester’s face turned a shade paler as he began to fear that his master would demand a sixth rewrite. But to his relief Lorren finally got to his feet and spat out a resentful: “But yes, send the bloody bird. If I must lick the prince’s scrotum to spare myself a walk to Dorne, then I will do so, and tickle his bunghole to boot.” The maester let out a deep breath of relief as he reached for the wax.

As the maester heated it over a lit candle he glanced for a moment at a different letter, open on the desk, one whose seal depicted a vulture at flight. Blackmont had been in contact with the Brunes since he had had a run-in with Lorren in King’s Landing some time ago. The two shared a lust for spoils, as well as a nose for opportunity. After his letter of Prince Aegon’s intent had arrived, Lorren had wasted no time. Scouring Dorne for all it was worth was just the sort of thing he had been waiting for.

After pacing back and forth for a few moments Lorren returned to the window, down below men were getting ready for war. Sharpening spears, fletching arrows and being fitted for helms and armour. Once they received the prince’s summons freeriders would be ready to ride out and rouse the surrounding villages to their cause. Brownhollow did not command many men, but they were a fierce and savage lot. They would charge into battle eagerly, and kill with smiles on their faces. Of course, should they join the prince on his journey south, many would never return, but what did that matter? What did they have to return to?

“Where is Lorra?” The knight of Brownhollow abruptly asked from where he stood, peering down into the courtyard. “She best not have ridden off into the woods to hunt. That rotten brat shirks her responsibilities at any chance she gets.”

“I believe she has gone to visit your mother, my Lord.” Maester Ansel mumbled as he sealed the letter with the bear-paw sigil of house Brune. The Brune girls were close to their grandmother, and it never ceased to irk their father. Perhaps in part because she had never shown him the same affection. Predictably Lorren let out a derisive snort.

“She will be filling the girl’s ears with muck. The old crone’s skull is so stuffed with weeds it seems to be all she can think to talk about these days.” Lorren’s mother was no noble lady, but a common born woods witch. One that had once lived in a hut in the swamp where she brewed herbal remedies for peasants. Up until his father, the late Ser Lester, had drunk from a cup of water she had offered, and fallen head over heels in love with her. She became his bride, and brought with her rumours of dark rituals being practised within Brownhollow. All nonsense of course, the woman was an accomplished herbalist, not a sorceress. But the rumours still persisted to this day.

“I shall be off to the rookery then.” A grating wooden creak filled the room as maester Arnel got to his feet and pushed his chair back. Lorren did not turn, merely gave a low grunt in response, which usually meant that he had no objections. The Maester stepped through the heavy oaken door and allowed himself a sigh of relief. Whether this incursion into Dorne ended in glory or catastrophe, at least things around here would be calmer for the foreseeable future.

I was made the fool.

The misty shadows of the Dragonstone citadel, forged from old dragonflame, swallowed the bitter thought. It dwelled deeply in the pit of his stomach in the descent from the Red Keep and towards the ships bound for his isle, across the storm-laden waters and onto the beaches. It was a lifted weight, to be true. Solely surrounded now by those that Aegon could tolerate, or at least those that he did not know he could not tolerate.

He would suffer no cravens in his guard, scant as it oft was. Those that lined his high walls ought to be of braver stock, fiercer and true as their steel. The servers, however, could be whatever they so wished; dwelling too far beneath his notice.

"I bid you a well return," smilingly said old Ser Ornell.

Perhaps there was always one.

His shuddered and rolled with a groan escaping his mouth, "I bid you a fuck off."

The sight of the old man nearly leaping from his fat old flesh was near to make Aegon smile. "My apologies," Ornell muttered with the clearing of his throat, clutching at the pendant that hung loosely from his neck. "But, my prince, a letter came for one of your guests in your absence."

For my guest, yet never me. He played second-fiddle to them all, mayhaps even third. Dorne would no doubt prove to set himself above them all. He liked to think, at least. Aegon pulled the blade, sheathe and all, from his waist and settled it on a cleared table in a stone room full to the brim with old leathery parchments rolled and set aside. His dirk came next.

