The Lion and the Rose: South
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badgate
Junior Chimp
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« Reply #75 on: May 06, 2015, 01:09:15 PM »



Yohn Royce

The Wendwater River chugged slowly toward Blackwater Bay, completely unaware of the warfare surrounding it. Yohn had called a halt for the day's march when they met the river; on the morrow they would be fording it. Just now, however, Yohn had a promise to fulfill.

He found his good-son sparring with blunted swords against Ser Mychel Redfort. Their feet splashed in the shallow edge of the river water as the steel echoed down its current. Mychel saw Yohn watching, and in that split second his hesitation allowed Harrold to land a swing flat against the young man's left shoulder. "Yield," Ser Mychel said as he rubbed his shoulder and rotated his arm in the socket. The young man grinned and they clasped hands. "Well fought," the Redfort boy said. Then Ser Harrold saw Yohn as well. "Good-father!" he called, followed by Ser Mychel asking, "how fares Runestone?"

Yohn grimaced. Aegon the Pretender's sellswords had sacked the castle and taken the five-hundred man garrison unawares. As he spoke, Yohn knew that Ser Samwell Stone was raising seven-hundred fifty men to both garrison and rebuild the seat of House Royce. "Repairs are underway as we speak, thank the lord of light," he said in response. Turning to Harrold, "good-son, did you still wish to hunt with me today? We've four good hours before sunset."

Harrold grinned and said goodbye to his friend. Together, the Lord Regent and the Heir Apparent walked deeper into the Kingswood until they were a mile from the Runestone army's camp. They set up a canvas blind over a solid tree trunk and settled down on the trunk to wait. "Is this what it was like to hunt with King Robert?" the young man asked.

"No. Robert preferred to hunt with spears, and he was much more interested in boars. Today we are hunting a different game." He handed Harrold an ornate crossbow the young man had unearthed from the army's stores, keeping a weirwood longbow for himself. "I was with him on his final hunt," he heard himself saying. "The king was roaring drunk. I suspect his squire was pushing the wine harder than normal, and when that great boar broke past his spear and gored him..." his voice trailed off.

"When he died," he continued, "I had hoped Lord Stark would come to me. Jon Arryn had left me enough clues to discover the secrets that got him killed. I didn't put it together until that same night. When dawn came, and Lord Stark had not, however..." his voice trailed off again. Harrold was listening raptly. "What happened?"

"We fled. It shames me, but myself and Andar fled back to the Vale that very morning. We hadn't the numbers to defy Cersei Lannister on our own, and Eddard Stark had put his trust in the wrong men. Robar, though...he'd gone south during the dark of night with Renly Baratheon. I never saw him again."

Just then a fawn walked past the hunting blind. Harrold loosed a bolt from his crossbow, which missed. The fawn ran off in a flash. "Damn," the young man muttered.

"You struck too soon," Yohn told him. "Let it be complacent. Wait until it's grazing." Harrold scowled but didn't argue. Instead, the young man said, "Stannis was Robert's true heir, but..."

"Yes?" Yohn asked.

Harrold sighed. "You are the Lord Regent. Your daughter is our queen, and my sister as well through marriage." He let the words hang in the air.

"And?"

"And, we've just won a war to find ourselves facing a greater foe than before. This Targaryen woman...she has dragons." His voice grew hushed when he said the word. "In Aegon's conquest, the dragons burned the fleet of Gulltown in a single night. They scorched the Reach to ash. If we have to face her..." He didn't seem to want to finish, so Yohn spoke instead. "When a Targaryen was born, son, the Lords of Westeros used to flip a coin. On one side is greatness: the strength of Aegon the Conquerer. On the other is-"

"-madness," Harrold finished. "Like the Mad King Aerys."

"Just so. This Targaryen queen's father, in fact. The Targaryens were of Old Valyria, where it was customary to wed brother and sister. Aegon the Unlikely tried to end that, but he was succeeded by the wrong son. Jaeherys wed his sister, and their children Aerys and Rhaella wed as well." "So you think Daenerys Stormborn could be mad as well?" Harrold asked. Yohn massaged his jaw, thinking. "To be honest," he said, "I don't know."

After that, they sat in silence for nearly an hour. Eventually, Yohn said, "do you know the story of the Vale's submission?" Harrold shook his head. "We knelt like the other six kingdoms, do I really need to know how?" Yohn sighed. "Really, son, if you're going to lead, you should know your history.

"After the battle at Gulltown, Aegon and his sisters turned to the other kingdoms of Westeros. They conquered the Stormlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, and the West in short order. Then Torrhen Stark saw that the North could never beat back Aegon's might, and bent the knee. At the time, the King in the Vale was a young boy named Ronnel Arryn. His mother, Sharra, was the Queen Regent. While Aegon and his sisters were conquering the rest of the South, Queen Sharra fortified the Vale. She moved the strongest host the Bloody Gate had ever seen to its garrison. She tripled the three castles leading to the Eyrie: Stone, Snow, and Sky. Aegon would have had to let a hundred thousand, maybe more, die before his army reached into the Vale.

"So instead, his sister Visenya mounted her dragon Vhagar. Oh, we tried to loose some arrows at the beast, but it was for nonce. When Queen Sharra was told, she came running out to the Eyrie's inner courtyard. There she found Visenya Targaryen and her dragon, with little King Ronnel sitting on her knee. The boy asked his mother, 'mother, can I go fly with the lady?'"

Harrold frowned. "But Ronnel Arryn lived, didn't he? She didn't kill a little boy. She wouldn't." "No," Yohn assured him.

"So what happened to Ronnel Arryn?"

"Well, Queen Sharra knew then and there that Vale's throne was lost. She and Visenya exchanged pleasantries. One account, that I read once in Oldtown, says they spoke as if they were old friends. Sharra had the men of her garrison turn over their swords to the new queen, and they were among the hundreds that form the iron throne. She surrendered the crowns of the Arryn nobility as well. After all that was done, Queen Visenya took Ronnel Arryn riding three times around the Giant's Lance."

The end of the story brought Yohn's mind back to the present. He heard the chirping and hooting of animals hidden in the woods. A breeze rustled the leaves above them. Harrold's quiet voice broke the trance. "I'd like to fly a dragon."

Yohn smiled, and patted the young man on the shoulder. "I'd imagine every Arryn has wanted to fly. Your sigil is a falcon, after all."

Before Harrold could reply, a stag of impressive size came into view. The beast's antlers stretched four feet above its head. Regally, the stag bent down to graze the forest floor. Harrold slowly and quietly began to load his crossbow, but Yohn touched his wrist to stop him. The stag raised his head. In one swift movement, Yohn stood, and the weirwood longbow loosed an arrow with impressive speed. The stag's rear leg muscle twitched, but before it could move, the arrow struck through one eye and shot out the other end of its head. It collapsed on the grass, and after a single twitch ran through the body, it died.
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badgate
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« Reply #76 on: May 07, 2015, 01:02:08 AM »


An Open Letter To The Order of Maesters of Westeros,

In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm --

I, Lord Yohn Royce, Lord Regent of the Vale, hereby open the Vale's borders to the Maesters and Archmaesters of the Citadel. In this time of peril for Oldtown, with the death of many men who served in your order, I offer the hospitality, safety, sustenance, and support of the Vale.

I declare an open call for any Maester or Archmaester of the realm to seek refuge in House Royce's lands at Runestone. Those with knowledge that will help the garrison in rebuilding a more formidable seat for House Royce shall be rewarded accordingly, and the judgement on that matter is deferred to the garrison's commander, Ser Sam Stone.

I also declare the forfeiture of 1/20th of Royce land, adjoining the castle and town, for the purposes of a new Citadel of the Vale. The order of maesters is granted this in perpetuity, unless they forfeit it of their own accord. If the order forfeits the land, it can only be returned back to the senior branch of House Royce.

So signed,
Yohn of House Royce, Lord of Runestone, Commander of the Runestone Army, Lord Regent of the Vale and Master of Laws
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DKrol
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« Reply #77 on: May 12, 2015, 06:43:43 PM »


What is dead may never die Aeron Damphair stood on the stony shore of Pyke, looking the the East and the Westerosi mainland. Many Ironborn had been killed during Euron's War for power, A war that never should have been fought. Aeron waded into the salt sea, letting the Drowned God pull and tug at his roughspun robes. It had been many moons since the Kingsmoot - which the Damphair had called to prevent Euron from taking the Seastone chair. It was the Drowned God's will. He needed more strong oarsmen. Whether it was because of Dragons, Lions, or Krakens themselves the numbers strongly agreed with that claim.

'Damphair," Tarle the Thrice Drowned shouted from farther down the beach "A ship from Lannisport has arrived. News of Euron's trip to Essos."

Aeron reached his hard hands into the sea and poured the water, the cool, salty lifeblood of the Drowned God over his head before turning to join the circle of Drowned Men that had formed near the docks, as cargo was being unloaded from the longship.

"What news be there of my brother?" Aegon barked at a passing oarsman, coarse and hard with many years of service to the Seastone Chair. "How did he fair?"

"What is dead may never die." The oarsman grunted and walked away.

"What is dead may never die, indeed." Aeron replied sullenly. He simply walked off, into the sea. The Drowned God's waters pulling at his clothes, weighing the Damphair down, lapping at his hair. The Drowned Men followed their priest into the water, adding their silent prayers to his.

....

It is with this that I assert my claim as the rightful heir to the Seastone Chair. Aeron set the letter down on the driftwood table in his small abode - really just a cupboard on the coast of Pyke. Asha, once again, claimed the Seastone Chair for herself. Women cannot sit the Seastone Chair, it is the will of the Drowned God. This is known well through our history. Aeron had established himself as the regent of the Iron Islands, as the highest religious leader and an elder member of House Greyjoy, and ruled over them through the Drowned Men.

Within hours of the news of Euron's demise, Aeron and the Drowned Men began their plans for a new Kingsmoot. That involved the removal of many of Euron's men - Lords and commonborn alike. Many were imprisoned in prisons, for crimes against the Drowned God. Some, however, were given a much more fitting punishment - a return to the watery halls of the Drowned God. Only then, after many and more of Euron's loyalists and captains had been silenced, did Aeron travel to Pebbleton and preach for a new Kingsmoot to be held.

....

The Kingsmoot, only the second in many thousands of years, was a more subdued affair than its immediate predecessor. Only three major candidates stood, and only two of those were on Nagga's Hill. The first, Lord Gylbert Farwynd, stood with three of his sons as his champions. His gifts, as they were in the last Kingsmoot, were poor - Bronze weaponry and whale bones. Fewer than last supported his claim. The second, Asha Greyjoy, was represented by Ser Harras Harlaw - her only supporter who remained in the Iron Islands rather than join her in the Stepstones. Harlaw was booed loudly and several Drowned Men called Asha's claim invalid, as she was not at the Kingsmoot herself.

The third claimant was the only remaining son of Quellon Greyjoy - Victarion. Victarion stood with several captains from his fleet as his champions. He spoke on continuing the strong governance of Ballon, his dear brother, and slammed Euron for leading the Ironborn to destruction in "frivolous" campaigns. His gifts were greater than any seen in recent years: The many moons of reeving up and down the coast had loaded the holds of Victarion's ships with plenty of gold, jewels, weapons, and saltwives. Without a doubt, he was the chosen Iron King.

Aeron stepped forward and held up his hands for silence. His hair dripped with salt water, splatting on the stones that lined the Hill. Victarion kneeled before his brother and bowed his head. The Damphair uncorked a skin of saltwater and poured it over the Captain's head, muttering prayers more ancient than the Age of Heroes. Another Drowned Brother brought force the final piece of the Kingsmoot. Aeron took the driftwood crown and set it on Victarion's head. He placed his hand on his shoulder and proclaimed the new King to the Ironborn.

"What is dead may never die." He muttered, the assembled repeated the solemn prayer back. "Rise, Victarion of House Greyjoy, King of the Isles, King of the Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke!"
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #78 on: May 13, 2015, 03:29:54 AM »

THE ONION HAND, pt I



Gulltown was a place of by-names, catcalls and dubbings that squawled around the docks, the fishmarkets, and the high, cramped windows of the back alleys. Davos Seaworth had learnt many such in bygone days when he smuggled goods under his own sail, not policy for a king’s. The trick of his ears had not deserted him. The court, for instance, improvised at Gulltown, had many familiar names. ‘Steward’s Court’, or ‘Ladies’ Court’, ‘Stripling’s Court’, or ‘Castellan’s Court’, several called it, with so many of the true lords and knights off at war in the riverlands – and now further south still. And it was ‘the Court o’ the Crowded Chair’, for its single lord’s high seat, alternately occupied, dependent on fiendish complicated precedent, by Lord Grafton of Gulltown, lately slain at Dragonstone and succeeded by a squire; Bronze Yohn Royce, Lord Regent of the Vale and Master of Laws; by the king himself; and, today as on many other day, by the Hand of the King; Ser Davos of House Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood and Admiral of the Narrow Sea. A sour joke that last title is now.

