Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Aug 13, 2022 0:58:45 GMT
Braedon “Fathers, please unveil your daughters of your sigils. Lords, you may now cloak your brides and hence bring them under your protection,” echoed the Andal septon, clad in his white robes adorned with the seven-pointed star. Braedon sneered as he watched the five couples perform these Andal traditions. The First Men needed no priest to marry, only a weirwood and a few sacred words. The Andals made a mockery of their traditions with this whole charade. Braedon watched the exchange of cloaks with cynical eyes, as did many others in the Great Hall. Benedict’s daughter, Princess Gwenyth, had her sandy cloak of House Yronwood exchanged for the checkered green cloak of House Jordayne. Similarly, Princess Ella was donned with the orange cloak of House Vaith, and Lady Helena Vass had her pale blue cloak swapped out for the golden cloak of House Gargalen. Prince Yorick draped his cloak over Cersei Allyrion’s shoulders, and the Lady Taylah Santagar was donned in the red cloak of Ashtin Arrows – the son of Lord Aaron Arrows, a close vassal to the King. The septon nodded, then acknowledging the king. “Your Grace. Royals and nobles of Yronwood. I would like to bless the unity of the new-weds in the light of the Seven,” the septon declared, then gulping awkwardly, “and the old gods of these lands… One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!” the septon announced, and the nobles present put their hands together and cheered for the grandest ceremony that had ever transitioned in these halls. Each groom lifted their bride and joined their lips in seal of their holy matrimony… and so too were their fates sealed. “Bedding!” a man shouted from the crowd, spreading grins over the faces of Yorick Yronwood and the King, while the Andals gazed at each other in confusion. The demand only ensued madness, as women flocked to the grooms and men carried the brides out of the hall, an applauding crowd trailing after them. All who remained in the hall were the Andal guests and families of the wedded, the nobles of Yronwood and the disputed Yronwood’s themselves. Braedon lifted his nose as he stared across the hall at Benedict and his wife, Olira. He sat with the Andals: Emphryus Jordayne and Cyrus Allyrion, along with Lord Aaron Arrows and his lady wife. Their company was also shared with Benedict’s brother, Gyles, and his wife, Shara – who hailed from House Shell, the rivals to Braedon’s in-laws. All of their children, save for Gyles’ son, Tywin, had been married on the podium this day, and all were traitors to the alliance. The worst traitor sat upon his throne, elated and boastful with his new alliance. Braedon glanced upon his own family. His parents and aunt sat beside him with equally disapproving glares on the ceremony and its implications, and his children… Where was Alix? Braedon grabbed the attention of his eldest, Aren, and motioned to the empty chair that belonged to his youngest. Aren shook his head apologetically. Broden cleared his throat. “I sent Alix to look for Jeyna also,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose he has yet to find her,” he concluded with some dry amusement, winking coyly at his granddaughter. Braedon rolled his eyes. “He has missed the event, he has no place in the ceremony, I will have words with him when I see him,” Braedon muttered, placing his hand softly on his wife’s. She had been quiet this evening, she hid her emotions well, but Braedon knew her thoughts were carving out her insides. Her whole family slaughtered by Andals, and now her new family treating with them. “An interesting note that neither Prince Eddin nor his wife were present at this gathering either,” Braedon’s mother observed, and his aunt, Myra, nodded with a docile expression. “Whispers tell that Eddin is succumbing to his poor health. He lies bedridden and his wife sits with him,” Myra explained. Broden snarled. “And so, Benedict has pulled the rug out from under us by arranging this alliance in the shadow of his father’s life.” “So it would seem,” Myra concluded. Jeyna rolled her eyes with boredom. “Father, the proceedings are over, may I leave?” she questioned impatiently, and Braedon glanced at her momentarily before reluctantly nodding. “Aren will escort you,” he stated, and Jeyna gave him a glare of disapproval, as did Aren. “I do not need an escort,” Jeyna hissed, and Aren clearly wished to remain by his father’s side. “Yet I do, these dull processions tire me without mercy,” Myra uttered as she helped herself to her feet. “Jeyna, dearest, help your mother to her chambers. Aren, I would appreciate your guiding hand to my own,” she stated, and both Braedon’s children unwillingly agreed to her demands. Braedon nodded to her with appreciation. He disapproved of her authority over his children, but more so because she had greater momentum over them than he ever did, and that shamed him. Yet she had earned her power over his children by aiding his wife in raising them when Braedon could not, so begrudgingly Braedon accepted her dominance in his family. Braedon kissed his wife on the cheek and watched as she was guided away by their daughter. “She will be alright, my son,” his mother promised as she caressed his cheek. Braedon frowned as he teared his eyes away from his wife and onto Tila. His mother had aged gracefully, though the years of civil conflict in this household were starting to catch up with her. Braedon smiled gently and grasped her hand. “Broden!” The king shouted, pulling their attention to the old man on the throne. “Your family leaves so soon!” he observed, and Broden bowed his head in apology. “They are feeling unwell, my King. I have granted them leave,” he explained, and Olyvar rolled his eyes carelessly, turning to the crowd. “This ceremony marks a special occasion! Never in the Coming of the Andals has Westeros seen unity without bloodshed. I have brought this alliance to our kingdom doing just that and look how we are better for it! As we speak, our soldiers