"And why is it you that seeks to deliver this to me, not the maester?" Aegon bitingly asked without so much as lifting his eyes. Though the small silence clinging to the air had made Aegon think that Ornell up and vanished with it, yet the man still stood there with a fumbling mouth.

"I, I... Well, I had sent maester Cressen to serve you in Harrenhal." He blurted with spittle.

"So you did."

Ornell made an effort to flee, "I will fetch the maester, he always was a better reader."

"Forget it," chided Aegon, "The maester relieved himself of service to Dragonstone."

"I see," frowned Ornell. He stood there, uncertain.

"Read the letter," sighed Aegon, gesturing towards the parchment clutched between his fingers.

"Yes, yes. Of course." He cleared his throat with a cough, "Ser Maelys, I've done my part for you and Elaena. I've sent ravens to both Harrenhal and Summerhall both, expressing my intentions for the two of you. It falls on your brother and Elaena's sister to give their blessings, I suppose. I wish you both the best, come what may. Let me know if there is anything else I can do. Lady Melora."

Maelys. He frowned.

"Lady Melora?"

"It comes with the seal of House Tarly," nodded Ornell, "His lady-wife, I presume."

"You would," mockingly said Aegon, though such statement forced the prince to shake his head. The statement held no substance but bile. "Burn it. The boy comes with me to Dorne. Bittersteel will be forced to offer support, lest his younger brother heads the van."

In the evening, with the setting sun fallen over the sea, the great hall of Dragonstone came alive. The once-empty citadel had been made full, with long tables covered in fine tapestries of crimson and coal, bearing the black dragon. The walls lined themselves heavy with alight sconces, the rest of the room made bright by the hanging chandeliers bearing a great many candles. The meals on offer had been of a fine make, though notably of the sea thick with the taste of salt.

Aegon supped on his wine, as was his way of late. He rose when the servers left, having freshly placed the main meal upon their plates. A great big fish. In a doublet of black and crimson, bearing his own pendant of a silvery dragon, Aegon brushed a falling strand of hair behind his ear. The room fell quiet.

"His Grace has spoken," flatly decreed Aegon, "Dorne is to be brought to heel and returned to the Seven Kingdoms, and I have been given charge of it. Though His Grace would call us hounds of war that hunger for another battle, another war, more blood and steel. To that, I say let us show him the reason as to why: for we are so good at it!"

I ought not to make mention of the exile, mused Aegon, lest their faith waver.

"Feast tonight, my friends, and come the turn of the moon, with our ships and our armies, we will descend upon the sands and strike first blood."

It was in the early hours of the evening that the Princess called upon Ser Olyvar Dondarrion.

Lord Olyvar, now.

It was dinnertime. Most oft, it was shared amongst the family in a feast, but tonight’s dinner was a far more private affair. The Princess deemed that it ought to be the two of them, as they’d shared so many nights like this together before. It was the edges of the garden, in a private place hidden behind several hedges. The Princess had ordered such; the words that she said tonight ought never to be heard.

And mayhaps I’ll root out the spies in my own keep, this time.

Regardless, there had been several platters set out, a case of wine, and more. The air was warm, from the south, tonight, so the Princess dressed as the weather allowed. In a warm, if suitably fine garment, with black and red and violet accents. Her hair was loose, and tonight—she didn’t know what she wanted tonight to be.

She just wanted his counsel.

The Marches | Horn Hill | 4th Moon, 266AC

There was an abrupt transition back into Tarly lands just two days after their departure from Highgarden. Even in the onset of winter, the open fields along the mander were still verdant and green, some still being tilled for another harvest before the frost crept further south. Trees were gently bent by warm gusts of wind, and the road before them held no secret bends or twists, just a few more days of riding to the second-greatest city in Westeros.