His own latest by-name, too, Davos knew well enough. It would hardly have taxed a singer’s originality. The proud local nobles who spoke ever louder to the effect that Bronze Yohn should be raised to his own place as Hand sneered at the onetime smuggler as Davos Onionhand. He did not blame them, but to think of so much seething and scheming made him old, weary and half-done. And the Valelords were supposed to be the loyallest and most honourable of allies.

“Shall I call them in, Lord Hand?”, today’s household knight enquired. He looked to be a Sharp Point man, near as far from home as Davos himself. That made him feel a deal better. He misliked having a guard too large and frequently changed to know its men, but the more old Stormlanders and Crownlanders about him, the firmer he felt. “Ask their lordships’ pardons for a moment longer, ser. I need to clear my thoughts.”

Would that it were so easy. The Iron Throne was a twisted mess in an ashen ruin now, and Lord Grafton’s chair was ample and comfortable, but it did little to allay Davos’s troubled conscience. Winter has left quite the bite in the air, even here, at a mighty lord’s hearth in a prosperous city. How fierce must its mauling be on the isle I left behind…

There was still a long, dull unpredictable ache where one of those thrice-damned unicorns had caught him in the back of the leg as he tried to buy off a headman by signing with a foreshortened hand. His shoulder-blade had taken a hatchet’s force, not for long or at any great depth, but enough to inconvenience a man some decades out of youth. What more could I have done? Well, I could have succeeded, and then today’s session of the court would be a deal easier. Time to get down it.

“I’m ready to see Lady Waynwood now, alone,” he called out, already somewhat hoarse, when the swordfish knight returned. The sentinel looked hesitant.

“Ser Harlan Hunter and young Sunderland’ll wait easy enough. But Lord Shett won’t like that, ser. He’s waited with Lady Anya all this time.”

“Alone,” Davos repeated, without sympathy. Lord Shett, Bronze Yohn’s favoured lieutenant, as new to lordship as Davos himself but a damn sight prouder of his vaunted nobility, was not among Davos’s favourite companions of a morning, either. In truth, few of the Valemen were.

But when Lady Anya made her entrance, firm and dignified as ever despite her tiny stature, she was not alone. A taller and plumper figure with an easy smile linked her arm, with a generous cask of dark wine in her free hand.

“I thought you and her ladyship might appreciate something to slake all your dry counsels,” Myranda Royce said boldly with a curtsey that revealed far too much for Davos’s peace of mind. Then she released Lady Waynwood, deposited the wine and turned her heel. I can hardly complain of the lack of privacy, but that girl has made some kind of point just the same. Davos felt the well-known jolt of pain, not from the unicorn wound but from Marya. If I had had time to take her and the little ones north, I should sleep sounder…and safer from the likes of Lady Royce of the Gates of the Moon.

That set him to thinking, as Lady Waynwood drily reported news of confusion in the North he knew all too well already, of another woman, one he had never met and only dimly heard of. The Skagosi magnar, killed by some woman, another stranger, they said. What if it was the wildling woman with the boy? But to find out, I should have had to die. And that would have been of small aid to the king. So he reassured himself, but it felt hollow, and he wished he were back in simpler times, saving a king’s bastard from flames, not trying to pull a king’s brother out of frying pans.

Lady Waynwood’s business passed with refreshing speed, though she seemed a trifle evasive, to Davos’s mind, on the subject of her Frey wards. Some few Riverlanders still called the boy, Sandor, Lord of the Crossing, even with the Twins overthrown, and that might cause trouble down the line. But if so, after all, it was little concern of Davos's. He got Lord Shett out of the way as quickly as he might, disbursing more of the Iron Bank’s gold for strengthened watches. He was about to see the others, whoever they had been, when the King entered young Lord Grafton’s high hall.
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #79 on: May 13, 2015, 04:14:27 AM »


THE FALSE SEPTON, pt I



Aurane Waters had always done himself proud on his flagship, Qyburn reflected, but now that the lad was lording himself about harder than ever, the wine was almost obnoxiously good – sour and dark in plenty from now-friendly Dorne, and more sweet delights, every quart of them taken by force, from the Reach than seemed quite conceivable. And the Seasmoke’s bridge was comfortable, too, with its silks and cushions and Myrish hangings, and wenches, even of the odd youth, of clean and sly demeanour who looked like they would answer to any request, no matter how sudden or importunate. It might all be a Lysene merchant-prince’s pleasure galleas, yet for now, the Narrow Sea is ruled from this cabin.

Waters (internally Qyburn granted him none of his subsequent flummeries) was being downright bloodthirsty with his fleet again. The Bastard of Driftmark was not, strictly speaking, a good cyvasse player, being rash, inclined to think of short-term gain, and easily bored, but he had a certain unorthodoxy of style that could reap unexpected rewards, and he had also a disarmingly fluent habit of conversation in the very midst of his manoeuvres. Nonetheless, he only won when Qyburn let him – which was often enough, to be sure. For the present there were few feasible choices of patron to be found, and Qyburn saw every reason in keeping his young employer flattered and entertained – especially on this day of all days. Qyburn was a reasonable and amiable man, not one to pour cold water on a wedding.

Revelling in another routed troop of cavalry that could, if Qyburn had so chosen, have cost him his last dragon in six moves, Aurane swilled back some of the gold, lolled on a velveteened couch and grinned. “Well, we haven’t done too badly for ourselves lately, eh, my lord of whisperers? I think I shall grant you Claw Isle when all this is over, you know. In a token of your skilful energy…and initiative.”

At that the bastard’s smile grew mocking and perilous, and Qyburn knew he was being accused – yet also grudgingly thanked. He had disobeyed Waters’s command to have the kraken horn blown, judging the time ill-chosen even if the promised effects proved true. And indeed, the new Velaryon fleet had triumphed anyway, in a manner some rampant kraken could surely only have hindered – and Aurane had preserved a critical bargaining point, one that was to be exchanged today.

“You would need the Queen’s permission for that, of course,” Qyburn observed mildly. “Do not stretch your credit on my account, my lord of Velaryon.” Conserve the courtesies everywhere save where they matter, the mind. Waters made an impatient gesture. “I shall have won her Dragonstone. She can spare you an islet, with the Red Crab long since made into Stannis soup.”
“My lord is most kind,” Qyburn replied quietly, “though in truth I am no seeker after lands and gold, only knowledge.” The callow bastard lordling smirked, and Qyburn felt a queer sensation, almost pity. For all his opportunism and his cunning – nay, because of them – Aurane Waters is a fool, and he cannot imagine that I speak the truth.

For the moment the cyvasse was forgotten – Qyburn allowed it to rest so. He could tell Aurane was growing confidential, and indeed the admiral next commanded, “Take it out. Let me look upon it again before I trade it, and tell me once again, properly this time, how you came by the knowledge of…that.”

Qyburn slid over to the secret drawer they had agreed, of whose existence only he and Waters knew. Driftmark and especially Bloodstone were lightly held sham castles; the admiral kept his growing treasury on his flagship, but this drawer was another concealment altogether. From it the former Maester drew a long, twisting object, in truth more sailor’s hornpipe than horn, of ivory, ebon, brass and lacquer, in the form of a kraken’s long arms reaching out, with a small red crab – clearly a later adornment – skittering over one sinister eye, while a merling hand grasped a single one of its tendrils as hard as a riding crop.

“A fine thing,” Aurane breathed his greed, as if already distracted from power by riches. “It would have been simpler, when it was used last,” Qyburn reminded him in a gentle tone. “Only the beak of the kraken, only the reed and the horn are the true enchantment. The rest would need to be stripped off to draw on its power. Apprise the Princess of as much…”

“…when the time is right,” Aurane finished with a laugh that would likely not have disgraced his whore of a mother. “And it is true you were attired…”

“As a septon and mendicant, yes, my lord. I arrived as the Faith was splitting, a traditional septon in flight from fanatics, ready to heal the wounds the demon worshippers had left.”

“You know your prayers?” Waters smirked.

“Perfectly, lord admiral. I rode for long years with a septon among the Brave Companions, a man named Utt, pious enough, at any rate, in his speech.”

“And then…”

“The islanders were sorely in want, my lord, after the stag’s raiders came. But it was as we had heard. They had kept from him their last, their most dangerous treasure. I spoke to them twofold. To the fearful I explained that the horn was a mischanced thing of demoniac wrath, that would be safer with a servant of the gods. To the bold I revealed that to fight demon worshippers, one sometimes needs demon powers. I told them I purposed revenge on the false king and his red god.”

“And that was true enough!” Aurane remarked, delighted at his own quip. But at that point one of the wenches, a pretty thing with a touch of Yi-Ti about her cinnamon face, peeked nervously in.
“The boatswain, admiral my lord, he says six sails. Squid sails.”

“She is here,” Waters muttered with a new solemnity. “Qyburn, attend me above. We shall watch them approach.”

***

They stood at the poop deck, the young man and the old; Aurane was the slighter and shorter of the two. Both were splendidly garbed, Qyburn in the gold-whorled white robes that had adorned him at court, Aurane draped in his groom’s cloak of silver and sea-green, with a doublet of slashed cream and black beneath. The black might seem a gloomy choice, but it was shrewd, and Waters’s own; he certainly knew how to dress. Black could compliment the Queen’s house, the bride’s, and any number of recent deaths; and it well set off the groom’s lank silver-golden mane.

“Six longships only,” Qyburn pondered. “One is a fine vessel, the equal of any of yours save this Seasmoke. But besides, you have at least twenty ships at this spot, almost fifty more within reach…”

“Aye, and she a hundred and fifty not so very much farther. Are you addled, old man?” Waters snapped, before remembering himself. “Besides, are you seriously suggesting I should be interested in capturing my accorded bride?”

“It is as well to consider unexpected eventualities,” Qyburn whispered back, though he was thinking, It might have served you better had you kidnapped that Maid of Tarth. Aurane’s irritation did not fade, but, characteristically, it had a touch of humour to it. “Stop lingering here with your demented advice. I have a true task for you. You swore you knew your Seven-Pointed Star?”

“Well, I assuredly know Utt’s.”

“That will serve. Go below and dress yourself in septon’s attire. I have one saved specially.”

That made Qyburn look askance. “You would undermine your marriage into a Great House with this tomfoolery? Why?”

“Mainly because it amuses me to do so. But we are to be wed under her god as well as mine. And none will know you, for the present. An hour may come when it suits me to declare the Seven-blessed marriage no marriage at all, and myself still free to take a wife of the true rite.”

Can he still hope for the Queen Dowager and heiress to Dorne? Or better still…but these are perilous thoughts indeed. Qyburn smirked silently as he obediently glid below deck. I am a master of perilous thoughts. Valyria, even bastardised, cleaves to Valyria, it seems. Of course the boy can never quite give up hope of wedding the queen, until it kills him.

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Fingerbones
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« Reply #80 on: May 13, 2015, 11:19:44 AM »
« Edited: May 13, 2015, 11:24:01 AM by Fingerbones »

I, Daenerys Targaryen, True Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, hereby decree that the illegitimate son of the Usurper, Edric Storm, be legitimized. I grant him the name Baratheon and declare him as Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, as his claim is above that of his uncle, Stannis Baratheon.
 
I will offer the position of regent (as Lord Baratheon has yet to come of age) to a suitably leal and honest subject. The young lord is also, as of yet, unbetrothed. His hand may be offered to a family who displays their loyalty to the true Queen, and renounces the false king, Stannis Baratheon.

Some may question my decision to reinstate a Baratheon to a position of power, for the ills that they have done my family, though let this be seen as proof that I am a forgiving and fair queen. All who accept my righteous rule will be welcomed with open arms and hefty rewards.

-Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains etc.
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #81 on: May 13, 2015, 05:40:23 PM »

THE ONION HAND, pt 2

The Hand immediately relinquished his chair, but King Stannis made no move to take it, simply striding up, briefly taking Davos’s (unmaimed) hand, and then pacing away. Stannis Baratheon was looking better now, bulked up from the grim wraith he had become at the Wall. Confidence and strength animates him; he’s less blazed and sapped by the Red Woman’s exactions.

“Many grave petitions outstanding, Lord Hand?” he enquired, his humour evident only to the oldest of his servants. “Saw a few minnows yet to come, and I warn you, I’ve leaving them to you still. You can’t cozen me onto that seat today. I have wars to plan, lands to regain.”

“I’ve not forgotten, Your Grace.”

