We’d like to invite you all to r/AfterTheDance, the newest iteration and successor to r/CenturyOfBlood, r/SevenKingdoms and r/IronThronePowers. Set over 150 years before the start of the books and TV show, see Westeros in the smouldering ashes of the largest civil the Iron Throne has seen.

Set after the Dance of the Dragons where Targaryen turned on Targaryen as dragons clashed with dragons, the Seven Kingdoms remain in shambles. A smouldering mess. Following the end of the fighting and the Hour of the Wolf, Aegon III Targaryen, just a boy, sits atop the Iron Throne. The old guard is dead and in its place a new generation rules Westeros.

r/AfterTheDance is a text-based role playing game set entirely on Reddit. Take the role of a Lord, knight or merchant. Explore Westeros recovering from war, and a new era dawns filled with romance, intrigue, adventure, brotherhood and betrayal.

You can read more about our setting in the setting document below and while not necessary, join us on Discord to ask questions, socialise, make friends and talk about the roleplay and sub!

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[M:] Was bored, wanted to do some ASOIAF writing again. Been thinking of doing this post for years, so here we go

##Grey Garden, Harlaw Island

####Many years later

When the old man tried to rise from the seat at the end of the Great Hall, bony limbs trembled from exertion, as if threatening to snap if he pushed too hard. The sleeves that covered them had once been sewn to fit, with silver scrollwork etched along the cuffs in the style of the High Courts in faraway lands. Now, they were too large, bagged, and frayed on the edges from years of use. It was not an issue of coin, but sheer stubborness, pride, the reason why the man persisted on his lonesome.

Most averted their eyes, long accustomed to the sight. There were those who pitied the man, but their offers of assistance were always met with annoyed glances and curt rejections. Those that lacked compassion often had more than enough to spare in disdain. Men did not oft live this long on the Iron Islands, and no few folk were of the mind that such were the bearings of a sedentary life spent in comfort.

After all, who had ever heard of a hero that did not die in glorious battle?

Well, there was the greatest of them all, to start, but Bennarion found that critics liked to conveniently forego any mention of the Grey King or his thousand-year long reign while drunkenly bemoaning their lord by the hearth.

His grandfather, the Lord of Grey Garden.

Finally, the old lord had broken free him his chair, and after a few hobbled steps, regained his composure well enough to accept his sealskin cloak from the maester. The blade, Lord Joseran picked up himself from where it had rested against his throne. Even sheathed, the moonstone pommel was unmistakable from where Ben stood, but he did not have time to dwell on that before his grandsire passed him by, expecting him to follow.

Thin or no, the sands of time had never been able to successfully assail Harlaw's height. If anything, his lankiness only made the old man seem taller, and Ben wasn't exactly short himself, not like his father had been.

The moment the pair stepped outside, he bitterly regretted not retrieving his own cloak. A gush of wind blew into his face, and not long after that, he began to feel the cold seep through his layers of wool. If grandfather was freezing, he showed no sign of it as he trudged onto the path servants had cleared of snow.

It had snowed earlier in the morning, but thankfully not enough to cover the road entirely. To think that Ben had once dreamt of winter, hoping to taste the flakes upon his tongue, or make snow knights with his brothers. Now, there was nothing he would not do for the hellish cold to pass.

Gods, he missed pears from the Reach.

"Boy?" A gravely voice broke through his thoughts like a pike.

Ben blinked, turning to face his grandfather, who was looking down on him with an unreadable expression. Had he asked something?

"Erm, come again?" Ben tried with a weak smile, feigning the same innocence that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count. Now that he was nineteen, not so much.

The old Lord sighed, then resumed his trudge through the mud-and-snow covered courtyard. In the distance, master Aldrik was yelling at two boys while repeatedly pointing at a pack of goats brought in to be sold or slaughtered. What he was saying was lost in the wind, but Ben made a note of asking around for later.

"I asked," grandfather began slowly, glancing back to make sure Ben was paying attention this time before he continued, "What you thought of master Breakiron's proposal to open a new forge at Gull's Respite."

The young Harlaw grimaced. Torgon Breakiron had mentioned something earlier, but he had quickly tuned the man out when the servants arrived with bread fried in bacon grease. Politics was a tardy subject for someone on an empty belly.

Still, this seemed an easy enough matter.

"It... seems wise, grandfather," Ben started slowly, pretending to contemplate the query gravely as he hugged himself in a bid to preserve some modicum of warmth.

"More forges means more iron being worked at once, no?" He glanced at the man for approval, and when the man narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, Ben was quick to add, "Not to mention that Torgon has been a leal subject to you. I can't think of any instance where he's done you wrong."

"Nor one where he's done anything above the bare minimum as required by our laws," Joseran said with a sigh. Whatever he was looking for, Ben had clearly failed to deliver on. Still, he smiled. "Do not confuse complacency with loyalty, or you'll find yourself lauding every fisherman and sailor on Harlaw for performing their duties."

"It needn't be a reward then, but something to make things more efficient," the younger Harlaw tried again. "A commission."

"Will the Tormarks see it as such, who see every move in Torgon's favour as a slight upon their name? Rivalry runs deep between the two families, and they will expect something of equal value in return."

This gave Bennarion pause, but his grandfather said nothing. For a while, they walked in silence, boots crunching against freshly-fallen snow as they neared the main keep. Dark stone clashed against light as generations of masters of Grey Garden had expanded their castle, stone by stone.

"The Tormarks are barely even nobility. Greenlanders at heart, I hear they're even building a sept. Who cares what they think?" Ben muttered finally.

"The Tormarks do, as do the lords on the mainland. They may be of insignifcant status now, but the followers of the Seven do not take kindly to attacks on their people."

"Like House Graves?" Ben asked. The details were foggy, but he remember grandfather making mention about some incident in the old man's youth when Lord Greyjoy had come to blows with Lord Graves. A Harlaw of Grey Garden had served as Steward of the Iron Islands back then, he seemed to recall.

"Just like them. The Isles would have faced a full-fledged invasion, had cooler heads not prevailed in the end," Lord Harlaw said, nodding at the guardsmen warming themselves by a fire. One reluctantly rose from his 'post' to open the door to the keep on his lord's behalf.

The interior was warmer than the exterior, but not by much. The halls of old Grey Garden keep had long been dark and cold, but at least they weren't suffering the Storm God's gales now.

"But... The Graves are lords, you gave Tormark their tower to watch over. It still belongs to you, can't you just revoke it if they decide to disrespect you?"

Something akin to a chuckle crossed with someone choking on a fishbone escaped the old Lord's lips.

"The Lords of the Rivers, Rock and Reach have risen against us for less. The Tormarks have their place, Bennarion, and so does this conversation. Forges, not war," Joseran spoke casually, yet intent on steering the topic back to its roots.

"Why is a forge such a big deal anyway? There's so many of them, even smallfolk use them to make their nails and axes," Ben shrugged, following the old man into a small room.

One with a lit hearth, praise the Drowned God. The room was reserved for private dinners between family members, but at this hour, it was just the two of them. Grandfather shrugged off his cloak and plopped down onto a fur-cushioned chair by the fire. From his expression, one would've assumed that he was finally home after a decade-long journey to the lands in the east, but maybe that was just the ravages of time.

"Not just any forge, lad," Joseran noted with eyes closed, one finger caressing the moonstone pommel of his blade. "One capable of forging castle-forged steel, and in high quantity. That is rare on the Isles, largely reserved for her lords, and among those in my land, only the Tower of Glimmering has such access."

"Then surely there'd be no harm in letting the Tormarks and Breakirons open their own forges? We'd make more silver, surely?" Ben asked.

"In time, we would, but we'd lose the support of the Tower of Glimmering in the process, and through them, likely the other Harlaws as well. Opening forges at Gull's Respite and Tormark would cut into their trade severely, as both their keeps are located closer to trading routes with the Greenlands. It would elevate Tormark's status, which would no doubt enrage the priests, who think I've already been too kind simply letting them live. I'm of no mind to let another Shrike rise up."

Now it was Ben's time to sigh. How could anyone in their right mind bother with politics? Little wonder that his ancestors of old had preferred sailing and reaving over such annoying matters.

"So then, now that you finally have begun to understand some of the reasons as to why it's not as simple as do this or do that, do you have any thoughts?" The Lord of Grey Garden inquired patiently with a bemused smile, opening his eyes to meet Ben's.

Truth be told, he didn't. He wanted to talk about anything but rulership, but the old man wouldn't let him out of his net once thrown.

"I don't-..." Ben shrugged, exasperated. "If you can't give the Breakirons a forge, why not expand your own? You're the Lord, they can't speak up without questioning your authority."

Joseran's smile grew.

"Better, close, but not quite on the mark. Still, you're learning to think like a lord, which is good. Better yet, when my dusty bones are finally offered to the sea, I won't have to worry about the future Lord of Grey Garden sailing straight into a problem, expecting it solve itself. Gods have mercy on your father, but sometimes I would worry that the Storm God had stolen the insides of his head and filled it with fog in its place."

Both of them laughed - Joseran heartily with that gravel-like hoarse voice of his, and Ben softly. They said laughter was the best cure, but there was still a throng of pain thinking about his father. Sometimes, he liked to think that he was still alive out there somewhere, reaving the lands to the west, perhaps even as the king of some sunny island with dusky women and strong thralls. It was childish, he knew, but also comforting.

"I'll do my best not to disappoint, grandfather," Ben promised, though he felt doubtful about making that vow.

"You won't, and you haven't so far, Bennarion," Joseran replied, dismissing the young Harlaw's doubts as if he had read his mind like a book.

There was a sudden thud as something hit the ground, and it took Ben a moment to realize that it was Joseran's sheath. The flames' warm light was visible in the moonstone pommel's reflection, but the blade was as it always was - ebon black, with only the faintest signs of ripples visible that gave it away for what it was - Valyrian Steel.

"I've forgotten how long it's been since Nightfall came into my possession," Joseran murmured to no one in particular. "Two-and-seventy years, perhaps? I was a child back then, forced to hide it after my father died fighting knights on the Arbor. No one ever came to claim it, but I've clung to it like the only safe port in a storm. No one, not even Theoderic, fierce as he was when he slew that Botley man, has held Nightfall in all those years, but I am long past the days of fighting. Not even my eldest..."

Joseran held out the sword. "Take it."

Ben blinked, staring at the blade. "What?"

"Just take the damn sword before I cast it into the sea, and don't think I won't do it, I've considered it over the years," the man said impatiently, waggling the sword like he was tempting a dog with a piece of meat.

More than a little confused, Ben reached out to take the sword from his grandfather. Its lightness came as a surprise, though he'd heard that Valyrian Steel was spellforged.

"I don't know what to say," Bennarion said wide-eyed, raising the blade up to get a closer look.

"The blade has seen many hands. Dalton the Red Kraken, then Boremund Harlaw who took it from one of his salt-sons in the war that followed. Lord Harras Harlaw, who fought during the Blackfyre Rebellion, to Ser Harras the Knight, my grandsire. It was with me when I was raised to full Lordship from being a simple Master, but has collected dust ever since. Now it is your turn to add to its tale, and if nothing else, it'll serve you better than it does me. People can look away as much as they want, but it doesn't change that my strength is no longer with me, or that my days are soon numbered," Joseran chuckled, then coughed violently enough that Ben worried that the man was about to croak.

Thankfully, he soon stopped, albeit with a few sputters here and there. Muttering something unintelligible to himself, Lord Harlaw straightened in his chair.

"Well, much as I'd like to see you grovel and express your eternal thanks, you've better places you'd rather be, I'd imagine. Leave whenever you like, or stay for some ale by the fire. Either way, thank you for humoring me and my whims of nostalgia this morning, lad. You're a fine man, and a better one than I was at that age."

"You mean to tell me that there was a time when you weren't that old?" Ben japed lightly, then swallowed when he saw his grandfather's austere look with those piercing grey eyes. It seemed to last an eternity, and Ben wondered if the man was going to ask for his sword back when Joseran softened and grinned at him. Ben sighed in relief.

"Ah, you may have a glorified paperweight, but you're still a milksop when I want you to be," the old man said jovially. It was so rare to see him this energetic that Ben's annoyance quickly faded away.

"As you say, elder," Ben said with mock reverence, and leaned forward. "Do you have any other tales from your youth?"

"Did I ever tell you about how Theoderic wed his wife?"

"I... don't believe that you ever did. She was a Stonetree, wasn't she?"

"Aye, and it all began with a melee unlike any before. The number of lordlings wounded alone is worthy of a tale, but so much more transpired there, and to think that little Theoderic was at the centre of it all..."

Rogar looked down at the world from the top of the Wall. It had been years since he had led his army of suspiciously well-armed bears South and destroyed the Night’s Watch.

With the Watch gone, the Wildlings had assumed they could go South now.

They were wrong.

Rogar alone stood his lonely vigil, with only thousands upon thousands of overmuscled bears to keep him company. That, and the fire that had been his friend since childhood.