It all gave way to hard marcher country once the small wagon train turned eastwards, the same countryside that Lord Tarly had grown up in. The paved and well-traveled Roseroad became cobbled, twisting and winding to fit between the rising hills that would become the Red Mountains of Dorne in just a few hundred leagues.

Although they had sat in comfort inside their family’s wheelhouse, Lord Erryk was swift to climb atop his personal horse and head the traveling party himself once they were in familiar territory. It wasn’t a secret as to what had called him out of the carriage - his shrewd gaze roamed over the poor state of the infrastructure, especially when a horse nearly broke its ankle in a pit between cobbled stone, and the waystations that had been built in his grandfather’s time had fallen into a state of disrepair.

“It’s been a short twenty years since my father was buried, and already, his mark is eroding,” Erryk had said to one of his men-at-arms, “Already, his mark is eroding. We’ve gone soft, gone fallow.”

The second day had gone without commentary from Lord Tarly, but he still rode at the head of the wagon once they’d broken camp and scrambled the horses into formation again. He’d stopped the train nearly five separate times to inspect things as small as a lamppost by the wayside, or to flag down a passing patrol to inquire to their sightings. He hadn’t anticipated much to be amiss, but it was abundantly clear his vigilance was in all things, not just the inter-politics of his peers at Harrenhal and Highgarden.

Horn Hill was a welcome sight at the end of the road, nestled squatly between three low slopes of trees and thickly-wooded. The last light of the day cast long shadows eastwards, magnifying the scope and scale of the abundant forests flanking either side of the road. Once they were close enough to single out the huntsmen on their green banners atop their walls, a hunting horn blared three equally-spaced times but not from the castle ahead.

The sound of the horn had scattered a flight of birds from the forest, but then it gave way to the barking of several floppy-eared hounds that emerged from the brush with tails wagging and tongues flopping from their jaws. A handful of household woodsmen emerged behind them, one pair even carrying a strung-up deer on a pole between them, while the castellan himself brought up the rear.

“Good sport, Uncle?” asked Erryk. He strode up to Franklyn Tarly and tightly clasped his arm, “Could be your last if the snows come soon.”

“The weak game hides away in the frost, the real challenges will be left behind for stronger men to take,” the older man gruffly replied. He went about the wagon with Erryk at his side, making acquaintances of his great nephew and some of the staff that had traveled with them before lifting the same hunting horn to his lips and blaring it in a single resounding dirge that echoed through the valley. At once, the portcullis to Horn Hill itself was raised, and welcomed its ruling family again with open arms, if only for a short while.

Later, the same deer had been butchered, seasoned, and roasted on a great spit of metal. While its aromas filtered through the halls of the castle, Erryk and his uncle took an early seat in the dining hall to discuss the events and proceedings of Harrenhal, in addition to Erryk’s long-winded exposition about his future plans for the cultivation of his family’s lands. Neither his wife or his son went to meet him at first, Melora called on Maester Boremund to pen her letters she had been pondering over since their departure from Harrenhal, and Harmond retired for a much-needed bath.

Each of them sorely felt the absence of those who had moved on, whether to the Stranger’s side or attending other courts abroad.

##<Rickard Sarwyck, Lord of Riverspring>

###Player Information

Reddit Username: Cpkeyes

Discord Username: Scrubaverse

Alternate Characters:

###Character Information

Character Name: Rickard Sarwyck

**Age: 32 **

Title(s): Lord of Riverspring

Appearance: Handsome in a martial way, brown hair with a short beard. ((Your character’s physical appearance. Either provide a faceclaim or describe their physical appearance including their eye color, hair color, complexion and build at the very least.))