“Of course you haven’t. The word from the south is good in many respects. But my squire stills asks in vain after his mother.” The king’s voice was warm and direct. Davos remembered King Robert slapping him on the back long ago with a dubious joke about Marya and Black Betha’s rivalry, and Lord Renly’s painstaking, mostly smooth efforts to recall his youngest sons’ names ( occasionally he thought Steffon and Stannis had been called Robert and Renly). Stannis was different, as his next words distinctly indicated.

“If she still lives, you’ll have her back soon enough. I too know what it is to lose a wife and child, and I had not a tenth, a hundredth of the affection for my queen I know you bear your carpenter’s daughter.”

“We’ve been married a long time,” the Hand admitted in a low voice.

“Even so. You’ve been her servant even longer than mine. But I need you, I trust you, to care for the realm. You may trust me to look to her…if anything remains that can be done.” Davos had learned almost to feel comforted by the very bleakness of Stannis’s consolation.

And then the king took his leave, as suddenly as if he expected the chair to pin him down like a spider’s web, or was loping to tidings of victory or emergency. Davos was taken by surprise by how lonely and chill he felt all on a sudden. Truly, without Stannis he was nothing, as friendless as powerless. “Call the rest of them in, ser.”

They proved to be three, not two; the narrow-faced knight of Hunter Bronze Yohn claimed had most like murdered his own father; a nervous boy who seemed startled by his own knight’s spurs; and the Red Woman. Davos scarce knew whether he did not feel colder still, for all the new source of heat and light in the dim hall.

“The Lady Melisandre required immediate access to your person, Lord Onionhand,” the Hunter smirked. “I hoped to do her and you both some small service. Come, Ser Galvin, I’m sure our own enquiries can wait a little longer.” The reputed murderer led the young Sisterman from the hall, apparently unconcerned by the granitic stare Davos directed at the back of his neck.

“The King has been here, Ser Davos.” It was not a question; those Melisandre was generally in the habit of answering, not asking.

“Right enough.” Davos silently blessed the hurry that had carried Stannis out of the chamber now. It was a great irony that he and the priestess, the king’s closest and oldest counsellors, both hated alike by the pride of the Vale, and, he had heard with grim amusement, widely spoken of as sinful lovers, in fact saw the king, if possible, separately, and each tried to guard him from the other. Ever since their arrival in the Vale, Davos had generally prevailed.

“He is about important matters of his own; it was you I sought, not him,” Melisandre now declared. Davos merely shrugged at that. This woman’s intentions tended to fold and unravel as fast as any development outside them could allow.

“I know that the king prefers tidings and counsel both from your voice,” she murmured now, with soft modesty, a mien that might be unexpected in one who watched her less closely, but which Davos recognised as only another trick. “A time will come when you will be needed to tell him the truth about the One Great Battle. It is not against the House Targaryen,” Melisandre caught her breath and glanced about her, just a touch mischievously, “and it lies now in the North.”

“The North?” Davos frowned his confusion and, almost, annoyance. “It is true the wildlings’ resettlement may yet present…uncertainties, and there is some disturbance about which Stark should rule now…” Disturbance I could have, should have settled. If I had followed my conscience, and the story of the new Skagosi queen, into the Feast of Fools, the cove from which no sailor returns. “Tell me, my lady, …do your flames tell you aught of Skagos?”

“Skagos? No. What a strange query,” Melisandre breathed, “from he who bears the gash of the unicorn, from he who traversed all that barbaric island, and saw all that there might be to see. Unless he didn’t. Leave your skein of lies and your web of guilt, Lord Davos. Seek the True Enemy, with me.” She extended her hand, shifted her magnificent, awful arms as he did not take it, and left the hall in turn, leaving Davos reeling back onto Lord Grafton’s chair, and reaching silently for that lesser Royce’s red wine. The terror of it is, I know exactly what she means. We did not sail to Eastwatch to save the North from wildlings, in truth, but the whole realm from…something else…

But then again, there had been no proof as yet of what no man wanted to prove; and had not the Red Woman just veered close to treason in her words on the Targaryens? Did not some Essosi sailors speak of the Dragon Queen as Azor Azai, and not King Stannis? Just what side could the shadowbinder now be on?

“Onionhand!” It was the grating voice of Ser Harlan again, entered without notice, leave, or regard. “Valeman or Crownlander, true men of all stripes, we should be drinking now and drinking of the best. The word is all abroad. Our Queen Ysilla is with child!”
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« Reply #82 on: May 14, 2015, 05:09:23 AM »
« Edited: May 14, 2015, 05:14:05 AM by Garlan Gunter »

THE FALSE SEPTON, pt 2

Aurane has quite taken to his bashful bride. Qyburn felt, queerly enough, almost as grandfatherly as he had oft been told he looked, presiding over the union of two creatures so much slighter, shorter, younger and more powerful than himself.

From the first Asha Greyjoy, Princess and self-proclaimed Queen of the Iron Islands, had quite taken control of proceedings. The ceremony of the Drowning had been swift and perfunctory, leaving Waters’s long mane fitting his name, dripping all over his silk; then both captains made ceremonial entry onto the other’s flagship amid rowdy cheers, and jointly announced that they were doubly wed by the sacred power invested in captains about their own ships ever since the days of the Merling King. Finally it was the turn of the Septon, who awaited them back upon Seasmoke by the tiller. Qyburn felt conspicuous and unmanoeuvrable in his heavy white vestments, but in fact his solemn cowl and prudently confected horsehair beard of greying flax proved a disguise almost as complete as they were uncomfortable.

“Who comes here to be wed?”, he intoned, pleased by the combination of quaveriness and significance upon which he had settled. Then there was a somewhat fraught pause before Aurane gave his betrothed a grinning nod. At that she strode up as if she were grappling a seawall.
“I, Asha, last get of Balon Greyjoy, head of House Greyjoy and rightful Queen of the Iron Isles.”

Interesting, that ‘Queen’, and Aurane’s ears will have twitched too. Most like she does not truly intend to defy Daenerys…but she must keep queening it for the present to keep her men in line. Qyburn could not help applying a quick, testing needle, lasrgely because he knew it would irritate – though amuse – his mercurial patron. “A maiden pure and flowered, I trust?”

At that, Asha’s brow grew dark…and then, to Qyburn’s surprise and Aurane’s palpable relief, she threw back her head and laughed. “If that’s what you call it in the greenlands, let it be so.”

“Who comes to give you away?” Once again, Qyburn enquired out of mischief, and once again he was surprised, for someone did lurch up – an Ironman in a fine black and gold kraken doublet, identical to his Queen’s, with a quite definitely unsteady gait.

“I, D-dagon, o’ House Greyjoy…” Then his queenly cousin pushed him over and he fell, hard, to the deck.

“Dagon the Drunkard is not even my nearest kinsman aboard ship. I need no man’s word, and pledge myself on the terms we agreed.”

The cheers were uproarious now, and Aurane Waters looked upon his dark, hard, slim, sharp bride with something like passion in his restless eyes. Qyburn noticed that the Ironmen seemed as content as the Velaryon sailors and Stepstones pirates, with the exception of one raider, a beardless youth with something of Aurane’s good looks and a very cold stare. Among Asha’s grisly crew stood two highborn children who looked none too enthusiastic, either – little Lord Velaryon and his Sand Snake consort had been permitted to attend the wedding, but did not seem to dare either to smile, laugh, cheer or venture speech.

“And I, Aurane of House Velaryon, gladly accept her,” Waters answered with relish, that Velaryon cloak poised to swathe. “Read us your sermon, …septon, and make it speedy.”

***

By rights and tradition the feast preceded the bedding, but Waters and the Princess – or Queen, or Lady, or Captain – had urgent dispatch to attend to, and both retired to the Seasmoke’s bridge. Aurane may well be vain enough to believe already it’s the horn he was born with that fascinates her. Certainly, by the time they returned, their garb was almost ostentatiously dishevelled, and the beardless Ironman was biting his tongue even harder. A discreet enquiry of Qyburn’s had revealed him as one Qarl the Maid, one of Asha’s finest axes and hitherto well-known as her favourite. Might Waters have waded into deeper waters than he knows here?

“You aren’t much like the holy men I’ve known on the isles, even my nuncle,” he heard an uncompromising voice, and Asha Greyjoy was beside him, smirking and staring. Qyburn rearrayed the remains of his sanctimony.

“The gods call upon us to serve in many distinct ways, my lady.”

“I thought your gods regarded mine as a damp demon. You seem to have unusual…latitude. Tell me something. I owe thanks, my,” she laughed cruelly, “lord husband informs me, to his pet sorcerer, this Lord Qyburn, late of the court. Yet I see him nowhere. Where can I find him?”

“Most like ashore, my lady,” Qyburn muttered, fighting to keep his impassivity. “But I should not care to seek him out. He has served Lord Aurane well, they say, but it’s said too he is an odious sinner.”

“Is he now. Follow me within to the bridge, sinner. Not this one. Black Wind’s.”

That left him with little choice.

A short longboat ride later, they found the Lord of the Waters waiting below on his new bride’s vessel, turning over in his hands the kraken horn. His smile was as broad as ever but somehow fixed; a blustering look, Qyburn thought.

“From now on, my lord, you answer to us both. Don’t they say two hearts should beat as one? I say the same of minds. No more games, old man; give ear. We’re sending you on your travels again.”

“To Storm’s End?” Qyburn hazarded, trying to sound unconcerned still.

“To the Free City of Braavos.”


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« Reply #83 on: May 14, 2015, 09:30:24 PM »



Sansa

The Maid of Tarth was twelve days dying. Her rescuer had been struck by four arrows as they galloped away from Storm's End, but one had struck true and left a wound that had soon begun to fester. Ser Hyle tried to treat it, but he couldn't stop the rot. Stinking, and looking extremely grim, Brienne sat rigid in her horse as they made their way through the war-torn Riverlands.

They had passed the setting of a recent battle the day before. Royce, Coldwater, Arryn, Tarly, Oakheart...this must have been a battle when the Vale and Reach were on different sides. Sansa had heard of the battles between Stannis Baratheon's forces and Aegon Targaryen's, but couldn't really remember the details of when and where...

Ahead, their horses led them into a clearing, and Sansa saw with a gasp the tallest hill she had ever seen just a mile to the west. "High Heart," Ser Hyle said from the horse next to Sansa. "I led Lord Tarly's van up that hill, against the Knights of the Vale. 'Tis hard land to fight on." Sansa squinted, and saw for sure the distinct image of smoke spiraling into the sky. "There's a fire up there," she said to the knight. Ahead of them, Brienne was silent.

Ser Hyle squinted too. "Aye," he said. He trotted up to Brienne, saying, "my lady, we should take to covered paths, anybody up there can see us down here." Sansa could not see the lady knight's face, but heard a grunt. A few minutes later they had relocated to a thick forest. "We should be fine here," Ser Hyle said, but it wasn't even an hour later when they heard the rustling of leaves and shadowed figures appeared all around them. Ahead, Brienne drew her sword, as did Ser Hyle to Sansa's right.

"Who goes there?" a voice called from somewhere above them. Brienne must have tried to speak, for Sansa heard a strange noise from the big woman in front of her. After a moment of silence, Sansa clutched the reins of her horse and galloped forward. Gazing up into the forest, she said back, "We mean no harm. We are just passing." The sound of steel and hooves came from all around them as the shadowy figures came closer. The leader, a strong man who looked old and tired, completely in black with a giant black fish on his surcoat, stepped forward, his sword drawn.

"No harm, eh?" he said, looking from Brienne to Ser Hyle. "You don't mean any harm, that much is true," he said to Sansa. Suddenly Brienne charged forward on her horse, but the man was quick. He slashed at her side and reopened a wound Ser Hyle had sewn shut a week ago, somewhere in the Reach. Brienne fell from her horse and collapsed, unconcious. Sansa looked over and saw that Ser Hyle was dismounting, having already thrown down his dirk and sword. Four bowmen held taut arrows mere inches from his face and heart.

The man came forward and held out his hand to help Sansa dismount. Her feet now on the forest floor, she looked up at the man's sigil. "Are you...the Blackfish? My- I mean, Catelyn Tully's uncle?" He looked down on her, not unkindly, and answered, "I am. You look so much like her, Sansa."

Sansa gave a little gasp, and her great-uncle smiled. "You really don't think I would recognize my niece? You should have dyed your hair."

The other men tied up Ser Hyle and Brienne (who was still unconsious), to a horse and together they all began the ascent to High Heart. Brynden Tully rode next to Sansa, and after a long silence, said, "my lady...I should warn you...what you will see atop the hill." Sansa looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Brynden looked uncomfortable, and shifted a little in his saddle. "I...well, it's better to explain once you have seen...but I guess, first...have you heard of the Brotherhood Without Banners?"

"Yes," Sansa said immediately. "I still remember how my friend Jeyne swooned when Beric Dondarrion rode in the tourney. He's dead now, though, isn't he?"