Decades passed.

Rogar, his beard billowing gloriously in the wind, stood atop Eastwatch down into the sea below. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This loneliness. He couldn’t bear it any longer.

A single MANLY tear rolling down his cheek, Rogar took a deep breath and addressed his loyal black brothers of the Bear Watch.

“Brothers! Long have we stood together. We took up arms against the false guardians, and we won. We chose to bear down on those wildling pretenders, and we won. We chose to bear witness to all eternity from atop this icy hellmouth, and we have won. Time itself is at an end. With me, my brothers! Bear no tears! We shall bear this burden no longer! With me, one last time!”

Rogar took a deep breath, snapped the neck of the nearest bear with a single blow, and suplexed another straight off the edge of the wall. On the way down, all anyone could hear was a single, defiant scream.

The sixth Moon of Aegon's three hundredth-and-forty-fourth year of conquest had not been a welcomed one.

Many from the Reach and surrounding Marches had came at the first call of what had befallen the ill Lord of Starpike as he lay plainly on this day. His skin pale and sickly, goosebumps still prickled against his skin as auburn hair which had one glowed with fire lay barren and fickle.

As much as Maeve Peake had tried to hold back the tears, they had fallen into full force as salty fingers littered her delicate cheeks. Curled up against Torvyn, she held to him as if it was life or death.

"Do you remember." The young Lord of Starpike asked Maeve sniffled. "When mother and father took us to Highgarden, I'd never felt so proud. To see the seat of our liege and to bathe in the glory of its fertile lands and peace, I'd never felt so honoured." He added.

"It's not the same!" She cried, the sadness of a thousand years filled her every thought, clouded by any joy she had once felt, "I wish we could all go back to how things once were."

"Me too, sister. Father once said that what made life special was that i-t."

"It didn't last forever, I know." She said, her nimble fingers holding tightly against his arm. Perhaps too tightly for his liking, yet it was not his place to deny her comfort.

"In my dreams, I see them both nearly every night, you know. Grandfather too."

Maeve's violet eyes glistened as a smile pursed from her delicate pink lips, she liked the thought of that.

"Each time I visit father's solar." He continued, "I still expect to see him there, mother too at his side. It's quite strange actually."

Maeve poked at his chest, "They're here. In our heart and soul to guide us, their stories and teachings will not leave us and one day we will see them again, with the mother and crone."

"Yes." He added as two septas begun to light the candles to the sept. Edric Peake, Lord of Starpike and Dunstonbury lay bare, two stones covered his eyes, yet were painted as his own. "I wish you hadn't witnessed what you had... nobody deserves to see that... nobody."

She shrugged, it didn't change what had happened. "Father loved her, no matter how difficult she would be. They'd know each other for nearly thirty years, you know."

Torvyn smiled, "I remember the tales he told. Of how he had met her at Summerhall, all those years ago. It's strange to think they were both younger than us once."

She laughed, though only a little. "Or the time that father and mother had spent time on Aegon's High Hill, skipping stones along the Blackwater Rush. They'd sneaked out that night but Grandfather hadn't caught on."

"Imagine if he had." He said with a smile. "I don't think he'd have acted too kindly to that."

"Probably not." She said, linking her arm with his.

The doors to the sept slowly etched open as guests begun to arrive. It was expected many would wish to see and pay respects to a great man. Each of the seven looked down upon Edric, yet in his dire state, the care and compassion of two siblings stayed strong.

"I wonder what he'll say to Aunt Elira." She continued.

"Come sister, let us take a horse and spend some time together, we can visit father later."

And with that, the two Peakes rode out of the holdfast, to adventure onwards into a land now forgotten by most.

#ACT V

Ashemark

"My Lord!"

The cry came from the other side of the barred door, startling Sierra as she huddled alongside her children. Lorent was pensive, one hand holding his mother's and the other wrapped around Aron, his younger brother. The younger boy was shivering despite the warm temperatures of the season, his hands upon his ears and his knees curled up to his chest. Sierra jolted in response to the sound of the guard's voice which in turn prompted Lorent to spin his head towards his mother and for Aron to let out a small yelp of terror.

"My Lord, my Lady, I have news of the battle."

The man called through again, this time adding small thumps on the door as he knocked none too gently. Sierra pulled her eldest son closer and muttered to herself, her voice a whisper as she repeated "no, no, no," under her breath. Lorent let his mother pull him close but stood as she wobbled back and forth in her entranced state. "Mother," he said quietly, pulling his mother's hand to place it upon Aron's knee. He then released himself from both and walked to the door, opening it slowly, its creaking hinges causing Aron to shudder even more.

"What is it?" he asked through the crack of the doorway, his empty eyes meeting the face of the guardsmen who had summoned him. "My Lord," the man said, the emphasis on the latter word obvious, "the battle is over, my Lord." Lorent tensed as the word was repeated over and over. He knew what was coming next. It was something he had thought over and over again. "So my father is dead," he said in response, his words even and monotonous. "Has my uncle requested an audience?"

"No, my Lord," the man responded, somewhat bewildered. "Your aunt has requested an audience. Your uncle was slain as well."

"My father was a fool."

The statement had come without urging or prompting of any sort. Lorent may have lacked sight but he understood full well the weight of his father's actions. He could grasp why Leyton had done what he did, what he refused to accept was that it was right. "I am not him," he said sternly as he turned to face his Aunt Joanna. "Nor am I my uncle," he continued as he turned to face Tarick Sarsfield. The victors had come to disenfranchise him and assert their influence upon a young blind Lord but he intended to give them no grounds upon which to do so. "I condemn my late uncle's actions and release your family to you," Lorent said, raising his voice such that his directive was clear. "I ask nothing in return save for your friendship." He cleared his throat and stood, gripping his small walking cane. "And Lord Gregor," he said, now in a much softer tone. "I admire your honor in aiding Damon. I understand that Damon's firstborn was to be wed to you granddaughter. Consider this proposal honored."

Lorent walked across the room slowly as he swept the floor with his cane. Coming to the door, he gripped the handle and opened it, beckoning the Lords out of his chambers. "My question," Joanna interrupted. "You haven't answered my question."

"I believe I have," Lorent said plainly. "I am not my father. Now leave me."

The next few days were uneventful as armies decamped and began their long trudges home. Word had been sent to The Crag of Damon's and Leyton's passing and the ascension of Lorent to the Lordship. Preparations were being made for a journey to Casterly Rock to request audience before the Lannisters, and things gradually returned to normal.

On the fourth day following the battle, a large force appeared on the horizon, its colors that of a red lion on a white field. Lord Fyne was ushered into the Great Hall as his army lingered outside. Lord Richano walked proudly towards the blind youth. "Congratulations my Lord," he said, greeting his liege with a bow. Lorent remained silent as he studied his vassal. "I have come to swear fealty," Richano continued, beginning to kneel.

"You would not be swearing fealty to me," Lorent said suddenly, firing back in a soft and cold voice. "If you had come but a few days earlier, I would not be in this seat." He breathed slow as he slowly and carefully picked his words. "If you had honored your pledge to my father, he would be alive today."

"We were delayed," came the Lord Fyne's reply. It was simple and unspecific, the man's eyes betraying nothing. His tone, however, was enough to brew a rage within Lorent. Taking a deep breath, he tilted his chin up and replied. "Then I shall delay my judgement of you, Lord Fyne. Take your army and return home. I have suffered enough armies lately." Without another word, Lorent stood and tottered out of the room, making his way slowly with his walking stick brandished before him.

Lorent sat in the study, his small legs just short of reaching the ground from his seat in Addam's commanding armchair. He replayed the events of recent weeks in his mind, sighing each time he noticed a fatal flaw in the plans of his father and uncle. He grimaced each time he was reminded of their impatience, their wroth, their unbridled hatred of each other. He did not lie when he told the others that he was nothing like either of them. He did not aspire to be them, he would not allow himself to be ruled so fully by emotions over reason. His fingers stopped fiddling as he let the object in his hands fall into his right palm. He gripped it tight and then then slid it between his finger and thumb, bringing it over to his left hand and slipping the sigil ring over his middle finger. Lorent stood and walked over to the door. He swung it open and called out for the maester, then traversed the room to settle into the seat behind the desk. The old man scurried in behind him with a small bundle of letters clutched to his chest.

"Are you ready, my Lord?" the maester asked as he set the papers down and pulled the top one off, clearing his throat to begin reading.

"Yes, let us begin."

#ACT IV

Ashemark

The hills around Ashemark seemed a mirror reflecting the sky above, the many fires of both camps flickering in the dark like stars which had fallen to the ground. The calm and quiet stirred a violent feeling within Leyton, his impatience wholly unable to withstand the long wait for the morning. Ser Arthur observed his master with amusement as Leyton paced back and forth across the battlements. The source of Leyton's anxiety, a small sprawl of light in the distance, was no worry to Arthur and it teased him in the most peculiar way that his Lord let such a small thing keep him from sleep. It was worth it, in Arthur's estimation, to trade a few hours of rest for a good laugh.

It was not long before Leyton burst out at Arthur, precisely the action the smiling knight had been waiting for. At the moment of outburst, the knight broke into a large grin and the laughter that rang in his own ears blocked out anything and everything Leyton had said. "Apologies my Lord," Arthur said through his closed smile, "I did not hear you. I was thinking. Of other things."

"He dares to come here!" Leyton shrieked again, he mailed fist coming down hard upon the stone wall. The dark hid his features well but Arthur could readily picture the red-faced Leyton, his skin blending in with the fire-red hair. The image drew forth a breathy chuckle from Arthur. "This is his home, after all," the knight replied, purposefully taunting Leyton to draw out the worst in him. "I suppose he will be rather disappointed to know you've given away his chambers."

Leyton seemed not to have heard Arthur's jests for he continued to pace, his one hand rubbing the other which had struck the wall. "We'll ride out to meet them," he muttered to himself. "We'll crush him in the field. He is outnumbered and outmatched. We have the Crakehalls, the Westerlings, the Serretts." He paused a moment before continuing. "The new Lord Lannister himself will bless my Lordship. Damon is a dead man." Arthur chuckled quietly again though this time Leyton turned to meet the man's gaze. He stared at the older knight, the feverish fury in his eyes demanding an explanation of Arthur. Arthur looked back lazily with his simple smile aimed back towards Leyton before standing up and turning away. As he made his way to the stairwell, he turned his head to his right, barely glancing over his shoulder. "We're all dead men, Leyton," he said with an obvious tone of glee in his voice. Without another sound, he disappeared down the steps.

The Gods had seen unfit to bless the day with warmth and the skies darkened with the coming of heavy clouds. There was no dampness in the air but instead a feeling of dread. The morning war council had been a somber affair as Damon dictated the formations and battle plan while all others listened dutifully and silently to his unwavering command. Even Lord Sarsfield stood quietly despite his earlier protests on the road to Ashemark. If any man had been more unfortunately caught between the warring Marbrand brothers, it was he. But the Gods gave no sympathy nor mercy. He was honor-bound now to march, even if Damon's means to make him do so were themselves dishonorable.

Lord Sarsfield sat atop his horse alongside the others. He wore the same face as Damon, Adrian, Tybolt, but inside his emotions ran far wilder than those of those three. As the trio of Leyton, Lyle, and Kegan Serrett all bore down towards them, the feelings of helplessness became pangs of frustration. He had pledged himself to the elder Marband only for Damon to steal away his ability to choose. How could he, after all, when bandits had their blades pressed to his family's throats? He withheld a scowl as the three riders came to a stop. As he gazed from Kegan to Lyle, Tarick found himself unable to meet Leyton's eyes. Instead he looked down towards his reins gripped tightly in his hands. Already he had pledged himself to this man, but now withdrew that oath to serve Damon. He tried to convince himself there was no shame in this, that the lives of his sons Tommen and Tyland were worth this sacrifice, this breaking of his word. He tried.

The grey and windy day seemed to fit the occasion rather well as the seven men met together in the tent that had been pitched in the land between the two arrayed forces. The air hung heavy with tension and hatred as the two brothers stared each other down the others waited, their eyes hovering back and forth between Damon and Leyton, their breaths held tight as they anticipated the shattering of the silence. It was Leyton who spoke first, his words lashing out violently against the backdrop of the gloomy day.

"Surrender," he said simply, his eyes still locked with Damon's. "Surrender and I will not have your wife drawn and quartered. I will even let you," he broke eye contact and pointed at Tarick, "live despite your dishonor." The last word came out with a sputter as though it were spat out at the ground in front of the Sarsfield man. "You'll get no better terms than this."

Damon breathed in rapid breaths as he looked within himself for the words to respond. "You're a fucking idiot," he managed after a moment's hesitation. "You're a fucking coward, and I will fucking kill you."