Starting Location: Riverspring

Trait: Strong

Skill Point Pool: 19

Attributes:

Skills: Weapon Proficient: Polearms and Swords. Marshaling, Siegecraft, Field Commander, Commerce

Mastery:Field Commander

###History

Rickard is the one of two children from the late Lord Sarwyck, a man who was often more concerned with his eccentric tastes than lordship; leaving the affairs of state to Rickard's aunt, who has since passed, long before her brother. When Rickard came of age, a fresh knight, he came back to a holding in dissolution, plagued by bandit's and disloyal vassal's; as well as a senile father who was more concerned with the status of his collection than his own home. Earlier than expected, Rickard took over as Lord in all but name, making his name driving off the bandits with his sword arm and forcing the vassals into compliance. However, while his military mind was sharp and his sword arm strong, Rickard found himself witless when it came to intrigue and improving the life of his people.

He requested that his twin brother; Henry, a maester of the Citadel be put under his service, and after some favors, manage to get them to agree. They reunited with a hug, a bond reforged after years of separation. Henry set forth to help manage the estate, while Rickard put his efforts towards much more physical matters.

As one, they have managed to bring some semblance of respect to House Sarwyck, and Rickard plans to further his house's fortunes in Dorne.

(Rickard is unmarried)

###Family

Henry Sarwyck: Twin Brother, Maester. Charles: Cousin, Master of Arms.

Marian: Cousin, married to another Lord.

4th Moon, 266 AC

Harrenhal

At the tail end of a five-day ride, a hundred men approached Harrenhal from the direction of the Kingsroad. At their head, Janos Brax sat astride a grey-dappled palfrey in a sturdy breastplate and riding clothes, a thick traveling cloak thrown over his shoulders to keep out the worst of the chill and damp. Still, his breath frosted in the mid-morning air as they approached Black Harren's folly, and icy dew clung to his beard and steamed around his mount's flaring nostrils.

He ordered a halt a quarter-mile from the castle's eastern gates, taking ten men ahead as an honor guard. As always, the twin pennants of Hornvale and the Knight Inquisitor rode with him, though no wind blew off the slushy, half-iced morass of the Gods' Eye, and so the banners hung slack and limpid in the cold, heavy air. They reined in before the gatehouse, and Janos' eyes scanned the battlements, spying movement on the walls bearing the devilish sigil of House Bittersteel.

"I am Ser Janos Brax," he called after a long moment of silence. "Knight Inquisitor of the king's justice, leal servant of King Aenys II Blackfyre and his hand, Lord Baelon Bittersteel. It is on their business that I come here - I would speak with the castellan of this keep, or whomever else may speak with Lord Bittersteel's authority. I would also beg stabling and a place for my men to find rest, as our journey has been long."

The activities had been subdued to say the least. For all the things planned nothing had been set, rather Archibald had left a few days for the nobles to mingle, while keeping himself hidden.

That is until the summons came, for all those there and welcomed, the Lords and Ladies would find themselves receiving a summons, to a smaller solar within the expanse of Yronwood itself, sparse food was there, as was drink. This obviously was not the feast or even a hint which was promised.

Instead this was a meeting, and everyone’s place at the table carefully picked.

The table itself was round to allow visage across the whole expanse itself , and in the center of it- a map of Dorne.

At where Yronwood sat, the seat opposite was occupied by Archibald himself. He stood when they entered, and once done, he nodded once to the man at the door.

“Let none in, or out until we have concluded our business this day.” His command was soft, but the weight was in Archibald’s words.

“I apologize for my scarcity.”, he began.

“I have been a poor host, but a proper planner.” And as such he motioned all to sit before he would do so as well.

“Many of us still bare scars, and old wounds. Torn and rent. Our families have suffered, even if in quiet peace we have had some reprieve. We can forgive perhaps, but not forget.”

And so Archibald reached over and took a sip Of wine.

“Our land is still scarred, not united and the flesh and bone which makes Dorne alive cannot re-knit and truly heal until disease and infection is purged. To this we must be the Maesters, and set about the proper course.”

Eyes traveled to those assembled.

“Of this, I speak of purging the venom, and finally taking our homeland back.”

He would let the words sit.

“This is something I cannot do alone, nor should we stomach. The time has come to bring war to the Martells once more, no matter what peace our King loves, there can be no peace while traitors and enemies lie in Sunspear.”