"Yes," her uncle answered. "But one of the other members of the brotherhood, a man named Thoros, was a red priest. Years ago, when Lord Beric first died, Thoros brought him back to life using magic from the fire god King Stannis worships." Sansa shuddered. Her uncle continued, "Thoros brought Beric back many times. Then one night, the brotherhood came upon a body...mind you, this was a week after the Red Wedding, whereas Beric had always been brought back quickly..."

They were at the top of the hill now. Sansa saw a camp, many haphazard tents of various hues, and a modest fire still dwindling in the center, smoke climbing up to the sky. A hooded figure, a woman, turned to look at them. Brynden held out his hand to Sansa, helped her dismount again, and led her forward. Sansa could hear her heart beating in her ears like a drum when the woman pulled back her hood.

She gasped again. "Mother?"

This was not the woman she remembered, who had brushed her beautiful auburn hair, had loved to sing in the sept, who loved her children and her husband, the Lady of Winterfell... this was a corpse come back to life. Hardened features, ghastly cuts, exposed bone... Is this better than death, mother? Sansa asked in her head.

The woman smiled ghoulishly, and bent down and kissed Sansa on the cheek. As the woman pulled back, Sansa saw some of the rot blurring. The wrinkles smoothed...the gash in the cheeks filled in...her exposed throat transformed to a very ugly scar. Catelyn Stark now stood before her daughter. "Sansa. My sweet, sweet Sansa, it is so good to see you one more time."

Sansa felt a rush of emotion in this moment. Everything she had suffered: Joffrey, her father's death, Tyrion the Imp, captivity at Storm's End. In some way her heart and mind released the pain and despair she had been building up inside, ever since the day she and Joffrey encountered Arya and a butcher's boy playing swords with sticks. Her eyes welled with tears, but so had Lady Catelyn's, and they were hugging, crying, even laughing a little. After a few minutes the men of the brotherhood changed their attention to Sansa's two companions. I almost forgot about them, Sansa thought, as they were brought forward.

Brienne was awake now, but could barely speak. "Won't make it through the night," said an archer with an impressive Dornish drawl as he looked down on her. Lady Catelyn knelt low, and Brienne's eyes opened and found her face, widening in shock.

"Brienne," Catelyn said softly, "you brought her back to me." Brienne opened her mouth but only made a feeble sound. Rising, Catelyn turned to Ser Hyle. "And you?"

"He helped, mother," Sansa put in. "Brienne smuggled me out of the castle, but he was the one waiting at the gates with three strong horses. He patched up Brienne's wounds well enough, but..." her voice trailed off. Brienne had groaned, and was now staring lifelessly at the clear blue sky. For an absurd moment, Sansa gazed all around and realized how high the hill was. She is closer to the gods, at least, Sansa thought.

She looked at her mother, and the happiness she had been feeling seemed to subdue. Catelyn's face was dark, and sad. "Mother?" Sansa asked hopefully. Catelyn seemed to be drawn from her trance then, and smiled softly at Sansa. "My daughter, would you mind fetching some more wood for the fire?" she asked, gesturing to a pile on the edge of the hilltop. Sansa moved to obey, the Dornish archer falling in behind her to help. Across the flat top of the hill, her arms full of logs, Sansa heard her mother's faint voice. "Thoros, I need you."

A haggard, red-haired man in dirty robes came to where Catelyn was standing over Brienne's dead body. They both knelt before her, and Sansa saw the man's lips moving in soundless incantation. "No!" she cried, throwing down the logs and running forward. Catelyn looked up and said, "it was good to see you one more time, Sansa. I know you will make me proud." Her mother then bent over the Maid of Tarth, and a heavenly wind seemed to blow all around them. Catelyn pressed her lips against Brienne's, then pulled back with a dazed look on her face. She exhaled a puff of smoke and fell over, dead.

Sansa cried every morning until they reached the flowing current of the Red Fork a week later. Brienne was whole and alive. The morning that Sansa awoke without crying, the big woman came to her and knelt, placing her sword at her feet. Sansa accepted the lady's protection.

The next few days proved to lift Sansa's spirits immensely. I am free, finally, truly free, she thought. I can go back to Winterfell, I can see Arya and Jon! As the company of riders came to the top of the final hill, Sansa resolved to do just that, nudging her horse forward toward the welcoming castle of Riverrun.
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #84 on: June 05, 2015, 04:30:56 AM »

Proclamation to the Ironborn

From Aurane Velaryon, Grand Admiral of the Narrow Sea, Lord Regent of Driftmark, Lord of Bloodstone, Captain-General of the Stepstones, Conqueror of Dragonstone, Lord of Stones and of Waters Alike, Consort to Asha of House Greyjoy, rightful Queen of the Isles

Your late Kingsmoot was invalid, as the legend of Torgon the Latecomer makes clear. But it was also the work of traitors and of fools.

I was a true friend to the Crow's Eye, though high in the councils of Aegon the Pretender. The boy-dragon smirkingly confided to me the following brag:

As for the Ironborn, I am sharing ravens with Aeron Damphair and Lord Captain Victarion to end the reign of Euron Crow's Eye and return him to their drowned god.

Those of you who follow the brothers of the late kings, Balon and Euron, and not Balon's true blood and heir, Queen Asha, defy most of your people's fleet and nobility; defy an ally to the mighty Dragon Queen; defy a princess with the power to raise Krakens from the deep; and all to defend a brace of mouldering traitors!

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« Reply #85 on: June 06, 2015, 10:17:59 PM »

In light of his past and continuing service, I, Stannis Baratheon, using my authority as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms do hereby legitimize Aurane Waters. He shall henceforth be known as Aurane Velaryon and shall be untainted by the stain of bastardy.
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« Reply #86 on: June 09, 2015, 12:27:23 AM »



Royce Coldwater

The river was chugging steadily out the window of Lord Tully's chambers. They sat on the balcony well past sunset, discussing the issue at hand. Their weekly dinners were more and more strained as the weeks rode by. Now Edmure Tully was making the same speech he'd made every time.

"Jon Snow is not a Stark," Edmure Tully insisted for the nineteenth time. Royce said nothing. "I don't know why your Lord Regent-"

"Lord Yohn agrees with you," Royce interrupted him. Edmure looked shocked. "We've discussed this issue countless times. Why didn't you say so?"

"He told me not to unless I must," Royce explained, "and I'm well and truly tired of listening to you say the same thing every time we sit down to sup." Royce refilled his goblet and continued imperviously, "Yohn has respected King Stannis' choice and declarations, but he is merely doing his duty as Master of Laws. But if the betrothal with your niece were confirmed..." Royce looked up at Edmure and let the words hang in the air.

Edmure pondered this, and finally said, "Yes, well, as I've told Lord Royce, nothing can be done on that front until her wedding to Tyrion Lannister is dissolved. She says they never consummated it, but the High Septon depends on the Lannisters' protection, and last I checked, Lord Royce and Lord Lannister serve different regents." He left the final two words unsaid: for now.

Edmure Tully wasn't stupid. He knew that Yohn Royce wouldn't try to obtain this betrothal with Sansa Stark unless the biggest obstacle could possibly be cleared. The atmosphere around Riverrun had become palpable in the last two months. Lord Edmure had thought that once the matter of The Twins and House Frey were settled, Royce Coldwater would march his men away. Royce had continued to claim he was giving his scouts more time to find Robb Stark's secret trail into the Westerlands, but after two months it had become clear something else was afoot. Word crept slowly from the Stormlands with news that the Vale had miraculously survived a crushing blow at Storm's End, and being one of Yohn Royce's most loyal and trusted bannermen, Lord Coldwater had known why from the start.

They sat in silence as the last strands of sunlight left the world. Royce emptied his goblet and said, "Daenerys Targaryen agrees with you as well, you know...she would make Sansa the Lady of Winterfell." He saw a glimmer of hope flash in Lord Tully's eyes, and Royce looked casually down the balcony, where his thirteen-thousand plus army was camped outside the castle. To protect...and intimidate, Royce thought. Edmure followed Royce's gaze and his expression abruptly turned much less hopeful.

After drinks with Lord Tully ended, Royce ventured down to the great hall where many of his commanders, including Ser Morton Waynwood, were eating. Royce was full, but enjoyed the company of his fellow Valemen after supping with a River Lord. Just as he sat to join them, Riverrun's maester tapped his shoulder, his hand held out, extending a scroll with an unbroken seal, burn orange with a rune in the center.

Royce studied the words, and Ser Morton asked, "What is it, my lord?"

"Word from Lord Yohn. The negotiations have proceeded. He will send word soon..." Royce frowned at the words on the letter, "word of who is our ally," he finished.

Ser Morton didn't look happy about that. Royce was the lord of Coldwater Burn, and House Coldwater had been a direct bannerman of the Royces of Runestone dating back centuries before Aegon's Conquest. Ser Morton's mother was Yohn's chief rival in the Vale, though Royce felt that Anya Waynwood had assumed a rivalry where Yohn had hoped for a partnership. Either way, she will need to be appeased for the plan to work. If the plan proceeds.

Royce then noticed, across the hall, Lady Sansa dining with a few old crones who had become her ladies. She was guarded, as always, by Brienne of Tarth. Royce had never seen a woman so freakish big, except perhaps in the mountain clans of the Vale. The Maid of Tarth did remind him of a Burned Ear Chieftainess he'd killed, though...

Having drunk plenty enough wine sounding out Lord Tully, Royce switched to water mixed with lemon juice, strained through a cloth to remove the pulp. It was a specialty from the kitchens at Coldwater Burn, but every member of the household from lord to smallfolk knew how to make it. Royce had shown the cooks at Riverrun the recipe less than a week after arriving at the castle.

"Lord Tully ready for us to leave him alone?" Ser Marwyn Belmore asked sardonically, interrupting Royce's thoughts. Indeed, Edmure Tully seemed anxious to be rid of the army surrounding his castle, despite the fact that they were much more friend than foe. Royce nodded in response, then added, "it won't be long now. I can feel it."

Royce bid the men his leave, and as he passed the hearth he threw the letter from Yohn Royce into its flames. He watched to make sure it was naught but ashes before he retired to his suite of rooms in the castle.

Three days later, he was leading a training session in the yard when the maester found him again. The seal was again unbroken, but this letter was much smaller, the message couldn't be more than a few words...

His heart pounding in his ears, Royce Coldwater opened the letter there in the yard, and saw in Yohn Royce's dignified handwriting: Dragons.

Royce looked up at the maester, his hand becoming a fist with the crumpled letter inside it. "Maester, let Lord Tully know I should speak with him again today. We will be leaving on the morrow, and I have a new banner to gift him."

He marched quickly to his chambers, ordered his squire to fetch Ser Morton and the other commanders, and sat in the tallest chair as he waited. It was over half an hour later before all of them had assembled: Ser Morton Waynwood, Ser Marwyn Belmore, and Lord Harlan Hunter. His squire poured them all a warm ale that pushed away the cold of the new winter winds. After a few minutes of silence, Royce took out the letter and handed it to Ser Morton without a word.

Ser Morton read it, his eyes widening, and he silently passed it to Lord Harlan. Harlan had a nearly identical reaction, and passed it to Ser Marwyn, who glanced at the parchment. Marwyn swore and threw down his goblet, storming out of the solar. "Don't worry," Royce said to the others. "He'll come around."

"I agree, my lord," said Lord Harlan sycophantically. Morton nodded, wordless. Royce had the feeling the man was itching to run to the maester's chambers and dispatch a raven to his mother immediately. Nevertheless, Royce proceeded confidently.

"Lord Harlan, you should see to it that we have ample provisions and supplies. Ser Morton, prepare the men. We march at daybreak." Royce stood and turned his back on them, crossing to the table against the wall to refill his goblet. "And where shall I tell the men we'll march?" Morton Waynwood asked from across the room.

Royce frowned, his back still to the two men. Slowly, he turned, and locked eyes with the knight. "West, ser. I believe we all have unfinished business with the Lord of Horn Hill."
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« Reply #87 on: June 23, 2015, 10:40:56 PM »



To All The Noble Houses of the Seven Kingdoms,

Our brave king, His Grace Stannis Baratheon, has fallen in the battle against the Army of Winter. In the name of the royal House of Baratheon, by the power granted me in His Grace's will as Protector of the Realm, I hereby proclaim the coronation of Her Grace Queen Shireen of House Baratheon.

The armies united in the name of Shireen Baratheon stand with all of Westeros. We will protect all of our land's people during this winter, and not rest until every man, woman, and child are free from the threat of the Army of the Dead that engulfed Winterfell. However, there remain those who stand against your health and happiness. The lords of the west and even some lords who once claimed to be loyal to House Baratheon have sided with the Mad Queen Daenerys. There may be a place for Daenerys in Westeros, but it is certainly not on the throne of the realm.