"This is the company you keep now?" the deep voice of Lyle boomed out towards his son. "You have renounced your name and taken up arms with this scoundrel?" The large man shook visibly as he spoke, saliva shooting out from his mouth with every exasperated word. Tybolt remained stoic, the years of his exile having taught him the harsh lessons of his father's vitriol. "Is Rodrik with you?" he asked calmly. Lyle gave no answer and Tybolt continued after a brief pause. "I did not abandon you, father. You left me. I serve Lady Brax now." As calmly as he spoke, he turned his horse around and departed for Damon's lines. He had hoped it would have gone better but inside he had known there was no other way.

Damon turned to follow his cousin, ignoring the rambling response of his brother and behind him both Adrian and Tarick followed. "Do you think-" Adrian asked, before being cut off by Damon's raised hand. "They have. I know it." The mad shouts of Leyton faded behind them as they rejoined their army, finally ready to give battle.

Never before had Adrian felt so wholly encumbered as he did now. Even upon his horse, the steel armor felt heavier than any set he had ever wore. He stared ahead at Damon and past his liege towards the amassed lines before them. A cacophony of colors and banners comprised Leyton's lines. He could not make out the commanders but he knew they would not be at the forefront of the force anyways. The Strongboar might, and who knew what the Serrett man was capable of, but Leyton? Leyton would be tucked away securely behind a legion of his best. The thought made Adrian grind his teeth for but a moment. Among those loyal bodyguards would be many knights he had trained with, learned from, fought alongside. And Ser Arthur. His only relief was knowing that Ser Lothar was not among Leyton's loyal, that Ser Lothar had departed from this world before he saw the schism of House Marbrand. Adrian gripped the reins tightly as he wondered whether he was doing his old mentor proud or if he had betrayed everything Lothar had taught him to stand for. It didn't matter now though, did it?

What had once been enthusiasm had long since faded into desperation hours ago. The unicorn of House Brax still flew high above the mass of steel-clad men but it no longer conveyed the same inspiration. The din of battle surrounded Tybolt as he rushed up and down the line shouting encouragement to the men and, when necessary, jumping in to lend his strength. The rightmost Brax lines still held though they had given significant ground. The line of brown shields and gleaming spearheads never stopped coming, however, and even Tybolt felt exhausted from the seemingly endless struggle. Skirmishes along the far edge of the Brax flank had been brutal as lightly armored men tried to outflank each other. The swirl of swords and javelins filled the air, the sky above them screaming as volleys of arrows cut through the air. It was only a matter of time, Tybolt knew, before the veteran Crakehall men would wear them down and break his lines. "Onward!" he shouted as he lifted his sword into the air. "Push!"

Rollam Westerling had fixated upon the battle in the distance and watched carefully, studying the tactics of the two forces. The battle showed no particular talent on either side, both Marbrands committing to a contest of skill of arms which quickly devolved into a battle of attrition. The sea of metal waved back and forth as men fell and blood spilled. He was still focused on the fight when the alarm was sounded down the ranks, a sudden horn sounding off to startle him back to his surroundings.

"Attack!" a rider shouted as he blitzed down the Westerling lines. A mix of seashell and boar banners raised into the air, dancing in the light wind as ranks formed in the pass. Within moments, the thunderous echoes of a thousand hooves crashed through the pass. Not more than a minute later, the vast Banefort host emerged to reveal its full strength. They had already once broken the Westerlings and now they had come to finish the job.

"Brace!" Rollam shouted as he backed from the front lines, he himself unwilling to stand before a fully armored warhorse with nothing but his sword in hand. "Brace!"

No number of tournaments had prepared Adrian for battle. The contests he had fought had always been a test of skill, a mockery of war. Here skill meant little for the men standing in the front lines. Shields bashed against each other, spears found openings to stab at exposed flesh, and men fell without ever having had a chance to put their valor on display. The ebb and flow of the lines was not unlike an ocean, the crash of flesh against a metallic shore, breaking against the firm hold of shield and spear. And then the ocean became the cliff face and the shore the waves, and they crashed again in the other direction. Damon, in his fury, had fought his way to the front and Adrian had commanded the most loyal of the Marbrand bannermen to surround and protect their Lord. The young claimant pressed on with seemingly endless energy, his presence an inspiration to his men. Any Lord willing to fight alongside his soldiers was, after all, a man worth fighting for.

"There!" Damon shouted. His guards had built a circle around him as they delved deeper into Leyton's lines. "Ser Arthur, I see his white armor!" He gripped his sword with renewed enthusiasm. "Leyton is close by. Push!"

Gregor had been careful to keep his distance until word had spread to him of Damon's arrival. Upon receiving his scouts' reports, he had marched his army for a full day and night to arrive at the place of battle. Now he sat atop his horse overlooking the bloody scene below. "Their right side crumbles," he observed, speaking to the knights assembled by him. "We must relieve them." He looked about the men, all of them visibly tired. "Who will lead the charge?" The men looked to each other but before any could speak, Gregor answered his own question. "I will, of course. Assemble the heavy horse. Take the infantry to harass their rearguard. Hyah!"

"Kill him!" Leyton's shrill voice filled the air as Damon's guard advanced towards him. "Ser Arthur, cut him down!" The smiling knight nodded and lowered his visor, beckoning his cadre of men forward. "Hurry!" Leyton screamed, pointing with his eyes bulging wide.

Arthur's guard covered ground quickly, clashing with ferocity against Damon's forces. They were fresh and rested, unlike the men who had fought viciously to break through the lines. Two of Damon's men were quickly cut down and their formation broke, the ensuing fight becoming a melee. Men from both sides fell, Damon's guard wearing down as they continued to advance towards Leyton. Adrian too had stayed alongside his Lord but a heavy punch to his head knocked him off his feet. By the time he stood, Damon was nowhere to be found and standing before him instead was the gleaming white armor of Ser Arthur.

"Pup," the older man quipped, a sickening mirth in his voice. His sword was drawn and leveled at Adrian and it seemed as if his cruel smile bled through his visor. "Come, come," he beckoned as he bobbed his head back and forth playfully. "Come here, pup!"

Rollam did not feel shame. In fact, he was happy to feel anything at all. He had watched Reynaud fall, he had seen the lines crumble under the charge, and he had lost his nerve. In the distance he could still hear the sounds of battle as the last pockets of resistance fell or surrendered to the Banefort banners. He watched as the lines of horsemen reformed and began their slow advance down the hill towards the bulk of the Leyton's host. He watched as they slowly picked up speed and couched their lances. Rollam turned his head and shuttered his ears, slowly making his way to the west, his only intention to return home and live out a long and dull life.

"Where have I seen that before?"

Arthur danced back from the swing and sidestepped to match Adrian's footwork. He launched his own thrust but did so with an overly dramatic lunge. Quickly, the knight then stepped into Adrian's counterattack with his shield. He parried the next strike and laughed as he moved back out of Adrian's range.

"Come, come! I am enjoying this!"

Arthur's taunts wore upon Adrian. He had known there would be no quick victory, but it seemed as though Arthur could read his every move. The Smiling Knight anticipated his attacks, sidestepped his ripostes, and retreated with a bellowing laugh after every clash. Adrian stepped back as well while Arthur's deep laughs transformed into giggles. He took deep breaths and studied the man while the taunts continued.

"Oh but we have only begun? I am ashamed, have I not taught you any endurance? Imagine how Lothar would feel, seeing his protege so utterly worthless! Come, pup, I have not even shown you some new tricks I've learned!"

Adrian stepped forth again, this time with more measured steps. Arthur immediately raised his guard but continued his cutting insults. Adrian blocked the sounds from his mind and played in his mind the careful style of his mentor. He then led in with the point of his blade, raising his shield as he anticipated the counterattack, and swept the ground with an arc in hopes of catching Arthur's exposed legs. There was only air. Arthur had hopped back and then moved forward, bringing his sword down lethargically towards Adrian's exposed shoulder. Adrian sidestepped the strike and threw his shield into Arthur. The older knight went with the momentum, recovering easily.

"Old tricks! Such a young pup and still you haven't learned a damn thing! I could show you something though, perhaps?

Arthur did not give Adrian even a second to fully comprehend his words before stepping forward and swinging his blade towards the young man's head. The two exchanged blows for a few seconds. Arthur then deliberately stepped back and advanced with a strong overhead strike, one that forced Adrian to cover his head with his shield. The Smiling Knight then swept Adrian's thrust aside and spun off his right foot, bringing his sword around. Adrian saw the man expose his entire back but could do nothing with his sword hand still recovering. He took a deep breath before hearing the loud clang of steel upon his armor. Arthur retreated again, his grin visible even through his visor.

"Oh, oh you defenseless thing! Next time, I won't turn my blade." Suddenly the laughter was gone and replacing it were hateful tones. "Next time I cut you properly, boy."

Adrian brought his blade up and kept his shield level to his eyes. He walked forward with purpose but Arthur lunged into action first. A flurry of cuts sliced towards Adrian, the worst of which nearly making it past his defenses. Only once or twice was he able to parry and attack, and each time Arthur simply redoubled his efforts and forced the young knight backwards. Around they went in a circle until Arthur retired to the side. He spoke again, but with none of his trademark mirth.

"You're just like him, you know? Not just your pathetic style, but you. You. He deserved to die. And so do you."

The attacks continued and Adrian now found a pattern to Arthur's reckless strikes. He still could not exploit the openings he saw, but Arthur would wear himself down he knew. He needed only to be patient.

"He worshiped the old and flawless Addam, and Addam loved Lothar like a son. The both of them, fools. The blind leading the blind!"

Adrian braced for the heavy overhead strike and brought his sword forward on instinct. No. Too late. The same maneuver. The scrape of the sword as he it slid off his shield. Adrian watched as Arthur pivoted off his right leg and followed suit by leaning his weight upon his left. He brought his shield down, but it was too far from his exposed back to protect against the coming strike. No matter, he was aiming for something else.

The shield crashed into Arthur's planted leg, throwing off the man's balance and giving Adrian enough room to evade the sword. Arthur stumbled back while cussing under his breath. He stood straight but his stance betrayed the damage. He leaned his weight onto his left leg.

"That's new," Arthur said once he had calmed. "If only your precious Ser Lothar had learned something like that. But he did show me a little something before he died. Here, I will show you his final moments."

Arthur dropped onto his left knee and smiled mischievously. He then began to cry out.

"No, please, don't! Arthur, why?"

He begged and cried and then stood up laughing. His shield raised quickly as well as Adrian closed the distance between the two. Wild and reckless the young man struck and Arthur laughed as he caught each blade with his shield. Adrian's blade came up and Arthur's shield matched the height, the older knight's vision now obstructed. A forceful thud against the plate of metal sent Ser Arthur reeling back, his weakened leg barely able to keep him from stumbling onto his back. A sharp pain rang through his side, then one through his arm. Adrian did not relent, his sword no longer flailing but shooting out forcefully and biting Arthur with the precision of an angered snake. Arthur raised his sword to parry but lacked the speed to deny another scoring cut, this time to his left leg. He dropped to his knees and planted his shield beside him to no avail. Another gush of red burst forth, this one from his upper torso. He tried to stand, using his sword to push up but another thrust from Adrian pushed Arthur off balance. He collapsed upon his back, a stream of giggles and blood coming out his mouth as he fell.

Tybolt grabbed the buckler of the man he had felled and pressed on, his courage the last vestige of hope for the Brax men under his command. Even though fighting untrained men in melee was not taxing on his skills, the many bodies they continued to throw at him did wear on his strength. He swung his sword to catch a man's exposed chest, and then again in a smaller arc to open another man's throat. With each step forward and each attack, Tybolt felt himself coming closer to collapsing in exhaustion. His throat was dry and tickled as he yelled encouragement to his men. And then suddenly there seemed to be no more Crakehall soldiers left before him. As Tybolt dislodged his blade from a man's split skull he saw from the corner of his eye the blur of gold and blue. "Reform," he cried hoarsely to the men who had remained with him. "And praise The Seven," he whispered to himself.

Adrian looked down at the pool of blood that had formed around his former teacher. Arthur's coughs spewed up blood through his visor and he grappled with his helm to remove it from his head. As the headpiece fell to the ground, Arthur looked up to Adrian with not a smile but a furious and unpleasant scowl. His teeth were stained red as blood oozed down his face. "What are you waiting for?" he said through gritted teeth. "Go ahead," he urged, his eyes wandering off Adrian and towards Damon's band as they fought towards Leyton. His smile slowly returned to his face, first an amused smirk and then growing into a full fledged grin. "We're all dead men," he laughed, blood gurgling up as he sang his taunts to Adrian. "Damon's a dead man!"

Adrian's blade flashed through the air, slicing mercilessly and with an unparalleled sense of urgency. He turned and sprinted in the directed Arthur's eyes had darted. Still, there was little Adrian could do besides watch helplessly as he saw the mace crash into Damon's breastplate and listen as the reverberating thud of his fall echoed above the din of battle.

"Back!" he cried as he reached his friend's side. "Bring him back!" His wrapped one arm around Damon's shoulder and began to drag the lifeless body as the reduced ranks of his men closed around them.