It was two days ago now, that a snowfall had landed on King's Landing. A light dusting, mind you, akin to one of the king's cooks spreading powdered sugar atop a cake, and it had dissapeared from the streets and rooftops with the same swiftness as the slices of such a cake at a banquet. To Maris Bracken, it was a reminder nevertheless, that her favorite season was coming to an end.

Everyone loved summer, from kings down to the rabble of Flea Bottom, yet for a hunter there was no finer season than the fall, when the game was plentiful and the night air cold and crisp. Under such conditions one could hunt further afield, and bring back more kills without needing to worry about their meat rotting under the sun. Every season began with the echo of the one that came before it, and so the gods had given them another couple of months of fall. Winter was indeed coming, but it was a ponderous beast, still plodding down from the icy crags of the Vale and the wind-swept plains of the North. She thanked the gods for that, as she affixed a quiver of arrows to Hawthorne's saddlebag and prepared to enjoy the last sliver of autumn.

For ladies there were riding-gowns when one needed to travel, but for a hunt she had chosen a different garment. The caftan was of dornish origin, but had spread through the marches and made its way up the Kingsroad. since the days of Daeron the first if not even earlier. They could be just about any length and make, and so she wore a rust-red one trimmed with fur which went down to her knees and canvas breeches on her legs, atop woolen hose. With a bow and a boar-spear strapped to her saddlebags, Maris was ready to make for the river gate, beyond which lay the Kingswood, and the hunt

Joss had realized quite suddenly upon his arrival at Summerhall that it was a place for dragons, not for beetles.

Shellbury was a cozy castle, as best described. It was tucked amidst the northern hills of the Westerlands, just south of Ironman's Bay. Under House Banefort, House Bettley had seen a simple life. Ironborn were not so much a worry, always halted by Banefort ships or Seagard's efforts to the north-east, and so the four tower castle of Shellbury had nothing to worry about in its seclusion. Aside, of course, from the occasional infestation. In the lower levels, especially those of the prisons, beetles were known to seep in through the walls. Wardens, he had playfully called them when he was little, whenever a bandit or two had been thrown in the cells. It was always an exciting time when his father was called to make his judgements. So few things ever happened in Shellbury.

Summerhall was quite the opposite. The Princess had built herself a court here, it seemed, and the castle itself, even technically a vacation palace for the long defeated House Targaryen, was more grand and important than Shellbury had been since its inception; perhaps more grand than Shellbury ever would be. Joss, perhaps foolishly, thought otherwise, but he did like to dream, especially of engineering since his time in the Citadel of Old Town. And Summerhall had no shortage of technical wonders, with tapestries and archways and sculptures and balconies all hewn from metal as if they were made of glass blown and shaped in dragonfire.

Perhaps it was a fire of some kind, Joss thought to himself as he walked down one of Summerhall's many passageways. There was an innate heat here, a heat of many facets, if one was careful enough to notice. First there was the heat of comradery. Men and women from across the kingdoms had gathered here, eagerly awaiting the pleasantries the old halls presented them. Lords and ladies and knights and all other men and women, all eager for a chance at grandeur.

Second, there was the ambient heat of the castle, the many sconces and torches that lit up the interior of Summerhall itself. Joss wondered just how long they'd been burning, just how many revelries and arguments and secrets and boasts these coal beds had heard. He'd heard that the great castle of Winterfell in the North had a heat running through it - steam from nearby springs, if he recalled correctly - and he felt a similar warmth. It seemed to run efficiently in the castle, just enough to keep one toasty and content.

The last heat was the hardest to notice, and yet, Joss figured, it was certainly the most common. It was the heat of ambition, resting in each and every heart of the men and women of this castle. No one found themselves in a Princess' court by accident. Everyone wanted something here, and though Joss had been friendly and pleasant where he was expected to be, he knew this place for what it was. A competition. A tournament ground. His brother had his melees, and Joss had the palace interiors of Summerhall.