However, today is a day of celebration. Westeros has a new queen, and her future is as warm as the first sunlight of Spring. All hail Her Grace, Queen Shireen of House Baratheon, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!

Signed,
--Lady Anya of House Waynwood, Lady of Ironoaks and Protector of the Realm

--Lord Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood and Hand of the King

--Lord Damon Shett, Lord of Gulltower and Lord Commander of the Gulltown City Watch
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #88 on: June 24, 2015, 05:23:05 AM »


--Lord Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood and Hand of the King


Ah, denial, the first stage in bereavement...
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« Reply #89 on: July 02, 2015, 04:46:36 AM »
« Edited: July 02, 2015, 05:15:56 AM by Garlan Gunter »

Slightly borderline on where to put this POV, but since my boys are presently bearing a little south of the Sisters, I think it needs this thread.

***



THE MASTER OF SHIPS

It did not take an experienced captain – just a shrewd one – to know when men had been at sea too long, or at least felt they had. Through the Myrish glass he had looted at the Maester’s cell of Dragonstone, the Admiral could still discern the now distant flames of the Sisters, seeming to couple with the dreary mist. Damn the smugglers for fools. They could have joined us, bolstered us, kept me a power, and resisting did naught of good for anyone, except, it might be, this legendary foe in the North. Now we have their salt beef and grain and a few of their less web-toed women…and no friendly harbour for leagues around. But I had to reward the men, and teach a lesson to those who defied me.

Aurane Waters – no, to himself he’d never quite shed the name he’d been born to, either, even three legitimisations later - broke off from these disagreeable reflections, folding away the glass and stowing it in a pouch at his girdle. Even the very instrument began to annoy him, reminding him of the brief, delusive moment when he achieved his boyhood’s dream. I was Lord of Dragonstone, with a Sea Queen to wife and an army of the Isles’ maddest killers at my call. For a moment, only, and it had all been a shadow. Asha obeyed herself, the Dragon Queen to a slight extent, and himself not at all. Dragonstone remained swarmed over by sellswords chained to the West with fetters of gold.

Aurane was fairly sure, at least, that since the crushing of Pirkriff the Saltthumb’s cack-handed mutiny and his victories in the Narrow Sea his varied fleet, a few Driftmark men, Pentoshis, Volantenes and the pirates of the Stepstones, did now answer directly to him, would bide by him if it came to it even above the Dragon Queen herself. But it would not hurt, mayhaps, to make sure of that.

To wed the Imp after all! After she assured me she meant to see him and his brother punished!

In truth, Aurane could bear Lannister little personal ill-will. The dwarf had played his considerable hand well, and so far had proved a generous and fairly capable ally. It did smart that he had what the Admiral wanted…and deserved. Has the Queen mistaken that waddling aberration for the Blood of Old Valyria? Sometimes, on the cold nights sailing from the Sisters as he garnered his incrementally smaller fleet together, Aurane had to bite his cheek hard, as he came to the same inevitable conclusion, and sullenly blamed not the Imp, but the Queen.

“Admiral Waters.” Aurane turned feeling oddly reassured; he understood that form of address, knew its speaker, and felt reliability, not insult. After all, Lord, Velaryon and Master of Ships as the Queen might have painted him, this was the truer title. But it was only ever used by Thagbold the Stinger, who was not exactly your man for Westerosi protocol. Thagbold looked like a damn savage, and was wont to wear his unsavoury repute in place of practically any other garb. As they had sailed further north and Aurane’s own silks had succeeded to sables, ermines, miniver, the grim Bloodstone enforcer had slowly conceded to wrapping himself in some Sisterwoman’s thrice-woven plaid.

“I had not known you were aboard. Is all well upon the Scorpion?” Aurane asked half-idly. It had always been useful to him to sound idle…and to know men’s ships, their names, qualities, calibres, crews.

“Not well, but hard. Battle-ready. Blood-hungry.” Thagbold was in his way rather a curtly effective orator, Aurane mused.

“The men have seen a fight and indulged a little plundering when last we landed,” Aurane observed, keeping his expression absent, his voice careless.

“Call that a fight, a sack, a victory? One town half burnt, on a backwater in winter. I mind y’reasons, Admiral,” Thagbold admitted with an odd admixture of harshness and reason, “but there are still many, least among the Stepstones crews, took it hard when we past Gulltown intact.”

The Queen again, and her seven-curst trust in Bronze Yohn Royce. We all paid for that one, him, her, me, the Sistermen. “Well, the times come around, it seems, and we are to draw nigh it again. And so I need you to keep your men and your friends in line again, Stinger.”

He makes a much better gauge for the fleet’s temper than poor old Rynard ever did, but I have not given him the answer he wanted to hear.

“Admiral! You said we’d fight for Daenerys and plunder Westeros. Dragonstone and the Sisters are scoured and scant. The men will feel this hard.”

“I am the Master of Ships now, Captain Thagbold. I can no longer quite behave like a callow cabin-boy being birched by Pirkriff, nor yet like an enterprising young captain. Have you heard the stories out of the North? We have a realm to consider now.”

“S’not our realm. The Stones are no part of it. My men say it’s bad luck to think on Westerosi curses in winter o’ermuch, and leave it that,” Thagbold objected with rough uneasiness. “And the Queen holds you back from plunder…might be time to consider a Queen who needs y’more. One not yoked to Impish gold, with many foes who need a good sackin’.”

“You propose treason to a Small Councillor,” Aurane reminded the hardened corsair with the utmost geniality. “Get yourself back to your Scorpion, and tell your friends they can expect good news of a sort soon. Then bring me the Wavewatch.”

Thagbold clearly liked that little. Gerdan Wavewatch, once a black brother, was little liked or respected among the other Stepstones captains. For now, Aurane cared for that not a fig. It was old Gerdan’s navigation he needed, not a pretty face, a pleasant voice, or a leal heart. He greeted the sour-faced deserter a couple of hours later with unambiguous satisfaction.

“You say you’ve actually been there? Did you stop long?” he asked, not quite able to contain a little mischief. “Long enough to partake of any local delicacies? Unicorn, perchance, or…longshank?”

Gerdan spat bleakly overboard. “I know how to get there, aye, and where to land a ship o’…sane…shape.” He slanders my beautiful dromond because he’ll never command a ship so mighty. “And no sane man’d want aught from the place. Little wealth…damn far north in winter…a populace o’ monsters and savages, with no discipline…”

“That will do, Captain Gerdan. I want the compass in your head, not the counsel. Just keep yourself alive and ready, and I assure you you’ll be much the richer for it. Talking of which,” yes, Aurane had decided, it was best to make sure of these womanish buccaneers now or never, “you can tell the boys after you’ve shown yourself out that it’s time to divide the first cut of the plunder.”

By the time the next night fell, the mists were as thick as ever, but the fires on the Sisters had either smouldered out, or faded over the horizon. Yet on the rag-tag Royal Fleet, the lights burnt bright, with song, dice, rum and brandy lurching with abandon towards the chill dawn.


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Dereich
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« Reply #90 on: July 06, 2015, 12:01:22 AM »

Declaration of Support

In light of the support for the realm and Riverlands King Stannis and his allies have provided while House Targaryen's supporters contented themselves with burning and murdering Riverlanders AND considering the support given to House Baratheon by my nephew, Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie AND considering the friendship House Tully has had with House Baratheon since Robert's Rebellion,

The Riverlands pledges its support to Shireen Baratheon as Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.




Declaration of Neutrality


The Riverlands still suffers from the Lion's brutality. Both to protect the Smallfolk of the Riverlands as well as to prepare for the greater threat that has taken away my niece and my King, the Riverlands will heretofore be neutral in the battle between House Targaryen and House Baratheon. Any non-Riverlander army that enters the Riverlands without House Tully's express permission will be set upon and destroyed.


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« Reply #91 on: July 06, 2015, 05:38:07 PM »
« Edited: July 07, 2015, 11:00:40 PM by badgate »


To All The Noble Houses of the Seven Kingdoms,

In the name of Shireen of House Baratheon, Queen of the Andals the Rhoynar and the First Men --

I, Anya of House Waynwood, Lady of Ironoaks and Protector of the Realm --

- hereby declare Queen Shireen's faith in the Gods of the Seven. While any citizens wishing to continue worship of the Red God are permitted to their faith, the Queen is a devout follower of the Seven.



- hereby declare the Lady Sansa Stark the Lady of Winterfell.
-- furthermore, Lord Wyman Manderly shall serve as Lord Regent of the North and Warden of the North until such time as Lady Stark comes of age.



- hereby declare the Lady Argella Baratheon the Lady of Storm's End.
-- furthermore, Lord Andar Royce shall serve as Lord Regent of the Stormlands until such time as Lady Baratheon comes of age.



- hereby declare the Lord Andar Royce to take his late father's place as Warden of the East.



- hereby declare the Lord Willas Tyrell to be Warden of the South.
-- furthermore, I reaffirm the Lord Garth Tyrell's appointment of Master of Coin.


So signed and sealed --

Lady Anya of House Waynwood, Lady of Ironoaks and Protector of the Realm
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« Reply #92 on: July 08, 2015, 01:41:35 PM »
« Edited: July 08, 2015, 06:26:29 PM by Lumine »

The Kraken's Daughter III:


Lost as she was on her own thoughts as the fleet sailed the Sunset Sea she was still wondering about her return. It had been two years since she had left the Iron Islands chasing Euron’s mad dreams, and in the long voyage to east and west again she had done a lot more than just breaking the chains her uncle wished to set on her. She had joined forces with the Dragon Queen and she had smashed the fleets of the Free Cities, and she had inherited Euron’s fleet without even having to resort to kinslaying. Oh, it was true enough that captains and sailors had not been too keen on accepting her leadership, but the promise of plunder and the view of the dragons had been enough to keep them on line.

Against the odds she had reached Westeros once again, crushing the Baratheon fleets – interesting revenge on the man who had once crushed her family – to find an unlikely husband in the island of Dragonstone. Aurane Velaryon, the “Lord of the Waters”, ambitious as Euron yet not quite so mad. Both knew it was a marriage of convenience, and Qarl the Maid had certainly not stopped playing his role during the long and tiresome journey back home, yet another family reunion with the uncles she had left.

It was as it time doomed the Greyjoys to die out one by one. Her father, drowned in the most unlikely of accidents. Her mother, dead due to the countless raids Pyke had seen. Theon, most likely another frozen corpse in the North. Euron, burnt by dragonfire. And now Victarion and Damphair, both their final foes left standing in the race for the crown. Was she destined by the Drowned God to become the last of her kin?

But her thoughts were forced to return.

-Your Grace! –
-Tristifer.-
-Am I interrupting something, your grace? –
-Do remind me again why I haven’t given you a small boat to die on the next battle.-
-Your grace…- Tristifer left it open as he gave a slight bow to the disgust of the sailors – The scouts have reported back, the Ironfleet is closing on us.-
-We are the Ironfleet now, Tristifer. Not whatever my uncle managed to put into the sea. – Asha moved towards the deck of her flagship – Men, prepare for battle! –

Orders were given and messengers sent, and the entire Greyjoy fleet started to shift its formation to fight the invading force. They were a mere couple of days away from Pyke, and all of the captains wondered just how bloody the battle would be for the losing side, because a chance for escape for either fleet was unlikely. Dawn was close, and the way the Ironfleet maneuvered itself aiming into the center of Asha’s formation was nothing short of admirable. Asha ordered the fleet to stay away from Victarion’s ships in an attempt to form lines as tight as possible.

-Tristifer! Report on the battle! – She shouted as she walked across the deck –
-We outnumber them, your grace, but not by much. It will be a bloody battle.-
-I don’t feel like wasting by fleet before reaching Pyke. We may have to put something to the test.-
-You don’t mean that ridiculous horn, do you? Your grace? –
-Qarl! The horn! –

It had been Aurane’s wedding present, and to Asha’s disappointment no chance to use it had arisen… until now. Apparently the most prized and secret possession of the Celtigars of Claw Isle, the horn was considered to be a legend, much alike Euron’s now destroyed dragonhorn, with the difference that this was said to be able to summon the krakens from the sea. Fitting for a Greyjoy, Asha had thought many times. Being forced to choose a suitable victim – she had learned the lessons of the Kingsmoot – it was a Ghiscari slaver turned into servant who had the back luck on being on the ship that day. He did not know it, but as Asha and Tristifer pushed him towards the torn he was about to sign a clear death warrant.

-AaaaRRREEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee! AaaaRRREEEeeeeeeeeeeeee! –

 As the Ironfleet started to cut into Asha’s formation and the battle began the skies did not break into dawn, the seas becoming unruly at the powerful sound of the so called kraken horn. Asha and her crew waited in hope of witnessing the beast, yet the moments passed without anything arising from the seas. To the horn’s merit the Ghiscari feel dead towards the floor with his face turning into pale blue as the skies remained dark, but Asha could not help but to kick the horn in frustration and then returning into the battle.