Leyton looked on with glee as two of his enemies were felled, but the victory was short-lived. "They're upon us!" came the first shout. It was followed by many more, each one increasing in panic. Leyton's head swiveled around as he took in the carnage. Armored knights rode through his ranks flourishing flails and maces. A splatter of blood shot out from the rider beside Leyton as an iron mace replaced his head. Leyton kicked his horse into a gallop as he wiped blood from his face. The rout was evident as his vision cleared, the many men beside him on both horse and foot sprinting back towards the safety of Ashemark's walls. As he rode past the Banefort infantry, he heard the distinct shouts of a particular voice, a feminine voice he recognized. The voice resounded through his mind as he tried to place the familiar voice when suddenly all thought was replaced with a preoccupation with a searing pain in his back. Leyton arched back as his horse crumpled under him and he fell and tumbled across the ground. "Oh yes, I recognize you now," he thought to himself as the world blackened around him. "Joanna, you bitch."

#ACT III

Ashemark

The camp sprawled out across the hilly fields, Ashemark at its epicenter. Littered about the land were hundreds and thousands of tents, the colors of several noble Houses present among the gathering force which surrounded the ancient keep. Leyton looked out from the battlements of his holdfast, scanning the forces which had answered his call. There were the banners of the Serretts, the proud peacock waving in the wind. He spotted the indomitable force of the Crakehalls, the brown boar flying defiantly in the sky. There were also green arrows upon a white bend, the banners of Sarsfield who had sent a small contingent of men. Most prominently of all, however, was the black and orange of House Marbrand, the whole of Leyton's realm called to war. While the army was indeed mighty, Leyton still found himself disappointed. The southern holds had sent no men save for Lord Crakehall who did so as kin. The Lannisters accepted Leyton's explanation of Damon's treachery but did nothing to supplement his forces even as they recognized him to be the rightful Lord of Ashemark. The Cleganes, likewise, watched intently but with general disinterest. This all annoyed Leyton. Words came easy but good, trustworthy steel was hard to find. At the very least, he told himself, his fighting men were honorbound to be there rather than bought with gold.

The thought brought a brief smile to Leyton's face. The rumors, he had found, were true. His furthest ranging scouts had reported assorted banners gathering under Damon. Small houses, hedge knights, mercenaries who toiled for gold but never risked life and limb for anybody other than themselves. All told, Damon's force was minuscule compared to the camp that stretched out from Ashemark. The trouble with that, of course, was the Damon had proven to be elusive. While Leyton's force was easily spotted from leagues away, the ragtag forces under Damon had managed to slip away time and time again. Each time Leyton's scouts made contact, Damon would engage in a skirmish and then slip away. These thoughts made Leyton scowl, wiping the smile off his face. His brother had always been a more creative tactician and strategist but Leyton took comfort in knowing that even the most sly commanders would eventually find themselves on the wrong side of luck. He needed only to wait, he knew, and so wait he would until Damon presented himself for destruction.

"Any word?" Leyton said, turning to face the smiling knight. Arthur's soft smile was affixed upon his lips as he slowly answered his lord. "None yet, though I expect they will be here soon." Leyton's brow raised as he took in the news. "Here? Soon? I ordered the Westerlings to take The Banefort, did they decide to march here instead?" There was stress on his voice. He would have preferred to control all the pieces himself rather than rely on others and knowing that he had less that complete control made him nervous. Arthur laughed quietly at Leyton's twisted, nervous expression. "I misunderstood, my Lord," he said, the most subtle of mockery in his voice. "I meant the Fynes should arrive soon. We've not heard from the Westerlings, though. But a siege?" His playful eyes danced, mocking Leyton as he looked at him. "I don't think we'll hear from them anytime soon. You worry too much."

"Hmph," Leyton let out an indignant huff as Arthur dismissed his concerns unceremoniously. It bothered him when Arthur was disrespectful yet he knew that without the man he would have no control over the troops. It was an unfortunate compromise but one which Leyton had little choice in accepting for now. As he watched Ser Arthur turn away and walk down from the battlements, Leyton made a quick mental reminder that after Damon was dealt with, he'd teach this upstart Arthur some decorum and manners. Leyton contained a smirk as he continued to watch the knight descend the stairs. Yes, he would get even someday once the man had lost his usefulness.

The pale seashells of House Westerling appeared over the horizon on the fifth morning after the arrival of the Sarsfield men. Their arrival had been sudden and unannounced as well as unexpected. Leyton grit his teeth as he rode out with the other Lords and several of their knights to greet the party. Ahead of the Westerling footmen rode a small group of armored men. As they drew closer, Leyton squinted his eyes to try to make out the Lord Westerling but the man was not there. He frowned. This truly was unexpected.

"Hallo!" Leyton called out as his horse slowed to a halt in front of the Westerling group. "Where is your Lord? Why have you come to Ashemark? Your orders were to seize The Banefort!"

"Perhaps they have already done so," Ser Arthur piped up sardonically, his teeth showing as he grinned like a child. "Hold your tongue," Lyle Crakehall snapped, turning his head towards the smiling man. His words were a hiss, like an angry snake striking back at an annoyance. Arthur looked blankly at Lyle for a moment before letting out a single, quiet snort. "Fussy."

The head of the Westerling group saluted Leyton as the petty exchange between Lyle and Arthur unfolded. The man removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm, his other hand upon the reins of his mount. "Ser Rollam Westerling," he said, introducing himself. "We were at The Banefort, Lord Leyton. It did not go as planned." The man's voice quivered at the last word, betraying his nervousness. He gulped down some air before continuing. "The Baneforts met us in the field. My brother was taken prisoner. We've lost near half our army." He looked up to Leyton and saw two burning eyes. Anger possessed the Marbrand Lord as he took in the bad news. He glanced back towards Lord Lyle and Lord Serrett before turning back towards Rollam.

"What the fuck happened?" he spat, wroth upon his words. "How did the Baneforts defeat you in the field?"

Rollam looked to the Crakehall man with fear, his eyes begging the older, more seasoned warrior to intervene. Lyle did nothing as he sat upon his warhorse and waited for Rollam to speak. After a moment, he did. "They deployed against us upon a ridge," Rollam began. The man shook slightly as he spoke, as he recounted the battle. "Reynard ordered us to charge. We tried to overwhelm them but we were pushed back. Their horse broke the left flank..." Rollam trailed off and looked down in shame. He had decided there was no reason to divulge that he had been in command of the left.

"Well?" Leyton asked, interrupting the Westerling's self-pity. "How many fighting men have you then? And when," he began to roar, "will the damned Fynes arrive?" Lyle rode up as his nephew began to shout and placed his hand upon Leyton's shoulder. "War is unpredictable," the old boar said slowly, his deep baritone voice commanding a calm in his tone. "For now, we must find the Brax host and give battle."

Leyton shook his head in small, rapid movements. "No, continue to send out the scouts. We find Damon, we break his men, we end this now. Lady Brax is no concern to me. Her men will never see battle. Damon," he turned to Lyle and glared at his old uncle. "Damon must be punished. Damon must die."

Lyle let his hand slide off his nephew's shoulder slowly. He sighed but said nothing. Part of him wanted to withdraw the Crakehall host, to move alone against the Brax force but he could not be certain that he could win that battle alone. What more, the rumors he had heard gave him pause. He was unwilling to meet the commander of the Brax forces in battle. He was not yet ready for that encounter. He'd not seen Tybolt for so long, he wasn't sure he was ready to see his son again under such conditions. Lyle heaved another long, drawn-out sigh. "We should position ourselves along the pass," he said to Leyton, deciding the pursue another topic. "If the Baneforts are giving chase, we can cut them off here and prevent them from joining their allies." Lyle looked to the others. Lord Serrett and Lord Sarsfield both nodded though Lyle found little comfort in their agreement. Neither of them were veterans of wars like he was. That burden of experience weighed heavily upon him, knowing that all the others depended upon his insights and yet they would choose to ignore his advice at times. Foolish, young pride.

After a moment, Leyton turned around again. His face wore a slight frown but he nodded. "Very well, uncle. Send some of your men upon the hilltop there," he said, pointing in the direction from where the Westerling men streamed in. "Cut off the Baneforts and I'll catch Damon in the meanwhile." He looked around to all the men around him, Westerling and otherwise. "Understood?" The impromptu council nodded in unison, and then dispersed.

Sarsfield

Tybolt grit his teeth absentmindedly as his eyes scanned the horizon. Behind him lay the holdfast of Sarsfield and a battleground littered with the bodies of both his and their men alike. Brax and Sarsfield colors muddled with the deep red of mud and blood, staining the earth in a violent mixture of hues. The battle had been brief having taken barely an hour and it ended with the Sarsfield garrison withdrawing back behind the walls of their keep. Despite this, the small Sarsfield force had achieved their aim. A pair of riders had broken out past the blockade enacted by the Brax army. They had ridden at breakneck speed, dashing out of the carnage and wasting no time in finding the road east. As soon as this had been reported to Tybolt, he knew that their plan was compromised. Soon the combined forces under Leyton would march towards Sarsfield and force Tybolt with little choice than to retreat or surrender.

Nevertheless, Tybolt sat high up in his horse as he squinted his eyes towards the southeast. Damon's messenger had laid out his cousin's plan and this was their best chance. The messenger had reported that they had been dodging patrols for too many weeks and, in combining with the Brax host, they could become formidable enough to challenge Leyton. It was a risky plan, especially now, but Tybolt clung onto the shreds of hope he had left. Loreza had put her faith in him. She had taken him in when his father had nearly disowned him and now he would repay that kindness with service. He wouldn't let her down. Already the young girl had suffered too much loss, too much heartbreak. He straightened up in the saddle as he thought to himself. He'd reverse House Brax's fortunes.

The appearance of several waving banners broke him from his thoughts. Over the next several moments, vague shadows not unlike tiny figurines could be made out in the distance. Tybolt stared stoically at the shimmering figures in the horizon, their outline wavering in the heat of the high noon sun. Within minutes, the entirety of the host could be made out, even in the distance. It was not large and hardly uniform. Among the throng of men were an assortment of colors and sigils, perhaps a dozen or more in all. However, as the motley army approached, one sigil could be seen waving above all others. The cloth was gray throughout with two brown trunks running up in the middle of the banner. Orange flames burst from the barren trees, their fires intertwining at their apex, the personal sigil of Damon Marbrand.

Tybolt stared on with expressionless eyes as a single young man rode up ahead of the pack, stopping only as he neared within a few meters. Tybolt had seen his cousin only a handful of times before but recognized him immediately. The dark, beady eyes, his tuft of full black hair, a look of seriousness about him that could only be described as a child looking for a fight. All of these things were Damon. The two rode up to each other and Tybolt turned his horse around to bring himself up alongside his cousin. They rode slowly back towards the Brax army in silence for a moment before Damon spoke up. "You waited." Tybolt continued to look straight ahead but nodded in response. "You're late," he replied stoically.

Damon drew in a long breath as he looked behind him towards the weary men who followed. "We were caught," he said, not offering an excuse but an explanation. "I've lost near a third of my host. Have you heard word from the Baneforts?" The last line was spoken with a small hint of urgency, Damon's voice breaking slightly as he mentioned his wife's family name. Tybolt shook his head towards his younger cousin. Damon winced in reply and then turned to look forward. "We are too few," Tybolt said, stating the obvious fact that both were silently wrestling with inside their heads.

"I did not come here to give up," Damon retorted, gnashing his teeth in frustration. He gestured towards Sarsfield, tossing his head in the direction of the stone walls with purpose. "He will not fight with us?" Tybolt shook his head slowly and raised his eyes from the ground to meet his cousin's. He saw the determination in Damon's eyes and felt a pang of fear, one which he could not explain. Damon's face hardened, the muscles visibly tensing. After the longest minute Damon blinked and pursed his lips together as if preparing to speak but not quite ready to let the words past his lips. Tybolt felt his dread grow as the silence continued. As he opened his mouth to speak Damon cut him off with a single declaration.

"We will make Lord Sarsfield fight for us."

The Golden Tooth

The old Lord Gregor climbed into his bed with a groan, his aging bones giving him increasing trouble as the days went by. He settled into the firm bed, his back resting into the mattress as it slowly gave way but remained firm enough to cradle his body. He felt aches in his joints, the knees, elbows, even in his feet. He wriggled his toes as if to check whether they were still there before turning his attention to his wife. Allyria sat across the room sitting in her chair and facing her vanity. She ran a brush through her hair slowly and with great detail. She was aging but gracefully, and so still took great care with her appearance.

"Allyria," Gregor said, his voice a low, tired rumble. "Come. It's late." He pat the space next to him. Even though she was turned from him, he still gave a small smile as he beckoned for her to join him. Allyria sat unmoving save for the slow movement of her hand as it directed a brush through her hair. The motion was repetitive and Gregor watched with patience until at last his nerve gave out. "What?" he asked his wife, an undertone of annoyance in that singular word. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Allyria stood as the brushed passed through her hair a final time. She blew out the candle with a quick huff which sounded suspiciously like a sigh and then placed the brush upon her vanity with a small thud. Allyria strode to the bed with poise and silently pulled the covers down, slipping into the bed. Not once did she meet her husband's eyes as he watched her every move. Gregor inched closer to hold her as she settled into the sheets but Allyria rolled over, positioning her back between her and her husband.