He could not think of his brother long these days.

The last heat was one Ser Joss Bettley occupied himself with, moving with a steady clop of his cane, the polished white stone echoing his coming for all those close enough to hear it. In his hand he clutched a simple ointment, something he'd acquired after noticing something the Princess had not been trying to hide. He was curious to its origins, to its meaning. The ointment, he hoped, would be a key to a door, behind which he hoped waited knowledge. He liked learning things, and he especially liked being confided in.

Eventually, Joss came upon the Princess' chambers. It was evening, the castle having already supped, but Joss had chosen a time that was not too egregiously late. Just late enough, he hoped, for privacy.

The castle may have been home to dragons, but this beetle was determined to seep into its walls.

A quiet step in an empty hall.

The light tapping of padded feet.

Summerhall was quiet at this time of night, and for good reason. The Princess was up well-past the hours of night where she’d usually sleep. There was dim lights lining the corridors marking her way, to a place where she knew someone would be waiting for her.

Daena wore her hair tied back. She styled herself without drama or flair. Her wear was one made for the night, and the elicit dangers it entailed. The robe was of pure black, no jewelry, and no accents. No makeup either, which was rare for her. She was demure and mindful in a way that few other Blackfyres could truly grasp.

Some of those closest to her knew, of course, of her plans for the night. That was why the corridors were empty tonight. It was why, in these halls, there was only silence. Candles flickered and burnt, dancing shadows across opposite walls.

Daena found her query’s room, opened the door slowly.

She knew Rhaella Bittersteel must be sleeping. A part of her did not care. She could not sleep. It wasn’t fair, but Daena could think of no time better. The hour of the wolf. When Rhaella awoke, she’d find Daena looking at her in the door way, an almost ghost-like figure in the lighting of Summerhall behind her.

Her eyes were on Rhaella the entire time—wordless.

No words need be said for the implicit command.

The Kingsguard paced outside The King's chambers. He knew that his thoughts could be enough for execution or manning The Wall in black feathers. Yet, This had to come off his chest. Only two years in service and his mind has become restless. Could he really do this? Was this worth the risk? Living another day without knowing the possibilities would be too much on him. With a deep breath, he knocked on the doors of The King.

"Your Grace, may I speak with you?" Dayne questioned from the other side. If allowed entrance, The Dornishman would push open the doors before closing them behind him. "I've... have a favor- No... I want you to hear my perspective within The White Cloak.." The Knight met the similar color eyes of The King. "When I was young, my father sent me to attend a tourney. During that tourney, I didn't do amazing, nevertheless, The King granted me a chance at the cloak." The Kingsguard started to speak in third-person to deflect the stress on his words. "The young man's sister, who was next in line for ruling, was fragile. Born with weak bones. An easy target for greedful men. He thought that The King's favor could keep his sister protected from any harm. Yet, harm might be soon to come as war is forming. He gave up a betrothal to a young Vyrwel to wear the cloak. The choice he accepted would be one he would come to regret." The Silver Star let out an exhausted sigh as he removed his milky blade from his back and planted it on the ground. One of his knees missing the stone flooring as his head hangs low.

"I know... A Kingsguard Oath is for life and I've signed my life away when I took the vows... I doubt I'm the first to have these thoughts... still..." He remained in silence as he gathered the will to speak the words that might be his undoing. "I wish to marry, have children, raise them into strong and gentle Lords and Ladies. I want to be able to spend time with my family. Protect them from any war that sits on their borders. I don't expect anything to change... I want to live my life... to its fullest. A life... without regrets." The Dornishman closed his eyes, he might have closed his ears if he could. "No matter If you call for my head, send me to wear inky furs at the wall, or refuse what I'm suggesting. I will be an unwavering servant of The Crown... as I always have."

Lord Ormund Penrose pens a pair of letters at Storm's End following the council held there, one to the Master of Laws at King's Landing and one to Lord Torgon Massey at Stonedance. They take flight on ravens soon after.