-The drowned god take you, Aurane! You useless c__t! –

The battle raged during that morning, the Ironfleet taking heavy losses just for the sake of cutting deeper and deeper into the Greyjoy ships, searching for the kill. It didn’t take long for the vanguard to reach Asha’s personal squadron, and boats full of Ironborn warriors started to sail towards the flagship. Asha continued to curse and give her commands as her men fired on the assaulting boats, the rest of the fleet too slow in regaining momentum.

And then they heard the screams.

A single one at first, and then an increasing chant of them, it was an unsettling sea chant of… something. Then the attacking ships started to move, and to Asha’s sheer surprise a tentacle rose from the seas to sink one of the enemy boats. She quickly moved away from the scene towards her men, hoping to get her ship and the rest of her fleet as away as possible from the enemy. More and more boats full of warriors were destroyed by the rising tentacles, and in the horizon Asha could clearly see that the creatures had begun to rise in the middle of the Greyjoy fleet.

-It was real… the legends were real. – Tristifer was pale –
-Krakens.- Qarl said, no expression on his face –

Several of the giant squids emerged in full view from the seas, grabbing entire vessels to turn them to the other side and crush them under the might of their enormous tentacles. It was a daunting sight, one that made even the bravest men of the fleet run and sail away for their lives. Asha fleet escaped the rising with some minor harm and some ships lost, but the prideful Ironfleet was shocked and smashed beyond imagination. Asha could not even muster enthusiasm to give the order to go for the kill as the krakens returned to the bottom of the seas, still struggling with the realization of what she had just unleashed.

It took several days to reorganize the entire mess of the battle, but by the time the fleet would be in condition to sail again losses were replenished by the terrified survivors who had chosen Asha as their true Queen, finding madness in challenging the power of the krakens and the dragons. The Ironfleet was no more, and they were sailing home to try and end the war once and for all.

It took two more days for Asha to finally see Pyke and the fleet of her uncle – who had not been a part of the earlier battle -, and she was greeted back to her home with the sight of a mangled corpse still floating on the sea. Qarl and the sailors wasted no time in recovery what remained of her, and it took Tristifer a long time to recognize what had once been Victarion’s wife, the once lovely Desmera Redwyne.

-We sail ahead. – Asha commanded as she walked away from the rotting corpse – We sail home.-

The men cheered.
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« Reply #93 on: July 20, 2015, 08:54:31 AM »

LORD FORLORN



“We have the Hand, my lord,” Ser Targon was repeating. The new-minted Lord Corbray paid him little heed, lingering at the tower window in Lord Grafton’s old Solar. Something out upon the sea seemed of greater interest to him.

“What is to be done with Ser Davos?”

“He was Lord Davos, for a time, wasn’t he,” Corbray muttered, still abstracted, “and now I am to be Lord Lyn. Most strange. Ah, yes, there were instructions regarding the Onionhand. Send him trussed up to the last ships that brought us here. The Lord Protector wants him, for some reason.”

“The Lord Pr…?”

“Aurane,” Lyn clarified, still absent, save in the frenetic fingers that played upon the ruby at his pommel. “The realm is to be Aurane’s, for the nonce. But the Vale is mine.”

Lyn was not ignorant of the doubt that flickered in the eyes of his hardiest lieutenant, the one-time hedge knight with his dose of Mountain blood they still called the Half-Wild. But it did not bother him. His men followed him not because they admired him, but because he was the most dangerous among them all, and he intended to win.

He was a son of the mountains and a bloodier of rivers, but the sea was calling him now. He still recalled the day when the fleet called at the Hook for him. It had all been arranged long since, aye, and yet he was still taken by surprise.

Well, they said the Velaryons came of the stock of dragonlords. He had naught to be ashamed about, no matter any man would dare tell him to his face, from the day he first grasped the Bastard of Driftmark’s hand and looked him in the face, hard black eyes to laughing ones of green-grey, until this very hour.

They had ridden the seahorse all the way to Dragonstone, and when that knot of misbegotten and abandoned sellswords were dispatched to the hells, their ships, their mines and their mountain seized, Waters, Velaryon, Aurane had led his ally into the Dragonfort and squeezed at his arse hard when the tides of business left them alone.

“I was wed not far from here,” the bastard had breathed, “but now the isle is mine in truth, I shall enjoy the bedding far more.” And neither had he lied. Aurane Waters had lied to the Pretender, the Crow’s Eye, to Lady Anya and the Imp and Queen Daenerys all, but never, Corbray was assured, to him. Not yet.

There was another interruption, and Ser Mychel Redfort stood before him, the lissom blademaster who had once proved so ready and precocious a squire. Redfort had behaved most…inconsistently, during his training, and after knighting him in tight-lipped recognition of his prowess Ser Lyn had seen and spoken with him but little. It was a queer jest of fate that had left this oh-so-gallant boy, along with Ser Targon, as one of Corbray’s most trustworthy seconds.

“Lord Shett is done to death, my lord.”

“Another ill-leapt-up lord,” Ser Lyn observed carelessly. “Ser Damon to us.”

“The maester says the order was not wisely given, and I agree, ser…my lord. We still hope for Royce and Coldwater to see merit in our position, and Shett was sworn to Runestone. The Lord Admiral was foolish to meddle in Vale matters such as that one.”

“The Lord Protector,” Lyn corrected again lazily, “and the order was mine. Aurane was under sail long since. I thought it meet to herald our coming with a sprinkling of dullard’s blood, too long flowing sluggish and comfortable in the wrong direction. It will show our peers what we are about.”

He ignored Ser Mychel’s look of unease veering upon disgust. That lad needed to be reminded of his place. Who was he? Merely a lord’s fourth son who had become prim about knightly exercises after he started going with a bastard, then got wedded himself by the bloody Royces. So come to think of it, Lyn thought in sudden amusement, we have both bedded with bastards in our time.

“You have the men readied for the next campaign, Ser Mychel?” he snapped, with a swift, impermanent assumption of business-like airs.

“They are almost fresh, their spirits high. We’ve hardly had to face a true fight yet, and they’re glad not to have switched allegiance after all. It’s easier to believe in Lady Waynwood’s misgovernment, among many who prefer the Royces or even remember Jon Arryn, than side with some dragon from the east again after so long.”

“Quite so, my keen Ser Mychel, quite so. But they like not our Protector?”

“It’s recalled he served Stannis long ago, on the Blackwater, …Lord Lyn. Most call him a necessary evil.”

“A necessary evil…” And Lyn laughed aloud now, a rare and hardly mirthful sound. “They speak truer than they know. Return to them, and send me the maester and some charts of the Waynwood domains.”

Ser – no, he must remember now, Lord, Lord of Ironoaks and liege of Gulltown, and Regent, aye, Regent of all the broad Vale of Arryn – Lord Lyn watched young Redfort depart with a loose grin, followed the proud sway of his tight receding rear, recognised that the boy hardly liked to be treated as a squire still, and laughed that fact to scorn.


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« Reply #94 on: July 29, 2015, 07:19:36 PM »
« Edited: July 30, 2015, 04:30:42 AM by Garlan Gunter »

SEVEN DISPOSITIONS FOR THE UNITY AND SAFETY OF THE REALM







Issued by Aurane Velaryon, Protector of the Realm and Lord of Dragonstone.

Witnessed and sealed by Lyn Corbray, Regent of the Vale and Lord of Ironoaks Castle; Grand Maester Perestan; Lyonel Corbray, Lord of Heart’s Home; Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and Gulltown; Monterys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark; Alys Karstark, Lady of the Karhold; Ser Harrold of Houses Arryn and Hardyng; Sers Wylis and Marlon Manderly; Ser Mychel Redfort; and Lord Qyburn, Master of Whisperers.

I – The Crown: House Targaryen forfeited its right to rule by tyrannous conduct, incest, madness, and defeat upon the field of battle. House Baratheon has only one legitimate heir of undisputed noble birth, Argella, as Shireen Waters, wrongfully held by the corrupt rebel Waynwoods, is widely known to be the unlawful progeny of a natural fool from beyond the seas. The Protector accordingly proclaims Argella of the Houses Baratheon and Royce, First of her noble Name, to be sole Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men.

II – The Governance of the Realm during the Queen’s Minority: Lord Velaryon of Dragonstone will continue to serve as Protector of the Realm until Queen Argella shall come of age or marry a suitor fit to rule and advise her. Lord Andar Royce of Runestone, the Queen’s closest kinsman, is invited to come to court and assist his niece in the capacity of her Hand.

III – The Royal Court and the Present Emergency: Dragonstone is the securest, the most ancient and the most indispensable royal seat and the Queen’s Court shall repair there for the present, although as the isle and castle are granted to Lord Velaryon and his heirs in perpetuity, it is intended to raise a great new city of Queen’s Haven once the war is done and the realm saved.

IV – The Governance of the Vale: Lord Corbray of Ironoaks Castle is named and confirmed as Lord Regent of the Vale and Warden of the East. House Manderly of Gulltown shall henceforth render tribute to Ironoaks. The New Citadel is confirmed in its rights, freedoms, lands, and royal protection. Houses Waynwood and Grafton are attainted for treachery against the true Queen and degraded to knightly rank, until such time as they redeem their once proud names. Lord Robert Arryn’s birth has been called into question in some quarters, who name him a bastard of the late Lord Littlefinger’s. The matter shall be investigated in full. It may be that Ser Harrold Hardyng, commonly called Arryn and the Heir, presently castellan upon Dragonstone, must be called to a higher dignity yet. If so, Lord Corbray of Ironoaks will continue to serve as High Steward.

V – The Rescue and Lordship of the North: The hated Lannisters and their Bolton catspaws drove House Stark into exile, but they could not destroy it. A legitimate and male scion of the House lives still. Rickon Stark is thus named Lord of Winterfell and the North; Lord Manderly shall act as Warden till the Stark of Winterfell be of age. The realm faces from the North a direr threat than it has witnessed for many thousands of years. The Protector shall not rest until this Army of Winter is staunched and thawed.

VI – An Offer to the Ironmen and the Crimes of the West: Lord Velaryon hails his lady wife Queen Asha with all friendship and connubial affection. If she declares herself a leal and trusty liegewoman to Queen Argella and her Protectorship, her royal style shall be confirmed. Her possession of Fair Isle and its attendant territories shall be recognised; the homage of Bear Isle shall further be granted to her; she shall be granted the stations both of Master of Ships and Wardeness of the West; and she shall be invited to pursue with righteous punishment the Queen’s foes of Casterly Rock, the Imp empoisoner of his own sire and sister, the Kingslayer, and the Mad Queen from the debauched East. The Rock itself and its riches shall be granted to whichever of the true Queen’s trusty subjects, whether it be Queen Asha, Lord Tyrell or another, can wrest it from the dwarf’s lusty thumb.

VII – The Red Faith will be supported and protected alongside the Seven and the Old Gods. It seems wise to the Protector to garner as many gods as needful for the struggle ahead.

Avouched, signed and sealed in the sight of the Old Gods and the New, and the Light of the Lord besides,

Aurane Velaryon, Protector of the Realm and Lord of Dragonstone
Lyn Corbray, Warden of the East, Lord Regent of the Vale and Lord of Ironoaks
Grand Maester Perestan of the New Citadel
Lyonel Corbray, Lord of Heart’s Home
Wyman Manderly, Warden of the North, Lord of White Harbor and Gulltown
Maester Falgird, acting for Monterys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides
Alys Karstark, Lady of the Karhold
Ser Harrold Arryn, Castellan of Dragonstone
Ser Wylis Manderly, heir to White Harbor and Gulltown
Ser Marlon Manderly
Ser Mychel Redfort
Qyburn, lord by courtesy
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« Reply #95 on: August 08, 2015, 03:09:09 PM »



Olenna

Watching the roses wither and wilt, Olenna knew that this would be her last winter. The gardens of Highgarden had been wrapped in blankets for the cold, the soil tilled and fertalized, the metal benches draped in heavy wool to make for warmer seating. But it was the chill deep in her marrow that told her winter had come.

The Queen of Thorns had a memory as sharp as her wit. Here in the garden she could remember every moment: afternoons with her ladies, doting on baby Margaery and chiding her oaf son and his prim wife. Sitting here now she was suddenly reminded of moments far, far away, when they all thought winter had broken and there began a year of false spring.

The entire Tyrell household had made for Lord Whent's great tourney at Harrenhall. She remembered how sure the Targaryen dynasty was then. How King Aerys had even come to the tourney and all the whispers of usurpation had melted away like those winter snows. Lady Olenna had commented tartly on the frailty of Prince Rhaegar's wife, but never loud enough to be heard beyond her ladies' ears; back then the Tyrells were dragon men through and through.