"Nothing," Gregor huffed sardonically. "If this is nothing, I will rue the day I wrong you." He rolled back onto his side of the bed, frustration surrounding him like an aura. He lay there in the darkness for several minutes before rolling back to face his wife. "Allyria," he said, his voice somewhere between scolding and begging, "stop this silliness and tell me what is on your mind. What have I done?"

"You have done nothing," Allyria said coldly, her back still turned. Gregor propped himself up on his elbow and stared at his wife's back. He processed her words for a moment and then confusion overtook his face. His mouth opened slightly as he tried to extract her meaning, his brow furrowing as his frustration grew over her cryptic accusation. "If I have done nothing," he said, exasperated, "then why won't you speak to me?"

"Because you should have done something," Allyria said, now flipping over and sitting up to face her husband. Even in the darkness, there was a stern fire in her eyes, an anger and passion which was the very thing that drew Gregor to her. He sat there, mouth now fully agape as he continued to wrestle with the riddle. "What should I have done?" he finally asked. Allyria glared at him before climbing out of the bed and walking over to her table. She sat and looked at the candlestick, trying to will light back onto the wick. "You sent him to die."

Gregor looked on blankly for another moment more before clarity came to him. "That's what you're upset about?" he asked, more than a hint of humor on his voice. "You're upset with my deal with the Marbrand boy?" Allyria turned her head slowly and met her husband's eyes for the first time that evening. Gregor felt uncomfortable as she glared. He blinked then lowered his gaze slightly, breaking eye contact with Allyria. She was more furious now but after a moment, composed herself and replied. "You gave Ser Damon a pittance when he came to you with nowhere else to turn. He begged you, Gregor, and you gave him a glimmer of false hope. You promised him a binding of our Houses, an alliance, and you gave him nothing save for gold, as though he were some beggar unworthy of your time."

Gregor was taken aback by his wife's accusations and looked back up to see her still glaring at him. She truly was angry and her words cut like steel. "I-" he began, but Allyria had anticipated his reply and pounced. "I am not finished!" she declared, pointing a finger into the air. "You could have pledged yourself to his cause, his claim. Instead you sent him off to die. I married an honorable and good man," she said through gritted teeth. "And where is he now, that his honor is truly needed?"

Allyria lowered her hand as she drew in short, sharp breaths. Her breathing slowed as she began to calm and only then did Gregor speak. "You are right," he admitted, his voice deep and low but filled with a gentle love and humbleness. "I have no reason not to support Damon, save my own cowardice. I have wronged," he said, heaving a long sigh. "I have sent the boy to his death." He remained still, leaning on his elbow, for near a minute before pushing off the bed and swinging his feet onto the floor. Gregor rose and puffed out his chest, then walked towards the door. Allyria stood as well and walked to intercept her husband. She placed her hand upon his chest and gave a small, knowing smile. "Where are you going?" she asked, her voice and demeanor now gentle. "To summon the banners," he replied, looking down at his wife. Her smile had widened and in her eye shined a sly twinkle. "At this hour?" she asked. She gave Gregor a playful push and led him back to the bed. "There's no need, anyhow," she said as she slipped back into the bed and pulled Gregor down beside her. "I've already had the maester call the banners. It was the least I could do."

Gregor crawled over Allyria and dipped his head down into his chest as he let out a loud, amused snort. "You," he said, craning down and kissing the nape of her neck, "are an incredible woman."

Allyria snorted lightly in response and batted away her husband's hand. "Go to sleep," she commanded. "You are going to war tomorrow and you must have your rest."

#ACT II

The Golden Tooth

The small caravan could be described as nothing other than weary. Damon rode at its head, trying his best to keep an appearance of confidence for the sake of morale. He was doing poorly. Even these men, these so-called Heroes of Horn Hill who had ridden into battle alongside their commander had begun to lose faith. Not so much a loss of faith in Damon but more in their mission, their master's purpose. Their rejection at Wayfarer's Rest had stripped them all of whatever hope they had left and now they road back along the Riverroad empty-handed, following a beggar lord who had no plan and little resources.

Ser Adrian rode towards the rear of the column. In his hands he cradled Mira, his daughter. She was weaker from the travel, so weak that her cries and become mews and her mews had become silence. She lay now in his cradled arms, eyes closed and chest heaving but the slightest, the sole sign that life had not left her body. His eyes remained upon Mira rather than upon the horizon. His mind was upon her, and upon his lover. Nothing else, not even Damon's mission, mattered to him in this moment. He had acted foolishly, he knew, and he paid the price then and now still. But he prayed as his eyes stayed glued upon Mira. He prayed to the Seven for their mercy, for their deliverance.

Damon's mind had been working slowly since their departure from Wayfarer's Rest. First his thoughts had settled upon rage, pure unadulterated anger at Simon Vance, his unworthy cousin. He had come with the truth and been turned away. He had been left with no allies, no friends, his credibility stripped by Leyton's lies. The only thing he had was his claim, weak as it was. And yet he had decided to ride west despite the protests of his men. He had devised a plan, albeit a flimsy one. It was his own plan, and thus could be described as ill-conceived at best. Damon had consulted with no one, not even Adrian. His mind had moved on from anger and towards pride. He would claim the seat of Ashemark and he would do so himself, on his own merits, with his own plans and designs. He did not fault Adrian, but the decision to ride east had been his and it had bore no fruit. West, Damon had reasoned, was the only direction they could head now. The farther he strayed from Ashemark, the quicker his claim would be forgotten, the quicker Leyton's rule would be solidified. He had to go back. And he had to beg. Pride turned to desperation. He knew what lay ahead.

The great gates of The Golden Tooth creaked open. They moved slowly and Damon could not help but fidget in the seat of his saddle. He looked up nervously, remembering once again his last visit to Lord Lefford. The old Lord Gregor had been terse but fair, granting Damon no boons but allowing him safe passage through the Leffords' lands. His return had been, justifiably, unexpected. The Marbrand party had been forced to wait near an hour before a soldier's head peaked back over the battlements and signaled the party to enter. Damon withheld his excitement as it threatened to burst past his tired gaze. The men beside him bristled as well, the thoughts of hot food and warm beds placating their nearly broken will. The rest and reprieve would be well appreciated, but Damon had come for more.

Nervousness has slowly morphed into impatience as Damon sat in The Golden Tooth's great hall. Aside from a small cadre of guards, the hall was empty. No banners hung on the rafters, no chairs or tables filled the space. The walls were adorned plainly with thick but uninteresting tapestries. Everything about the large space conveyed that the Leffords had not expected guests. Or perhaps the Leffords had made a point of making Damon feel unwelcome, a possibility which did not enter the young man's mind. The realization did not strike him even as minutes dragged into hours. He fidgeted more now, impatience gripping him such that he stood up and paced to pass the time. He had begun his wait with a careful rehearsing of his words but had since devolved into silent cursing of his host's tardiness.

The sharp sound of an opening door and the thudding of slow, deliberate footsteps captured Damon's attention as he was midstream through muttering his latest string of obscenities about Lord Lefford. As Damon's eyes raised from the floor to the doorway, he made out the silhouette of Gregor as the old lord lumbered into the room. "Damon!" the man called, not quite cheerily but certainly not with any hint of annoyance either. "You've returned. So soon." Gregor let a smirk take his face as he moved towards Damon. Damon watched silently until Gregor had come within a few meters. Gregor gave a curt nod, snapping Damon into action. "Ah, yes," he stammered, taken off guard by Gregor's entrance. He had expected something far more formal, something more befitting of a noble. Quietly he chided himself, turning his many obscenities upon himself in his mind. Why would such pomp and circumstance be laid out for him? He was no Lord! Not yet!

"Many thanks, Lord Gregor," Damon replied, doing his best to suppress the remnant anger he still felt at the long wait. "Your hospitality is of the utmost quality," he lied, holding the truth back behind his tongue. "You are a most honorable man, Lord Lefford."

"And you are eager to ask something else of me." Gregor let the smile fall from his face as his normal, hardened expression surfaced. Years of war and decades of stress had made the old Lord into a pessimist or worse. He would have accused any man the same, though perhaps few to their faces. Damon, however, was a nobody in his halls, or in any Western hall for that matter. What Gregor said and how he said it was unimportant. The delicate dance of politics could be set aside. That was how Gregor liked it best. "Let's not waste each other's time," he continued, a mocking twinkle in his eye. "Ask it of me, and then begone."

"My Lord?" Damon stood speechless a moment. The Lefford's sudden change in tone took him off guard, so much so that he entirely missed the mockery and insult nestled in Gregor's forceful words. "I... well, yes. I had traveled to my kin, the Vances, as I had said I would."

"And be quick about it," Gregor growled.

"Oh, I..." Damon's temper flared for a moment, the old Lord's uncouth manner finally reaching him and touching off his prideful anger. "Lord Vance will not involve himself in this." Damon's teeth clenched instinctively. The statement was a half-truth. Simon had rejected him, but so long as Simon was regent there was little Damon could do. The longer he stayed in place, the more risk he introduced to his cause. "This matter is, after all, for Westerners to solve. And so I have come to ask an alliance, Lord Lefford. I would offer my son in be-"

Gregor looked at the youth with beady eyes. His gaze stayed several seconds before he tipped his head back slightly and gave out a loud snort to cut off Damon's words. "Alliance? And what, boy, do I have to gain from an alliance with you?" He pointed at Damon's weathered riding clothes, panning his arm across Damon's sun-beaten and faded emblem. The two burning wierwoods stitched into Damon's riding doublet had suffered the elements, the colors of the flame browned from mud and rain, the deep oaken color of the trunks lightened several shades from exposure. Damon looked every bit a hedge knight and not at all a noble son. Only when he opened his mouth was it clear that he was indeed a child of noble birth, such was the forcefulness of his arguments, the presumptions of his station, the contempt of being passed over as unworthy.

"I am a Lord! I am the rightful heir to Ashemark!" Damon's words were forceful, his tone severe. He felt his hand clenched into a fist, his whole arm shaking ever so subtly at Gregor's open insult. It was one he could bear. For now.

"You are nobody," Gregor answered with a sigh. He lowered his arm and brought both hands behind his back, clasping them together in a pensive look. "Your brother is Lord of Ashemark, and there he will remain. He's already called for your head, a traitor in rebellion to his rightful rule. Why, then, should I not clasp you in chains now?" Gregor gave no smile, no indication what was truly on his mind. He merely studied the boy as he awaited Damon's reply. Damon continued to shake as he processed Lord Gregor's words. A creeping hatred began to fill his mind, a rejection of Lefford's mockery, a violent reaction to the disrespect he was made to endure.

He felt his hands clench and unclench, sweat forming in his palms and a blistering heat swelling over his skin. "I will not stand here and be mocked," he finally let out, a low and rumbling response. His voice began to crescendo as he continued. "I do not need you, Lord Gregor, as it seems you do not need me. I will seize Ashemark alone and depose my brother. And I will not forget this moment. You will regret crossing me!" Damon's vision was blinded by the rage, his voice now near a roar as his anger poured forth towards Gregor. The guards in the hall had by now left their posts and moved towards Damon, their spears leveled in case the young man dared to do anything rash. Gregor, however, held up a single hand to signal them to keep their distance. He stared Damon down, holding his ground despite the youth's venomous words. Slowly, a grin crept to his face and he let out a single, loud, guffaw.

"You have got spirit," Gregor chuckled, shaking his head slightly with the smile still plastered upon his lips. "Your father was always a calm, calculating man, one who lacked passion." He gestured towards Damon as the younger man felt confusion at Gregor's reaction. Damon had expected to be kicked out for his outrage and instead this was happening. "You're nothing like your late father, no. I respect that. I like that." He let out another laugh as he looked at Damon's expression, one of shock, surprise, delight, and utter confusion, all mixed on his reddened face. "You were saying you have a son," Gregor continued, taking the conversation back to Damon's earlier train of thought. "I suspect you were about to discuss a betrothal, an alliance bound by blood?" Damon's mouth moved as he tried to reply though he remained too flabbergasted to make words. Gregor let out another laugh and nodded, taking Damon's silent nodding and gestures to be an confirmation. "Very well. You will bring your son to ward here after you retake Ashemark. I will lend you a thousand gold dragons with which you can raise an army. This is my only offer." Gregor's face hardened again as it usually did when money and politics were being discussed. Damon took a deep breath, blinked twice, and nodded.

"My Lord, I am honored."