Letter to Massey TBD whenever the Baratheon letter gets a response

Awaiting the summit at Yronwood, Lady Dyanna reclined in the courtyard, surrounded by tapestries and silks that fluttered in the breeze. Her fingers deftly worked away sewing strips of suede and leather. Her ebony hair cascaded like a silken waterfall down her back. An exquisite amethyst piece, a gift from her dear brother, graced her locks, emitting a subtle iridescence in the dappled sunlight.

At Dyanna's side, Jynessa rested on a sumptuous array of cushions, plucking succulent violet grapes with an elegant finesse.

"My lady, what thoughts occupy your mind?" Jynessa inquired, savouring the sweetness of the fruit.

Dyanna turned to her with a smile, her eyes glistening as she confided to her handmaiden. "I am just fashioning a small token for someone special," she confessed in a gentle voice.

"A special someone, you say? It seems you have caught the eye of many admirers at the Harrenhal festivities, my lady."

Dyanna giggled, working the supple leather and suede with nimble fingers. "Bold Tristifer Fowler, always stealing glances," Dyanna blushed, "He seems quite taken with me. And I have admired him for so long."

Jynessa raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eye. "Aye, I saw the way he looked at you when we arrived here at Yronwood. But what of the Stormlander? He made quite an impression at the feast, did he not?"

"The Stormlander? Oh yes." Dyanna's purple eyes gleamed mischievously. "Indeed, Lord Grandison is a splendid dancer and has expressed a keen interest in seeing me again."

Jynessa nodded knowingly. "The boldness of the Stormlanders is legendary. They do not shy away from pursuing what they desire."

Dyanna's laughter then rang out melodiously. "I, for one, find it rather appealing, do you not agree?"

The two friends continued to chatter, surrounded by intricately painted pottery and an array of fresh fruit, as Dyanna and Jynessa delved deeper into intriguing conversation.

Roelle sat, as she often did, alone. Atop the gates of Nightsong, dangled her legs off the edge and watched the sun set. This was where she sat when she was told of her betrothal to the young Lord of Gulltown. And then again, when she had been told that Ser Bryndemere was bound for the Wall, instead of the Sept. In truth, she should have hated this spot, a number of the worst of her days had taken place where she now resided.

But she couldn't bring herself to. It was a good spot, quiet.

It was also where the servants, pages, squires and smallfolk knew that they could find her. Whether calling up to her from the gate, or sneaking their way past her Lord Brother's men-at-arms to sit with her, as Sara "Sweet" had done now. The blonde woman sat close to Roelle, her hands folded politely in her lap.

"I do wish you had been able to tell me of my brother's arrival." Roelle murmured to her companion. "In all these years, you've done much better of keeping me apprised of such things."

Sara averted Roelle's gaze. Despite Roelle's insistences, the lowborn woman still could not make eye contact, but she still spoke with confidence. "In truth, several of the dockworkers in Weeping Town had seen him, and his strange, Red Priest. They... Simply did not recognize him, as such."

Roelle sighed, she glanced back to the smithy, where Endrew was continuing to hammer away with futility. Her brother had come back short a hand and his spirit, she feared. He looked haunted, and acted with the sort of simmering rage she'd always associated with Hewett. She missed her brother, even after he was brought back to her.

"Do we have word of what's occurred in Storm's End?"

"Not quite, My Lady." Sara bowed her head. "The Stag brought a great many lords in, but either the gossip is not particularly interesting enough to spread, or secrecy was enforced on the servants who witnessed it."

"Good news then, almost certainly." Roelle sighed, her shoulders slumping. Her gaze continued out over the fields, until she saw riders approaching. Slowly, she stood, offering a hand down to Sara, who took it and rose alongside her, Roelle clutched the girl's hand in an instinctive, protective gesture, before stepping down from the gatehouse. The riders came from the direction of Valorhold.

No doubt these next couple moons would be entirely too exciting.