After the tourney, winter came back hard. The false spring was strangled by the biting winds and all the hopes and dreams were dead in the snow. It was as if the false spring had been a metaphor for Aerys' last lucid year, for he delved deeper into madness from thereon until his death. Powerless, Olenna had watched as her son did nothing to save the dragons from his banquet table at the siege of Storm's End. His folly cost the Reach power and honor, but in the end the roses still bloomed at Highgarden.

Now was another story. Willas had run their house into the dirt, waffling between the Pretender and the Usurper for more than a year. Mace had made many more follies, crowning the younger brother to King Stannis before supporting Joffrey and marrying his only daughter to the monster. They had all burned, all but Willas, Garlan, and Olenna, for that mistake.

Their power, or illusion of their power, was all but spent. Lord Tarly had perished in a field of fire, and her grandson had brought the Tyrell's honor as low as the Freys with his malicious massacre at Riverrun.

And now Olenna's own blood had turned to open rebellion against her grandson. In truth, Lady Olenna felt she agreed with Lord Redwyne: Stannis' cause had died with him, leaving two daughters in the hands of a kingdom full of lords too proud and hungry to get on the same page and work together. She would not be surprised at all if both of the Baratheon queens perished within the year, and she had counseled Willas twice now that he should prepare to ally them with Queen Daenerys.

And what will the proud Valemen say then, when they've killed a babe just like Tywin Lannister? she thought. Then, with a shudder that seemed to last her entire lifetime, she realized she was well and truly cold. It was the reminder of her own kin's rebellion that brought her back from her musings. Just as she was supposing to go into their castle's warm great hall, she saw to Green Cloaks marching toward her, bearing a sealed scroll with her grandson's stamp.

"Lady Olenna," the man on the left said, bowing. He held out the parchment for her to take.

Shivering, she took the scroll and read quickly. I have asked for an audience twice this week. Must he torture me while he grants it? she thought as she stood. Olenna tugged her first tighter around her body and said, "my grandson wishes you to escort me to the forest to meet him and his hunting party." The green cloaks nodded silently and turned, leading the way.

Outside the walls of Highgarden was a forest. During summer and spring it was lush and beautiful, with bright pink and blue flowers and more green than the eye had ever drank in. Now it was a ruinous mess, leafless and dead. It made it easier, however, to see her grandson and his hunting party as they made their approach. Their voices carried from yards away.

"But Willas, why on earth did you order it?" Garlan was asking in an almost pleading tone.

"My brother, the Tullys were a weak house that kept being propped up. They were nearly asking to be taken out. Now I'll have no more of this subject, we must discuss the preparations." Willas nodded to one of the other knights.

"We've got the strongest garrison in the Seven Kingdoms, my lord," the knight said to Willas. "Highgarden is guarded by more than four thousand men; Lady Waynwood doesn't even command as many in the field," he added with a gruff laugh.

"The Targaryens can march eleven thousand on us from the Westerlands," Willas pointed out.

"True, my lord, but the dragon bitch surely knows we will force her to challenge us. There will be no fields of fire under my command." The knight placed his right hand over his heart.

"Mine goodfather's death was tragic, yes, but very brave. He died defending our lands, and his grandson's birthright."

"He won't have a birthright after what you did," Garlan put in, "you broke guest right and committed a wholesale slaughter at Riverrun, brother. Forgive me, but you have brought the Redwyne rebellion upon us."

Willas opened his mouth to respond, but just then saw Lady Olenna and her entourage making their approach. He ignored his brother and smiled warmly to the Queen of Thorns. "My lady grandmother, you must forgive our discussion. My brother seems to think your family poses a true threat from their island lands."

"Your coalition holds true," Olenna asked coolly. Even now she knew she must keep her mask on; Willas' pride was clearly hurt by the Redwyne declarations. She bowed to the knight and then to Garlan, and when she looked up her heart dropped into her stomach.

They were just on the edge of the dead forest, near high and thick hedges that had not yet yielded to the winter. Out of the leaves flew a flurry of arrows with deadly force. The thunder of footsteps pounded in her ears and she saw men in black charging toward the hunting party.

Her entourage and the knights all moved to meet the offenders, but it was a waste. Man after man fell, but wether it was by sword or arrow she could not make the distinction. She saw Garlan, proud and strong, falling dead to the ground. Willas shouted to retreat, and an arrow sprouted from inside his left eye, causing his head to squirt blood everwhere...on the leaves...on his brother...on her.

The mask of the Queen of Thorns fell away as if it had not taken years to perfect. Staring death in the face, with the men in black charging after her, Olenna Redwyne screamed.
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« Reply #96 on: August 08, 2015, 10:34:09 PM »
« Edited: August 09, 2015, 08:36:14 AM by Winter has come »

Sansa (Part I of II)


“But everything is so wonderful in Winterfell!  You’ll love it there.  Why can’t you come with me?” Sansa asked Lady Brienne as she packed for her journey to Winterfell.

“My lady, your mother often spoke of Winterfell and I know that you will be very happy there, but you and your sister are finally safe.  When I swore to serve Lady Catelyn, she made me a promise as well.  She promised me that when the time came, she would not stop me from...”

“At least stay for a few days.  Jon won’t treat you the way uncle Edmure did, I promise.  He isn’t like that.  And Arya would be so very delighted to meet you, I just know it.  I’m sure you’d be all she’d be able to talk about for the rest of winter,” Sansa replied.  At least that part is true.  Lady Brienne will hate Winterfell, Southrons never like the North.  But it would be so very dreadful to spend the whole journey with no one to talk except a bunch of smelly soldiers.  And Lady Brienne was one of the only people left who could still make Sansa feel safe.  Everyone else who tried to protect me is dead.  Father, Lord Tyrion, and Lord Petyr.  All of them...except the Hound, but he was scary and never wanted anything to be happy.

“I swore to avenge King Renly’s murder, but I suppose...I suppose I also swore to protect you.  Perhaps it is my duty to see that you safely arrive at Winterfell.”  

Suddenly, the door swung open and the Lord of Riverrun entered the room.  Sansa had come to love her uncle dearly during her time in Riverrun although she wished he would stop making such nasty japes about Lady Brienne.  Still...Sansa had decided that she would not hold this against her uncle.  He’d been so very kind to her and he wasn’t half as cruel to Lady Brienne as some of the other men in Riverrun.  Sansa’s uncle could always cheer her up with a jape or a good-natured boast.  And while she would never completely forgive Lady Roselin for being a Frey, Edmure and her were so deeply in love that simply seeing them together reminded Sansa of her parents...of how happy they were before King Robert the Fat came to Winterfell.  Sansa loved spending time with baby Hoster most of all.  He was a sweet baby who never cried at night and was finally learning to walk.  Today though, Lord Edmure frightened Sansa more than anything she’d seen since she left King’s Landing.  The moment she saw the look on her uncle’s face, Sansa knew that she would not be returning to Winterfell after all.

At first no one quite knew what had happened at Winterfell.  Northerners began flooding into the Riverlands and they all had different stories, each more unbelievable...and horrible than the last.  One man said that King Stannis had killed Jon in single combat after he discovered that the latter planned to take him prisoner and turn him over to Daenarys Targaryen.  Another said that Lord Bolton’s bastard had declared himself “King Beyond the Wall” and burned down Winterfell after his army of 100,000 wildlings melted The Wall.  There was even a ridiculous story that the Others had invaded the North and that the Night’s King had taken Arya for a wife after turning her into an Other.  Oddly enough, it was more difficult to imagine Arya as Queen of...well...anything than it was to imagine her as an Other or a Wildling.  Those are just stories, The Wall would never come down and even if it did, the Others aren’t real.  And yet Sansa couldn’t help but think of her house’s words: winter is coming.

As the weeks went by, some of the details about the Battle of Winterfell were eventually confirmed.  Everyone said that King Stannis had died in some sort of great battle and that Winterfell was captured by an enemy from beyond The Wall.  Most of the refugees now insisted that the Others were the enemy from beyond the wall, but Sansa would not let herself believe such a thing.  It was too horrid.  The Others don’t exist, no more than giants, snarks, and grumpkins do.  But if mother and Lady Brienne could come back from the dead...  No!  They can’t be real!  The only silver lining was that none of the stories involved her sister dying.  Arya escaped from King’s Landing and then made it all the way back to Winterfell, she must have escaped from Winterfell too.  It was a Wildling attack, Sansa decided.  Jon probably saved Arya and cut his way out of Winterfell.  Perhaps they’ll even arrive at Riverrun in a few days. Sansa remembered what Lord Petyr once told her: “Life is not a song, sweetling” and knew they were not coming to Riverrun.  I’m still just a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns, she thought bitterly.  Tears rolled down her cheeks as Sansa realized that wherever Jon and Arya were, dead or alive, she would never see either of them again.


During those horrible weeks, Sansa couldn’t stand to be around anyone except baby Hoster.  Everyone else was always looking at her with pity and telling her how sorry they were about what had happened.  Don’t they realize that they’re just making it worse.  Why can’t they all just leave me alone.  

The Blackfish said he was leaving Riverrun to oversee the defense of the Twins in case whatever attacked Winterfell decided to march south, but Sansa knew the real reason was the argument with Lord Edmure over her uncle’s decision to allow all of the smallfolk fleeing the North into the Riverlands.  The Blackfish insisted that they were just “more useless mouths to feed.”  Sansa’s granduncle was a hard man by nature, but he treated those he respected with a gentle kindness.  He was also one of the only men in Riverrun who ever spoke up for Lady Brienne when people called her “Brienne the beauty” and once even threatened to break a man’s nose for calling her “the Beast of Tarth.”  Sansa overheard him tell her that she would always have his gratitude saving his grandniece and made her promise him something before he left.  Sansa didn’t know what Lady Brienne promised except that she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about it.  

Not long afterward, Lord Edmure mentioned that he had pursuaded the Tyrells to send several thousand soldiers to reinforce Riverrun in case the Twins should fall.  “The Tyrell men should arrive on the morrow,” he told her one night, “I promise that you’ll be safe here.  If anyone attacks Riverrun then I’ll break them the same way that I broke Tywin Lannister at the Battle of the Fords.”  But you didn’t break him, Sansa thought bitterly, Lord Tywin won the war on your wedding night when your wife’s family murdered my mother and my brother Robb...and took you prisoner.  “Must she accompany you everywhere,” her uncle asked, scowling at Lady Brienne.  Before Sansa could respond, the door opened and one of her Uncle’s men entered the room.  “My Lord, the Tyrell reinforcements have arrived.  Their commander, Ser Damon Flowers, asks that you open the gates and grant him an audience at once,” the man said.  

“Very well, let us go and greet our guests.  I shall have to wake Roselin.  Her presence will be expected and so will yours, my lady.  I suppose your bear might as well come too since she’s still wearing that bloody armor of hers.”  Lady Brienne scowled at the jape, but mercifully said nothing.

It was the coldest night Sansa could remember since she left the North.  She struggled to keep herself from shivering.  Even her uncle looked miserable and plainly regretted his decision to wear a fine blue doublet rather than armor.  Riverrun had never experienced this sort of weather before and unlike Winterfell, its great hall was not designed to keep men warm during the winter.  The cold reminded Sansa of the stories about the Others...about Arya...about how she...  No!  That’s impossible, the Others aren’t even real.  They’re just a story to scare children.  Ser Damon was accompanied by only 30 of his 2,000 men in the great hall, although all of the others had passed through Riverrun’s gates.  Ser Damon frightened Sansa a great deal, he was a bald man who wore a constant scowl and looked a great deal like Ser Ilyn Payne...although he talked much more than Ser Ilyn.  He is not a true knight, she decided.  

Once Ser Damon had eaten Lord Edmure’s bread and salt, he looked at the Lord of Riverrun and said “My Lord, I wish I were here under different circumstances.  I fear...how can I put this...I...I fear that I must report that House Tyrell has learned of a plot on your life.  A most vile conspiracy.  In fact, someone in this room is planning to murder you this very night.  I thank the seven that we arrived in time to warn you.” But why would...who...who here would ever want to hurt uncle Edmure, Sansa wondered, as murmurs of confusion spread through the room.  

“My...my life,” stammered Lord Edmure, “but who would...who are these traitors, Ser Damon.  Tell me their names and if what you say is true then I promise House Tully will never forget what you have done.”  The knight tilted his head at her uncle and for a brief moment simply stared at him silently.  “No,” said Ser Damon quietly, “I don’t imagine House Tully will forget what I’ve done tonight.”

Something was very wrong, Sansa realized, although she couldn’t figure out what it was.  None of this makes any sense.  Why wouldn’t Ser Damon just tell Lord Edmure as soon as he arrived.  It reminded her of a mummer’s farce.