Ashemark

The darkness of the night had engulfed everything save for the small patch of light emanating from a single candle in the corner of the room. Leyton did not know it but he was consumed by much the same despair that had taken his father on Addam's last night. He, too, worried about the stability of his rule, the implications of a situation rapidly spinning out of control. His uncle had already pledged the support of the Crakehall army but now Leyton was tasked with waiting for responses to the many other letters he had sent out. His grip over Ashemark was tenuous at best and both the Fynes and Westerlings were not guarantees to raise banners in his hour of need. House Serrett, he presumed, would be moved by his tales of Joanna's kidnapping. If not that, then they would at least be sold by his promise that the betrothal would be honored. It was a small thing to Leyton, to trade his sister for the support of a thousand swords. But all the others? There were no guarantees. Leyton could not count on any of them, the same way he could never count on his own kin. He was alone in this.

A sharp set of raps upon the door set Leyton's mind back to the dark room. "Enter," he said solemnly, the stress of his battle plans still dancing on his nerves. "You had better be bringing good news," Leyton said, looking up at the man who entered the room. Ser Arthur was clad in a leather doublet over a mail shirt. His movements caused the gentle wave of steel links, the light clattering rippling through the room. Only after he had closed the door and crossed the room did he speak.

"News, certainly. Good, that's up to you." Arthur's grin mocked Leyton. He reached into his pocket and produced a small handful of papers. "Let's see," he said, stretching out the words as he unrolled the first parchment. Arthur particularly enjoyed tormenting Leyton. Unlike Addam, the younger man was mcuh more susceptible to fits of anger and frustration. But Leyton needed Arthur, and he knew it. There was nothing Leyton could do but grit his teeth as Arthur held him in suspense. "Okay, now. House Serrett pledges their banners to your cause. Hmmm, House Fyne will march with us as well. Ah, and House Westerling will march upon The Banefort as you commanded." Arthur paused and directed his smile at Leyton. "Shall I continue?"

"Yes, yes, continue," Leyton said impatiently. He was more relieved now in the knowledge that the support he had mustered would easily dwarf Damon's forces. Rumors had spread along the countryside claiming a young noble was hiring up mercenaries, perhaps five hundred in total at last count. Even with the forces of The Banefort, Leyton had more than three times his enemy's numbers now. And what was more, Lord Westerling was already marching to lay siege to Damon's allies. Leyton let a brief smile crack upon his lips but then hid it again. "Continue, Ser Arthur. What of the others? Brax? Lydden?"

"The Sarsfields," Arthur began, purposefully avoiding the two Leyton had specifically asked for, "have decided to remain neutral. For now. I suspect they just need a little persuading." Arthur looked up with a malicious grin then turned his eyes back to the paper and continued reading. "The Leffords have not responded. House Lydden, yes, they laugh at your petty squabble." Arthur looked up and let his eyes tease Leyton. It delighted him to watch Leyton scowl at the insults of others. "And House Brax. They have raised in support of your brother."

"What?" Leyton sputtered as the shock hit him. "But why?" he cried in disbelief.

"They don't say, really," Arthur replied, chuckling softly. "But it really doesn't matter much, does it? House Brax doesn't tip the scales. You still have the initiative." His eyes grew serious even if his smile remained. "Take The Banefort now. Show the other Lords that you are resolute and merciless. They will all fall in line. Do not be weak."

Leyton nodded. He wasn't weak. He was worthy.

The Banefort

Ser Morgon looked across the table to meet Lady Joanna's eyes. Women had no place in a war council but many things in The Banefort had been different as of late. The past several months were strange, to say the least. Ever since Lady Joanna's appearance, home had become a busy place. Lord Quenten had locked himself in his study for days, emerging only after receiving a message from Ashemark and immediately calling Ser Morgon to levy the Banefort's banners. Now, with the castle brimming with soldiers, Morgon found himself at a war council with not one, but two women.

"House Westerling," Quenten repeated to Ser Rikard who had finished delivering his report. The knight nodded and Quenten let out a long sigh. "So House Westerling has answered Leyton's call." He looked to Joanna and Jocelyn, both women seated together. "We cannot march to reinforce Damon if this castle comes under siege," he replied, grief on his voice. "I wish there were something I could do, but I cannot risk my family for this."

Jocelyn began to breathe in quicker, shorter breaths. Joanna leaned over, comforting the woman. Jocelyn clutched at her swelled belly, her unborn child a constant reminder of her husband's perils. Now her own brother was abandoning her as well, refusing to act to save her husband. She felt the tears well up in her eyes. "Quenten," she said with a choking voice, a sob caught in her throat. "You have to help him," she pleaded.

Quenten shook his head. "I do not know what I can do." He looked on his weeping sister who had now broken down into tears. There was sorrow on his face, a regret and self-hatred at the fact that his hands were bound and no matter his will there was nothing that could be done. His hand came down hard upon the large table and he grimaced from the pain of seeing his sister's hopelessness. Quenten looked over to Morgon, a plea in his eyes. "Help me," they seemed to say. "Help me save them."

"I suppose," Morgon began, glancing between his Lord and the two women. "We might be able to send a small force of riders south before the Westerlings arrive." Joanna looked up from tending Jocelyn's tears. "To what end, Ser? My brother needs an army, not a group of scouts." Her voice was pained, torn between understanding Quenten's obligation to his subjects and her own emotions which called upon her to do more for her brother. And Adrian. "Can't you send the all the horse?" she asked, turning to Quenten for his answer. He shook his head in response, locking his hands behind his back, looking much like a teacher scolding a child for an obvious mistake though he tone was far softer. "I'm afraid the Westerling scouts would easily spot such an army. We'd not only be splitting our forces but also making it easier for them to cut the riders down before turning on The Banefort. I'm afraid..." He trailed off, his voice losing strength as he found the realities of their situation too depressing to discuss.

"There must be something you can do!" Joanna exclaimed. Jocelyn began wailing loudly, her cries coming through in between choking gasps for breath. Joanna held her close and tried to calm her. She looked to Ser Morgon as she rocked the woman's body slowly. "Isn't there?"

"We could," Ser Morgon began. He looked to Quenten who watched him with sadness in his eyes. It stung him to see his Lord so broken. This was not the first time and Morgon had sworn he would never again let the man down, never disappoint his master ever again. "We could meet the Westerlings in the open field. It would be tricky," he admitted, scratching his chin with his maimed hand, "but I think we could manage it. And if they are routed-"

"Damon," Jocelyn croaked quietly, her voice hoarse from her outburst.

"Yes," Joanna said, brushing Jocelyn's hair back with her hand and wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. "Then we'll save Damon."

#ACT I

Ashemark

Addam rubbed his head as he closed the book that lay before him. It was getting harder to concentrate as the evening wore on and it was no use trying to distract himself from the inevitable any longer. The parchment had lay to the side of his desk for the better part of two days, its surface still untainted by ink as Addam found himself at a loss on how to describe the current predicament. Lord Serrett would no doubt be furious, though Addam was quite certain nobody could be as furious as he. Without hesitation, he grabbed the goblet and drained it of its contents, sloppily gulping down the wine which offered but the faintest of consolation during these trying times.

"More wine!" Addam called as he slammed the goblet down. He could not bear the thought of proceeding with the message sober. Gripping his quill, Addam bent his head over the parchment and dipped the writing instrument into the ink well. For a moment too long he held it there as his eyes narrowed, the anger welling up in him yet again. "Damn that boy," he growled softly. Addam let go of the quill and grabbed the goblet. He looked up and shouted once more. "More wine!"

Addam's furious cries were greeted with the creaking of his study door as it swung open. A familiar face wearing a calm smile poked in followed by a pitcher which sloshed with liquid. "All the hurry, father. Wasn't it you who tried to teach me patience?" Leyton kept his smile as he made his way to his father's desk. He poured another glass for Addam before setting the pitcher down and placing himself in the seat opposite the old Lord. "You'll be like me soon, all that wine," Leyton laughed. "Now you understand how good it feels, don't you?" He pushed his father's goblet towards him with a smile, offering the drink to the angry, old man

"It's..." Addam trailed off as he watched the wine. It tumbled back and forth, the liquid shaking from being moved across the table. It was comforting, that much was true. But it also dulled his senses, took his mind off the important matters. No, he was not like his son. He would not overindulge. "That damned boy," Addam repeated, his mind clear now and refocused upon his former squire. "How dare he, after all I had given him!"

Leyton shook his head and snorted. "It's my brother, you know. Turned him against you, turned him against me. And now my poor, dear sister ha-"

Addam cut off his son with a roar. "You've never cared about your sister! You've never cared about Damon until he proved his mettle." He pointed at his eldest son. There was a fire in his eyes, one of hatred but not of Leyton. Addam, in this moment, despised himself. Looking at his son was like looking at a mirror as it reflected his whole past to him, his failures that led to the disappointment that Leyton had become. Leyton did not flinch as his father yelled but only looked up to meet the old, tired eyes, presenting a wry smile. "That lad has kidnapped Joanna and run off while Damon's been plotting behind your back. What will you do, father? Nothing? And what of the Serretts and the betrothal they had been promised?" Addam calmed as his son spoke, the matters of importance now coming back to his attention. He rubbed his head again and picked up the goblet, drinking the sweet wine slowly. "I will tell the Serretts that the betrothal is done," he replied, goblet still in hand. "I will not have word of this spreading the realm." The last thing Addam wanted was for the West to hear that he had lost control of his family. He sipped the wine yet again, draining the goblet of its contents.

"Nor can Damon remain in command," Leyton added as he grabbed the pitcher and refilled Addam's goblet. "His friendship with Adrian would be problematic. Confine him to his room and grant me a command to hunt down Joanna's kidnapper." Leyton's smile had not faded and his eyes shone with malice. Addam looked his son over and shook his head. "No, I... I will lead the effort. Damon wi-"

"Damon will betray us!" Leyton hissed. He slammed his fist on the table in a moment of wroth. After a couple of deep breaths, he calmed again and let his smile return. "I have already drawn the order," he said as he pulled a rolled parchment from inside his tunic. "You need only stamp it with your ring. Father. Do it."

Addam slowly took the paper from his son and unraveled it. He read it over as he drank. As his eyes finished scanning over Leyton's orders, he tossed the paper aside and scowled. "Why not just have your brother hung then?" he asked, the words escaping through clenched teeth. Leyton snorted again, a single huff of laughter. "If you'd allow it, I'd gladly draw the gallows now."

"No, he..." Addam hesitated. His eyes were still cast down at his goblet. Great warrior that he was, he still lacked the strength to tell this to his son. He lifted the wine, drinking down the liquid to bolster his courage. "Damon is more worthy of this seat than you will ever be," Addam muttered, wine spilling slightly from the edges of his lips.

"What?" Leyton barked, his malice now shifted towards his father. "This is my birthright! I was born worthy!"

"No. You have never earned it, Leyton. You have simply waited for this seat. Damon, if he will renounce his friend, will continue on as the commander of the foot. And you," he jabbed a finger at Leyton, "will earn this seat before I am gone." Addam lifted the goblet to his mouth again. The metal felt heavier and his movements more sluggish. The sweetness of the wine overwhelmed him as the cool liquid passed down his throat. He locked his eyes upon Leyton as he lowered the cup but found it increasingly difficult to focus. With a thud, the goblet hit the table and toppled over, the blood red wine spilling out and coursing its way over to Leyton's parchment.

"It may be too late for that," Leyton said as he watched his father's head slump into the wooden desk. He stood and quickly snatched the parchment before the advancing wine could stain the paper. With a smirk, Leyton walked around and grabbed the red wax, heating it by the candle and dripping a glob onto his orders. "You were always too proud," Leyton said, his voice thick with feigned pity. He grabbed his father's hand, holding his ring finger up and examining the sigil ring carefully. With no hesitation, Leyton brought the parchment to his father's hand and stamped the still-warm wax, adorning it with the burning tree of Ashemark. "We've always done things your way, but not anymore, father. I am worthy. You'll..." Leyton laughed again. "I guess you won't see. But the rest of the realm will."

Leyton then looked to the door and gave out a loud command, one which Addam could no longer make out. His world was dimming but he saw the door open and a dark figure approach. Even in the dark and dim room, Addam could make out the faint shine of a smile in the flickering light. "Ar... Arthur?" Addam croaked out. His breaths were getting heavier, more labored. The figure stood close and leaned down, examining Addam's face with curious eyes. "My Lord," he said slowly. Arthur straightened up and looked over to Leyton. "Looks like it worked. Now about the body."

"We'll discover him later," he replied, leaning his weight into his father's cold form and shoving him off his seat. Addam hit the ground with an empty thud. He wanted to groan but found instead that his eyes were closing. He tried to fight it but his world continued to darken around him. Finally, his eyes had shut completely and all that was left was his fading sense of hearing.

"I have to finish my father's work, Arthur. Go take care of Damon."

Leyton emerged from the crypt a new man. The nagging voice that had harassed him for the last week had finally been silenced, as though it had been laid in the crypt alongside Addam's sarcophagus. The doubt had hounded him since his father's death, a constant question of whether he was ready and if what he was doing would succeed. But now that was all gone. Leyton had watched his father's cold corpse interred into his final resting place. His fortunes had changed. Now he was without obstacles, without restraints and rules. Ashemark was his, to bend as needed in order to rid him of his few remaining challengers. And he'd start now with his brother.

Crossing the courtyard, Leyton saw Ser Arthur coming towards him, glee upon his face. "Arthur," he said, raising a hand to greet the man. "Gather your men and fetch my brother. His days ar-"

"Not as numbered as you might think," Arthur said. His smile was eerie, seemingly out of place. Behind him, the faces of several men looked sour but Arthur continued with a shudder of excitement. "Oh, your brother is gone. Seems the brat had help getting out. It was all quite-"

"Gone? Do you mean he's escaped?" Leyton's face burned a deep red. "What do you mean? Go, get after him!"

"Gladly," Arthur responded, dipping into a bow. "It wouldn't have been sporting to not let them have a head start. You understand, my Lord."

Leyton scowled and shook with anger. Fortune, like the wind, was unpredictable.

Wayfarer's Rest

If not well-nourished, Damon's small band of allies were most certainly full of heart. They had passed The Golden Tooth with no trouble, the Lord Lefford providing them a small stash of supplies and ushering them off his lands with haste. Now they had come to their destination, the home of his uncle and, Damon hoped, a possible ally in his rebellion. Wayfarer's Rest was no small citadel but it remained dwarfed by the mighty Ashemark. Still, it stood tall and firm beside the River Road, the first bastion between the Westerlands and the rest of the realm.

Damon's approach had not been hidden, his men rode in two columns proudly displaying the personal banners of their chosen master. A small band of half a dozen armed men rode towards Damon's party, their black and white livery easily denoting their service to House Vance.

"Halt!" their leader cried as they approached. Damon nodded back to his men and rode forward, his trusted friend Adrian at his side. "We seek passage," he replied as he brought his horse forward. "I seek audience with my uncle, Lord Vance."

"Lord Vance is not present," the Vance captain called as he brought his horse to a stop. The five other men behind him halted as well, their demeanor calm and nonthreatening. "I am his son, Simon." The man eyed Damon, scanning him up and down. "I do not recognize you, and you say you're my cousin?" Damon nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, my brother seeks my death. He usurped my fath-"

"Damon Marbrand?" Simon eyed his cousin suspiciously as he put together the pieces of the puzzle. "I've heard stories, and not quite the ones you're telling me now." In the blink of an eye, Simon had his hand upon his sword, the steel already unsheathed before Damon could react. "As your brother tells it, I should have you arrested and delivered to him for treason." Simon urged his horse forward, advancing on his new enemy. Damon and Adrian exchanged a quick glance before turning their horses away. The odds were against them and they knew better than to stand their ground. Even Damon, hardheaded as he was, retreated with his friend.

The glint of steel caught the eyes of Damon's men in the distance and they rushed upon their mounts, galloping towards their master. "No!" Adrian cried as the men drew closer. "Ride, ride!" The few men loyal to Damon surrounded him as the two groups met. Glancing behind, Damon saw that Simon had not given chase but instead had retreated back towards the keep, no doubt to summon reinforcements to ride down and hunt him. "We've no choice," he said breathlessly as they continued to gallop. "We have to ride hard back to the West." They'd hunt him for certain but he intended to be a most elusive prey.

"So you're probably wondering how I got here. Hanging upside down, dodging arrows and swinging a sword that's far too large for my arms at the string of a drawbridge of Ghaston Grey so my mentor can knock the gate down," the skinny riverlander boy said to absolutely nobody. "My name's Denny, but most everyone calls me Squire on account of my boss. I mostly call him Ser because he's a bit a rough headed maniac. But you see, I never knew my father and wait a second hold up-"

Squire's rope was swinging back near the drawbridge and he saw an opening to take another hack. "Bonk! Missed again. Anyways, so when this old soldier who was the only real father figure in my life asked me to try to scale the walls of Ghaston Grey to open the gate so he could lead a break in to free his nephew Fidge, how could I say no. After all, he's the only one crazy enough to catapult himself in if I needed back-up on the gate."

Ser Vaemar Spinner thus came plummeting through the air whilst flipping around in an unceremonious way, before he unfurled a large white cloth that suddenly caught in the air. As the fully armored knight safely floated to the ground he unleashed his war-cry, "Screamin' Eagles!" and drew his weapons.

The old knight was a blur of grey steel in the night using the spiked flail in his right hand to crush anybody who got in his range. As he popped a guard's skull he screamed, "Kaboom". With a short sword in Vaemar's left hand, he cleared the steps up to the upper walkway of what called 'maggots.'

The whole debacle distracted everyone enough for Squire to swing his rope back for one last try, only he put too much strain and his support snapped mid-air. Squire used all his strength to still swing for the rope and snapped it.

"Yeah," Squire shouted as he stood up from the fall. "Grass grows, birds fly, sun shines, and brother I-" Another arrow streaked past his head, but the bandit raiders they summoned as Tier TWO NACs knocked the doors in. The battle would be over soon.

Even though Squire was known for his speed, it took him and Ser Vaemar hours to find Fidge. A massive old man was waiting for them outside his cell.

"Oh my gods," Ser said. "Heavy weapons man. I though you were dead."

"It is not so comrade Soldier," the Heavy replied. "Or should I be calling you comrade Knight now?"

Squire wasn't fond of this budding comradery he wasn't a part of and butted in with the hard questions, "Hey buddy, are you stalling? Where is his nephew."

The Heavy lead them into the cell and in between slits of light laid a small man covered in bandages laughing quietly to himself. Heavy broke the silence, "Tried to protect comrade Fidge when I heard his name, but other gangs got to him alone. Burned entire body with oil. It broke his mind, made him in love with fire. Goes mad around any flame and otherwise just sits here, laughing."

Vaemar approached his nephew, sad he never got to know his face. Well he wouldn't give up on him now, "Hello, soldier. Will you come with me."

Immediately life filled up beneath the bandages and the man inside tried to speak to his nuncle, "Hudda hudda hudda. Hmmpf."

Heavy looked shocked, "He has only got dis excited over flames. Maybe you can save him."

Squire, obsessing over the need to fit in, decided to interject, "We will do anything to help, err, this guy."

"Then I know just the doktor," Heavy replied. "I have many other mercenary friends, Knight. It will take some time track them all down, but doktor may know spells to heal him."

Vaemar took off his simple metal half-dome of a helm and looked up at his Squire. "Are you maggots ready to kick some heiney? Where to first?"

"Stormlands is closest. I know a marcher, good with bow."

"Then let's head out Team!"

"Are you sure?" came the lips of Sepul Peake as he stood in his solar. The refreshing breeze of the grassland on Aegon's High Hill and the salt from the seas aided in the melancholy of his servant's petulant voice. He had not enjoyed his service and didn't feel it was needed. Doubtless, his mentor heavily disagreed.

"Y---Yes my... lord. He passed in his home, they say." The old man was haggled, with fair white hair along his jawline, short and wyry hair on his scalp falling back upon his balding head. His skin was heavy and sagging, often making him look sad.

Sepul left the gaze on himself to turn to the open balcony, overlooking the sky. A smile lingered on his lips, one that was not welcome with most, an intrigued smile, one that laid fear in the hearts of men.

"It seems I must ride for Starpike then, my brother must be lonely."

"But your training -."

"What!" he snapped, "What of it." he asked baring his teeth, "Is my family of no importance to you? He gently stepped down from his dais, his leather pointed boots shining in the light from the sun. On this day he wore an orange leather jerkin with a tan cloak with a nightingale singing from the tower of each of his family's three castles.

Two now. Something told him. He brushed it aside.

"Saddle my horse." He said while glaring at his subordinate, his eyes never blinking.

The old man gulped, "---- Yes."

"Yes?"

"My.... Lord."

Sepul smiled, watching as the Old man made his way to the door, hands shaking as they grasped the handle.

"Now is time to win what is mine..." he scowled, "by right."

I am officially announcing my stepping back, and declaiming from ITP.

The sheep of Sheepshead Hills shall roam on without me now.

I haven't the time, nor the energy and focus required to keep doing House Woolfield justice any longer. It was a fantastic run, and I think I brought a lot of interesting lore and story to the House, heck we had a few murderous Lords, a secret basilisk, and an insane populace, but here is where it ends.

I wish I could keep on writing, I absolutely love creating lore for the House. However it has come down to my writing being of necessity to remain active, rather than from pure inspiration and creativity, which is always much to the sacrifice of quality.

I wish you all an absolutely fantastically wonderful reset, and I will be more than happy to answer any questions about the history of the House, should we get a new Woolfield player before everything turns over to the reset.

And so; I bid you all a fond farewell.

Ashford Castle felt less welcoming on this day. While most of the people of the town and keep were more delightful than not, on this day all he could feel was pity and remorse. An itch nattered at his shoulder, though every time he went to scratch it, the chilling feeling grew more and more until he found the strength to stop.

Torvyn had only ever wanted to be great like his father and grandfather, but as his time in service to the Ashfords endured, so did his father's rule. His father had always been welcomed here, seldom did he actually visit. A Lord's duties outweighed his necessity to do things he wanted to, that is what his father had told him as a child. The same excuse for not visiting his son and heir for many years.

Neglected.

In recent years, he'd heard whispers about his father. How when he'd lost his eye to Tybolt Crakehall, he had changed. He hardly believed it, though as more and more whispers came, his faith dwindled to a dying light, ushering its last breath. Had his father been a good man? Hadn't he?

That was something he'd asked the Crone and Father many times, though every time he asked a question, he found two more. If there were seven gods, why would not one of them help him? He'd ask if he had the courage to.

On this day, Torvyn Peake stood in his solar. Long curls of black hair found their way winding past his shoulder. His frame was slender and frail, with porcelain skin, similar to his Aunt Clarice. Torvyn was more his mother's son than his father's, with all of his features from his Caron mother as violet eyes tried to look into their own from his mirror as he'd began to get dressed.

First, he slipped on his orange leather jerkin, then his braies and breeches with his black boots and tanned cape with the three castles last.

"Very well, my Lord." Osfryd Oldflowers said. An elderly man with thin grey hair on his scalp and a curled raven black moustache upon his lips. The man was a distant Cousin from the line of his Grandmother from what he could remember, though he wasn't entirely sure how it went.

Torvyn looked at himself, measuring up his arms and shoulder, how weak he looked. He did not feel worthy of being the Lord of Starpike, let alone Dunstonbury. His Grandfather had been a rebel, caused the Reach to bleed while his father had been a better man and built his house to glory. He didn't even know what this Tyrell girl would be like or look like, but he knew he would bring her only disappointment. She deserves someone better than me.

All it would be undone under himself.

He gulped.

"Shall I inform Lord Jon?"

He wanted to ask for a haircut but was terrified of the embarrassment.

He stepped forward, hands resting on the windowsill as he gazed upon the Cockleswhent. Perhaps this would one day be his purpose.

Hey folks, thanks for giving me an insight to this game. Unfortunately my PC died a couple weeks ago and I just got it up and running and boy do I feel behind on a lot of things. I don't have the time to catch up and might start up again later as a smaller house on the new sub to get more solid footing into the rules. Thanks for the fun!

r/TheCitadel

^^This ^^was ^^done ^^as ^^a ^^collaboration ^^between ^^our ^^subreddits! ^^:)

Only have time for one reddit RPG at the moment. It's been neat getting to know how everything works.

[m]pranked

Thor Locke together with his son Edric and 2 daughters Mya and Marissa arrive at White Harbour, escorted by 12 LC carrying their sigil.

The party rides up to the gate.

It had felt like forever since he'd seen her face.

The Lord of Starpike sat dully in his solar, light slowly crept as fingers through his blinds as he lay at his bedside, undressed. It was far past midday and the servants had tried more than once to speak with him, though as they knocked, the door bore no answer.

Yet, there he sat, his eyes glaring at a painting he'd had done in King's Landing outside the Street of Steel. It was him... and her, outside of Aegon's High Hill where they'd sneaked out of their chambers at night as children to sit and gaze upon the stars. It had been so cold that night and Edric had given her his cloak for warmth, looking into the cloudless sky, wondering if the gods were truly there.

He sighed, his hands began to tremble as a tear left his eye. It had been so long ago, yet the memory was fresher than the food he'd had to break his fast. Out of all the wealth and lands, it was the memories he'd cared for the most.

The times of good and bad.

They'd taken almost everything away from him, yet they would never take his memories. Sitting aside him as she leaned on his shoulder and they talked of the Gods, Summer Knights and other strange, but amusing things. It had all been a long, long time ago, in a fairytale almost. As much as he still loved her and regretted all of the bad, a part of him could not forgive her for leaving him.

When she had been here, all that there had been was enjoyment, love and care. Now that she had left him, all that had lead in the aftermath had been death and destruction.

He stood up and began to get dressed as fast as he could. Black trousers and boots with a black jerkin and silver pin of Starpike on his breast. Slowly, he etched his way through the darkness of the hallway until he found himself outside in the sept.