“The names, Ser?  Who do you claim intended to kill me tonight,” asked Lord Edmure.
“Why Ser Damon Flowers, of course,” replied Ser Damon and before anyone could react, he grabbed a dagger from his belt and threw it at Lord Edmure.  The last thing Sansa remembered was the sound of Lady Roselin screaming as Ser Damon’s dagger went through Lord Edmure’s eye, killing him instantly.
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« Reply #97 on: August 08, 2015, 10:57:34 PM »
« Edited: August 09, 2015, 08:59:16 AM by Winter has come »

Sansa (Part II of II)



What happened next was a blur, all Sansa could remember after her uncle died were Tyrell soldiers pouring into the great hall and the screams that echoed through Riverrun that night.  She didn’t know how they escaped, but the next thing Sansa remembered was racing through some sort of dark tunnel with Lady Brienne...and Ser Hyle Hunt, of all people.  They slowed down somewhat once they realized that no one had followed them.  “Where are we?” Sansa whispered.  

“The tunnel leads out of Riverrun and to a nearby riverbank, my lady.  There will be a boat waiting for us.  There has been ever since the Blackfish left.  Your granduncle never trusted the Tyrells.  Before he left for the Twins, he made me promise that if anything happened, I would take you, your uncle, and your uncle’s family through this tunnel and see that you all made it to Harrenhal safely.  He said he’d be waiting there with his men if Riverrun fell.  He forbid me to tell anyone because he feared that Tyrells might have spies in Riverrun,” Brienne replied.

“But why did he tell you and not Lord Edmure?” asked Sansa.
“The Blackfish thought your uncle was more likely to find himself in need of rescuing than I was, my lady.”
“What about lady Roselin and baby Hoster?  Where are they?”
“I...I don’t know, my lady.  Lady Roselin had made it out with us, but she turned around and ran back towards Riverrun once she realized her baby was still in his crib.  I cannot say what became of her afterwards.”

They traveled through the tunnel for what felt like years until they finally came out the other end and saw two small boats on the riverbank, just as the Blackfish had promised.  “Aroooooooooooo,” howled a wolf somewhere in the distance.  They were almost there when a voice cut through the darkness like a knife through cheese.

“I think that’s far enough,” said Ser Damon as he emerged from the darkness with three of his men.  
“But...but how,” Sansa whimpered before the false knight cut her off.  
“How did I find you?  The Tully b!tch told me where you were going before we killed her.  All I had to do was promise to spare her son’s life in return.  Simple enough, really.  Of course, he still drowned after I threw him into the river, but I promise you that I gave him every chance to swim to safety.  Shame he decided to throw his life away like that after...”  “Aroooooooooooooo!”  “Bloody wolves,” muttered the false knight, “after his mother betrayed you lot to save him.”  

Lady Brienne put her hand on the hilt of her sword and began to step forward when Ser Hyle tripped her, unsheathed his sword and stepped forward.  He looked at Lady Brienne.  “Forgive me, my lady...for everything.  See to it that Lady Sansa makes it to Harrenhal safely.  You have to go...NOW!”  Sansa couldn’t help thinking that Ser Hyle was the last person she would’ve ever expected to have been a true knight.  His sacrifice was the most gallant thing she had ever seen.  

“Kill them all,” shouted Ser Damon as Lady Brienne scooped up Sansa in her arms and ran towards the riverbank.  By the time they reached the boats, all three of Ser Damon’s men were dead and the false knight himself was battling Ser Hyle.  Maybe Ser Hyle will kill him and escape...maybe... thought Sansa as Brienne began to row the boat away from the riverbank.  “Arooooooooo!  Aroooooooo!  Aroooooooo!”  howled the wolf...no...the wolves.  It was a whole pack and they didn’t sound nearly so far away as they had before.  Sansa’s hopes were dashed when she saw the false knight slice off Ser Hyle’s head with one swift stroke.  Lord Petyr was right, she thought sadly as Lady Brienne rowed their boat down the river, life is not a song.  And yet even though she had just seen him take off Ser Hyle’s head, for a moment, Sansa could’ve sworn that she heard Ser Damon screaming somewhere in the distance.  

It was some time before they reached Lord Harroway’s Town and during that time it was plain that the Riverlands had descended into chaos.  Yet nothing frightened Sansa so much as the day it began snowing.  Winter has come. In Lord Harroway’s Town, all the Northern refugees claimed that the Others had attacked Winterfell, but Sansa knew they were wrong.  They have to be wrong!  In the end, it was only because of Lady Brienne that Sansa found the strength to make it to Harrenhal.  The former seldom spoke anymore and often looked like a broken women.  She seemed to have even more traumatized by the massacre at Riverrun than Sansa had been.  One day, Lady Brienne turned to Sansa and sadly told her that she didn’t know how to trust people anymore.  She’s only pushing forward because of her vow to protect me.  If I die, Lady Brienne will have nothing left to live for, Sansa realized. I have to keep going.  I will...I must...for her sake.

Somehow they made it to Harrenhal and Sansa was shocked to discover that not only was the Blackfish already there, he was letting the smallfolk take shelter behind the fortress’ walls.  Sansa’s granduncle looked as though he’d aged 100 years since he left for the Twins.  He wept when Lady Brienne told him about Lord Edmure’s death and Sansa realized that for all of his scolding, the Blackfish loved his nephew very dearly.  “I didn’t want to believe it,” he muttered to no one in particular, “at least the c**t paid dearly for it.”
“Who?” Sansa asked.
“The Tyrell bastard who killed my nephew, no one can agree on how he died, but everyone has reported the butcher died some sort of horrible death on the night of the massacre.  Some say there was a mutiny and his own men flayed him to death.  Too good a death for the likes of him, I say.  One of the survivors even swore he saw the little sh!t being eaten alive by a monstrous direwolf while a large pack of wolves feasted upon several nearby corpses not far from Riverrun.”  Sansa thought of the howling she’d heard on the night of the massacre and shuddered.

When he recovered, the Blackfish turned to Sansa and said “I know what happened at Winterfell.  Seven help me, I know.  The Others have taken the North.  I...I have seen them.”  The Blackfish seemed to grow older with every word.  
“But...but that can’t be true.  They...the...the Others...they’re not real.”

"They are sweetling,” her granduncle replied sadly, “I saw them when they captured the Twins.  I’ve seen them raise men from the dead.  I’ve let the smallfolk in because keeping them out will only increase the size of the Army of Winter.”
“But...if they attacked Winterfell...then...then...Jon is...”
“Dead.  Meat in their army, most like.”
“But if the stories...I mean...if the Others are real...then the stories... Arya is...s-she can’t be...”
“The smallfolk...the smallfolk say,” replied the Blackfish, “they say that the Night’s King has turned your sister into an Other and made her his...his Queen.”
“But how?  That...that can’t be...how would...why would...she...she would n-never...”
“Arya’s gone.  She’s not your sister anymore, she’s one of...one of them now.  I’m sorry.”
“S-She is one of...and the N-N-Night’s King made her...and...she...Arya is his...his...his...”  Sansa fainted.

Sansa awoke on a bed and saw Lady Brienne in her armor, kneeling in prayer beside her bed. “What...how long...where is my granduncle?” she asked.
“My lady, we arrived at Harrenhal two days ago.  You’ve been asleep since the Blackfish told you about...”
“Please don’t...I can’t bare to hear it again.”  Just thinking about Jon...about Arya...if she was still Arya...hurt too much.  
“As you wish, my lady.”
“How long...how much longer do you think my granduncle will live before he leaves me too?”

Lady Brienne looked at Sansa sadly and said nothing as she lowered her visor.
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #98 on: August 10, 2015, 07:24:23 PM »
« Edited: August 10, 2015, 07:29:30 PM by Garlan Gunter »

SUMMONS TO THE VALE BANNERS





Issued by Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East

Witnessed and sealed by Aurane Velaryon, Protector of the Realm and Prince of Dragonstone; Grand Maester Perestan; Lyonel Corbray, Lord of Heart’s Home; Jasper Redfort, Lord of the Redfort; Jon Lynderly, Lord of the Snakewood; Wyman Manderly, Lord of Gulltown and rightful Lord of White Harbor; Monterys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark; Alys Karstark, Lady of the Karhold; Sers Wylis and Marlon Manderly; Sers Creighton, Jon, and Mychel Redfort; and Lord Qyburn, Master of Whisperers.

I hereby lay claim, as the next of kin to the Lord Robert of House Arryn deceased, to the ancient lordship of the Vale entire and undivided.

Further, I call all true bannermen who ever swore to the Moon and Falcon to answer my summons to the Eyrie, my rightful seat, where they are to do me homage.

If any do withhold either their presence or their homage, not excepting even my good-brother, Lord Royce of Runestone, I will name them recreant and false in this time of emergency, deprived of all titles, lands, honours, perquisites, and allegiances. Their bannermen are urged to desert any such reckless and selfish course and return to their proper service.

I command that the attack upon Lady Waynwood of Ironoaks by my good-brother aforesaid cease forthwith, and name the said Lady Waynwood, my foster-mother, High Steward of the Vale to rule in my stead whilst I am away at war.

For I myself do summon each one of my leal and able-bodied bannermen afterwards to come to the aid of the Riverlands, and resist the nameless threat to the north.

For the governance of the realm, I accept Aurane Velaryon as Protector of the Realm for the present time, but reserve the question of the crown and the regency both for a Great Council after the war is done. It may be that the time has come to assume the Falcon Crown's freedoms once more. But first the common enemy must at all costs be stopped.

I do confirm the grant of Gulltown to Lord Manderly, and summon his forces also to my side.

As High As Honor!

Avouched, signed and sealed in the sight of the Old Gods and the New, and the Light of the Lord besides,

Harrold Arryn, formerly Hardyng, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East
Aurane Velaryon, Protector of the Realm and Prince of Dragonstone
Grand Maester Perestan of the New Citadel
Lyonel Corbray, Lord of Heart’s Home
Jasper Redfort, Lord of the Redfort
Jon Lynderly, Lord of the Snakewood
Wyman Manderly, Warden of the North, Lord of Gulltown, rightful Lord of White Harbor
Maester Falgird, acting for Monterys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides
Alys Karstark, Lady of the Karhold
Ser Wylis Manderly, heir to White Harbor and Gulltown
Ser Marlon Manderly
Ser Creighton Redfort
Ser Jon Redfort
Ser Mychel Redfort
Qyburn, lord by courtesy


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« Reply #99 on: August 13, 2015, 02:07:23 PM »

To the Lords and Ladies of the Vale,

Our realm has been thrown into chaos by the toxic and petty factions rising up after my father's tragic death. We cannot allow ourselves to squabble while the Sidhe from beyond the Wall bear down upon the Riverlands and, soon, the Vale.

I have contemplated deeply on the future of the Vale since the deaths of Lord Yohn and King Stannis. His lawful heir, Lady Shireen, is unsuited for rulership despite his affection for her. My own niece, Lady Argella, daughter of my beloved sister Ysilla, is a second daughter and while a beautiful child an absurd choice for a Regent.

However, my lords, I have chosen for myself and declare today that the Royces of the Vale are now and forevermore Queen's Men.

My father once said in a Great Council of the Vale that its greatest strength was its honor. I present to you lords the only honorable choice: the Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen Daenerys Targaryen.

Together, under the dragon banners, we can uphold the Vale's honor and save ourselves from the Sidhe in a single stroke.

Fighting over two Baratheon daughters will weaken us more and more. I say let neither of them rule and throw out the conflict in the same toss.

Lord Yohn brought the Vale great honor and victory under the late King Stannis. Join me, and together we will do the same in the name of the True Queen of Westeros, Daenerys of House Targaryen.

There remain, however, domestic issues of urgent import. Lord Robert Arryn has perished under suspicious circumstances. Having been privy to Lord Yohn's closest councils, I know from the written word of Maester Coleman himself that Lord Robert had improved greatly and his shakes and fits greatly been reduced. That he would suddenly have an attack of such violent nature that it would cause him to die mere days after Lady Anya came to the Eyrie is of ultimate concern.

Lady Waynwood has disgraced herself and her house. As Protector of the Realm over Shireen Baratheon, she has tainted the entire Baratheon regency beyond recovery. Furthermore, she had ruined our Lords Paramount, House Arryn. The last heir to Jon Arryn is dead. Ser Harrold, though a brave warrior, is as distant a cousin as I myself am to the Starks of Winterfell.

What the Vale needs is not a child ruler propped up by greed. We need to be strong and honorable and united. Therefore I stake my claim as Lord Paramount of the Vale. I claim the Vale by rights, having descended from the Royce Kings of the First Men, and will claim it by force wherever necessary. Join me and find me the most just Lord to rule the Vale since Jon Arryn. Defy me and find that I fight with dragons by my side.

So signed,
Andar of House Royce, Lord of Runestone and Lord Paramount of the Vale
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