There she was... her stone standing aside an apple tree with beautiful pink leaves above that had scattered piles around her headstone. Slowly, he came forth to her, kneeling down as he placed down a single rose.

"I never got to say what I wanted." He said before beginning to rise, "There's so much I wish I had done, I was never enough of a man to say it."

The wind began to dance against him as it whistled and blew his hair to one side, "I regret many things and wish I'd done some others." He looked to Aelinoir's tomb, to Elira's to his fathers and sisters and brothers, "There are many things I wish, but I will continue wishing all the same." A tear escaped his eyes.

"I'm surrounded by people yet I feel more alone now than I have ever done. I am surrounded by a hall of a dozen hearths, yet I feel no warmth. I am surrounded by summer, life and crops yet all I feel is winter.

"I carry on because it's my duty, because while my lips say one thing, my mind means another. I am no hero, I know that. I am a sinner, a bad and evil man. Many have died at my hands and don't even know it, I may have met mothers of sons I have killed or worse..."

He whimpered, sniffling as waterfalls fell from his eyes, "I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me. But my light is merely embers, and you are all that I remember."

He fell to his knees, the mud staining his trousers as he kneeled before Lydia. I miss you... so so much.

It rained that night, a large storm that unravelled villagers and unsettled the hounds. One that was so cold in summer, it was as if it was winter all over again.

Later the next day, Maeve had decided to skip and dance before the rose gardens. She'd dressed in a lilac gown with a white flower in her hair while her hair was braided as if she was a Princess of Dragonstone. Humming and smiling she hopped and skipped around Starpike as she'd grown used to doing in summer. It was no longer too cold for her and she enjoyed the fresh air and the conversations she had with kennel master, Marcus who had promised her with the next litter, she could have her own puppy.

His name was already Sandy, for all of the dogs in the kennels had sandy fur with heavy, floppy ears and calm and playful blue eyes. Sandy the puppy she would call him, for a girl puppy would be far too much trouble. So away she went, past the flower gardens and to the apple tree she'd sometimes visit on her way to the kennel master, but today she saw something she did not expect.

A gasp came from her mouth as she saw a figure lying where her mother rested. He was tall and all in black with her father's hair, though his skin was pale and sickly, and he did not move, even when some of the birds were pecking at his neck. She slowly moved closer, and closer until she noticed who he was.

Her eyes began to weep as she screamed in her soul, though she was not able to find the words escaping her lips as she sat there by her father, her arms wrapped around her legs as she rocked backwards and forwards, violet eyes glaring into nothingness.

She stayed there for half of the day until a man in Peake armour took her in and fed her...

The Lord of Starpike and Dunstonbury was no more.

“Such fascinating power in words.” Wallace tapped a finger and the stem of his quill, if he needed to writer slower, then so be it. “We oft forget how wrapped up we can be, even as a boy I found myself sucked into those tales of the lazy forest folk. Jam festivals and all that, and now grown in some ways I find myself still looking for more.”

Marlo shrugged and passed the man a bottle of booze, golden with a worm in the middle. “I guess. I always preferred the dirty stories myself. Nothing gushes like the women of my youth. Don't think anything is ever as good as what is up here.” He tapped his head with one of the glasses Wallace was forced to agree.

“Do you think their will stories about us Wallace? We ain't mighty heroes or anything, the stories they are just heroes arn't they?” He set to slicing limes, and passed the master of whispers a salt shaker.
“Are those women in your fantasies heroic? Mine was.”
“Can't say anyone willing to jump on a member this big isn't.”
“Heh. Mayhaps, who knows really? We must be important enough to be here, the seven have a plan for us all I think.” Wallace thought of the people he'd known, of those he'd only heard of in stories. Of friends long gone, Lady Whent, Edmur Storm, too many to count.
“What comes next then? After all this?” Marlo fidgeted and spun a little in his seat. “Like when we die, when no-one is left to remember us?”
“More of the same I think. We might be forgotten, our stories might be remembered. The only thing that truly matters thou is that we enjoyed what life we had. That won't be in the books.” Wallace poured a small bit of salt onto his weirwood hand.
Marlo nodded, thou he didn't look convinced. “Also, that we fucked over some really salty bitches.” He slide Wallace a slice of lime.

Wallace laughed. “Like I said, we enjoyed ourselves. Now, let's drink.”

The spectators look over the longships that have taken to sea for the Captain's Cup.

7 from House Orkwood:

Asher Orkwood, The Pinespear

Urrathon Orkwood, The Unbreakable

Urras Orkwood, The Sea Troll

Kodlak Redmane, The Broken Buckler

Borri Redmane, The Salt Fisher

Yohn Goodbrother, The Forlorn Mermaid

Maelys Goodbrother, The Wicked Bitch

12 from House Harlaw of Grey Garden

Joseran Harlaw, Grey Reaper

Theoderic Harlaw, Nagga's Maw

Tristifer Tormark, Stranger's Mercy

Torgon, The Grim Delight

Roryn Harlaw, The Sea Song

Erich Cruelmouth, Storm King's Farce

Urrigon Breakiron, The Wailing Widow

Walder Pyke, Triumphant

Kara Harlaw, Greyscale

Una Harlaw, Iron Scythe

Gormond Pyke, Lady Miser

Gwynesse Harlaw, Siren's Song

14 from House Harlaw of Ten Towers

Urrigon Pyke, The River's Blade

Maero Stonesinger, Stone Fury

Lord Erich Harlaw, Reaper's Song

Dalton Harlaw, The Black Storm

Hagen Harlaw, The Salt Woman

Domnus Harlaw, Stonecutter's Lover

Gevin Harlaw, Swift Cuts

Erron Harlaw, The Weeping Reaper

Keaver Strongjaw, Salt and Blood

Merral Pyke, The New Scythe

Urvane Waters, Widowmaker

Kevan Waters, Widowtaker

Ilban of Pentos, The Dead Red

Sevvar, Reaver's Dream

Druscilla Wyl’s fingers trembled slightly as another cough racked her body, frowning as she noted,the specks of blood upon her nice silk handkerchief. She was dying. She knew that. She had known it for some time. She liked to think she had come to terms with it. It had been a good life, for the most part, her marriage aside. Lucam had been a terrible, cruel man, and the years she had spent with him had been the hardest of her entire life. But without it, she would not have her children, the source of all of her pride. And her dear grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, who had brought so much joy into her life. She reflected on them all, as she looked down at the tapestry resting on her lap. Every five years, since Edmund had been born, she had sewn a tapestry depicting the whole of House Wyl, gathered together as one family. This one was a little early, but she had a different deadline to work to now.

It never failed to make her smile, as she looked upon it. All of her family, united by the blood they shared, and the love they bore each other. At the centre, Noble Edmund, proud and dignified. Her just, diligent son, so suited to the mantle of Lordship he bore. In the dark times, when Lucam’s cruelty had weighed so greatly upon her, her eldest son had always been there to support her, and protect her, just as he protected all his family. He had grown from an intelligent and insightful boy to a powerful Lord, who had raised their family from the shadows. He stood at the head of the family, with his children gathered around him. Bold, dauntless, caring Lysander, Her son’s heir, and a bright young future for Wyl, with his darling daughters gathered around him; Stern, valiant Jacelyn, her indomitable little knight, so stalwart in protecting his family, with his sons and his infant daughter; Sullen Sylas, off to the side, while her bright little Byren, with the three links he had already put on his chain, and sweet Thalia, with that gleaming smile, stood at the fore. Then, off to the side slightly, her Princess. Darling little Vyanna, who had even as a child filled Drusilla’s heart with pride, and had risen so high to become Princess of Dorne, so beautiful and graceful, so just and wise. In Vyanna, Druscilla was glad to see her son’s greatest legacy.

On Edmund’s left side, stood his sisters: Jemelyn, tall and graceful, even as she grew older. Jemelyn, who had always been her family’s pride, who had made her family more prominent by sheer force of personality; Serenei, so proud and rebellious, who had found a new family, even as she despaired of her own; and Ella. Sweet little Ella, always Druscilla’s pride and joy, so bright, so limitlessly kind. Lady-In-Waiting to a Queen, Tutor to Princesses, darling mother to two kind and wonderful children. Her three daughters were so different, in so many different ways, but she loved them all so dearly. She was so proud of everything they had become.

On Edmund’s Left, were his brothers: Symond, her youngest, tall, muscular, and valiant, so far away from the sweet infant he had once been. Lord Consort of Skyreach, and the most respected knight in Dorne. Symond had risen from the shadow of his older siblings to become a truly great man. And Halidan. Poor, poor Halidan, who had lost so much that he had wandered North to find solace. Poor Halidan who sent Druscilla crying to her bed each night, wishing she could be there to comfort him. And next to him, it seemed to Druscilla that there was a gaping void. Her noble, dutiful Lucerys, her Knight of the Kingsguard. Her dear son, who had died fighting for the king he had sworn to protect. His absence hurt like a searing poker in her heart, but she knew it would be crueller to include him. I will see you, with your father, soon.

They all looked so grand, gathered together. They, would be, along with her sewing, Druscilla’s legacy, and she could not be more proud. This was a good way to die, basking in the warmth of one’s family. Surrounded by the memories you would soon fade to. She tied off the last stitch, and reached over for her glass of sweetwine. She was ready.

They had found her the next morning, when the Lady Dowager’s maid had come up with her breakfast. She had passed peacefully in her sleep. Her final tapestry wrapped around her, a gentle smile on her lips. Edmund had wept when he saw it. He had known this was coming. For years he had known. He had tried to fight it, done all he could to stave off the inevitable, but he had always known this day would come, and he had promised himself he would accept it when it did.

They had all come to the funeral, all of House Wyl, save for Halidan, still stuck at the wall. Jem, Serenei, Ella, and Symond, with all their children. There were tears shed, of course, and they sought solace in one another’s arms, as they exited the small hilltop sept overlooking the River Wyl. But as Edmund paused, taking in the view of the open countryside, he found his gaze drawn over to his grandchildren, his nephews and nieces, speaking quietly to one another, sharing small smiles and gentle stories. It was hard, losing his mother. She was one of the last of her generation, a fragment of a past not many could now remember, so many years of a rich and varied history, slowly fading away. But when he looked at the children, at the bright and promising future that they ahead of them, the pain was dulled, and he felt almost able to smile again.

Losing the past was a sorrowful thing, but one could find solace in the future.

Meanwhile, in the Riverlands, under the shade of a lone oak tree, atop a small, forgotten hill, at a lazy bend on the Green Fork of the Trident a gentle breeze sent a scattered cluster of flowerpetals drifting past a group of seven simple grave markers, bearing simple names, long since lost to memory.

Antwell, Julem, Cal, Meribar, Ralf, Luke, and Al.

A raven is sent to Oldcastle

Lord Locke

I would ask now that winter is over you come eat with me and my family in White Harbor. It has been too long since we spoke.

Tyral Manderly, Lord of White Harbor

Tired and aching from practice, Armond settled into his chaise. His calloused hands teared away at the letters left at his desk. Mother and sisters all wishing him a happy nameday, no mentions of visiting him or having him visit home.

Sighing, he stood up, going to visit his mentor. Lord Richard was a good man, aye, but he was wordy and sometimes eyed Armond a bit too long. Richard taught him about the smallfolk, about history, about what being a lord truly meant.

But it was Gyles he found himself wanting to be like. A man with no responsibilities, no burden. Free to fight and knight however he liked. He was easygoing and liked to make Armond laugh. In the training yard, Armond could forget who he was or why he was there. Armond could just feel like a squire.

With a small frown, he approached the older knight asking, "Why doesn't she visit? She's not a Morrigen. Grandfather Alyn visits, why can't she?"

With the halls of Orkmont full with ironbron Lord Asher orders the beginning of festivities.

Winners:

Melee:

Winner: Marin Greyjoy

Runner-Up: Theodric Harlaw

Archery:

Winner: Urrigon Pyke

Runner-Up: Gevin Harlaw

Wrestling:

Captains Cup:

Hunt:

Drinking Contest:

Winner: Marin Greyjoy

Runner-up: Kodlak Redmane

On the first day of festivities at Orkmont the participants are gathered for a hunt. The participants begin their trek led by Lord Asher himself they eventually come upon their destination. Here they will stay for some days, hunting, fishing and hopefully bonding. But only then one man can win.

###JASON

7th Month 344AC

It took them longer than what he expected to get to Runestone. But traveling with a few hundred men was always slow and difficult. Even more in the rough land of the Vale. But, finally, Jason and his men had arrived at Runestone.

One of his captains announced his arrival at the gates.

Rickard sat in his solar, legs propped high on his desk, the windows open and the sounds of the castle drifting in.

He motioned to a guard, and made the familiar sign for Aodhan. Then he sat back and waited, sipping idly at a glass of wine, and pondering.

Link here: https://www.reddit.com/r/SevenKingdoms/comments/7418oc/modpost_applications_round_two_regular_house/