are being re-armed with iron, our armies doubling and our strength growing. United, we stand stronger than any of the kingdoms in Dorne!” Olyvar stated, and a cheer came from the Andals and First Men alike in the hall. Olyvar grinned in approval. “I have great ambitions with this newfound power. I would see us behead the stags of the Stormlands who have shit on us for so long, and break the border that the Marcher lords so preciously protect, but first… I would reward this new alliance with keeps on the outreach of my kingdom. The Andals seek their independence, and so I would offer you bountiful lands along the Greenblood to settle and establish your independent kingdoms. Petty kingdoms resided along this providing river, and we are aligned to the most powerful of them. We will aid the Shell’s in freeing dividing lands and grant each of you a share of it!” Olyvar announced, and again the crowd cheered. The Andal kings bowed their heads in thanks of this offer, and Braedon bowed his head with visible outrage. Broden placed a hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Braedon,” he warned, but Braedon freed himself from his grasp, storming to the throne. “The nerve you have, Grandfather! You would march to aid the Shell’s, but not the Wade’s!” Braedon shouted with seething anger, and Olyvar raised an eyebrow before dismissing his grandson’s outburst. “Be quiet, boy. You wished no part in this alliance so you will remain seated,” Olyvar growled, but Braedon shook his head in spite. “I wouldn’t marry my children to a fucking Andal if my life depended on it. The Andals massacred my wife’s family, a family aligned to us and under our protection, and you abandoned them in their time of need! Now you would become involved in the Greenblood conflict only after they have been ridded of. You are a craven and a traitor!” Olyvar stood from his throne, a burning glare in his eye. “Careful, boy. Your my blood, but you’re not free of consequence,” the King warned, and Broden stood from his silence. “Apologies, father, I will have words with my son. Braedon, come!” Broden commanded, but Braedon shook his head adamantly. “I will not be summoned away like some hound or silenced for speaking against a madman and a tyrant! You have betrayed the trust of our allies in Blackmont! You betrayed the trust of my wife’s family! You betrayed the trust of your own family! You will betray no longer,” Braedon declared, unsheathing his dagger and hurling with all his strength at the throne. A gasp echoed through the crowd. Olyvar chuckled, sitting back in his throne as he locked eyes with his grandson. Protruding from his chest was Braedon’s blade, staining his garments in red. His laughter spat blood down his chin, and his burning eyes glared at the last face he would ever see. The hall remained silent for what felt like an eternity. “You…” Olyvar gurgled as blood oozed from his snarling red-stained teeth. Words tried to escape his lips, but only death poured out, and at last the old man was silent. A sigh of relief left Braedon’s lips. “Seize him!” Benedict demanded as he unsheathed his sword, and immediately Broden and his guard flocked to Braedon’s support, ringing bronze against iron as an age-lasting feud finally boiled over. Braedon stood paralysed as chaos swallowed everything around him. Men clawed at each other’s throats, women gouged out each other’s eyes, guards massacred the folk they were sworn to protect. Braedon willed himself to move, yet his legs felt cemented in quicksand, and his voice snared. His voice was absent to cry as he watched his father receive a sword plunge through his side. His legs were planted as he witnessed his mother’s throat opened. His arms were too heavy to raise when he turned to meet the fist of his cousin, a pommel that would spare him from this conflict.
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Aug 14, 2022 9:07:40 GMT
Interlude
The King of the Hour Cold. Sixty-eight years Eddin had lived in these harsh unforgiving lands, brought into Yronwood as a babe, second in line for his father’s throne… Sixty-eight years, and never had Eddin felt cold as he did now. His body had betrayed him, corrupted his flesh, and cursed his health, the gods had surely forsaken him. Cold acts he had committed in his life, acts of ambition, acts that were callous and unforgiving, actions he would carry with him to the grave, though none had left him feel as he did now. Cold. Might he have been at the Wall, his shivers may have been excused and is honour remained intact. Had he felt the snow of winter, he may have settled this feeling as an accompanying discomfort of his surrounding circumstances, but there was no snow nor great wall of ice in sight. Only sand and grim misfortune. Eddin, Prince of Yronwood, was dying. A weeping woman sat beside him, the flow of her long grey hair familiar, the warmth and sorrow in her eyes comforting. “Sofina,” Eddin whispered with a broken smile, feeling her warm hand on his cold skin. Her old wet eyes beamed with acknowledgement, staring at him through a veil of tears that endlessly flowed down her aging cheeks. “Today was to be a good day.” A paining laugh left his wife’s lips as she wiped away the tears from her face. “Our grandchildren are married, Edd, their alliances will strengthen our kingdom for generations,” Sofina stated proudly, and Eddin nodded weakly. Such ambitions. For as long as he could remember, it seemed like Eddin and Sofina had been planning for his ascension to the throne, facing the challenges and preparing. The ambitions conflicted with his half-brother, Broden, who too shared the same goals. In truth, Eddin never thought ill of his half-brother, he hoped to align with his brother once the day came when their father ceased to be. He found some small solace that now at least the crisis of succession would be avoided. A smile touched his lips. “Do you ever imagine what could have been, sweet wife?” Eddin queried, and reassuring eyes glanced at him as she caressed his cheek. “Do not give up hope, Edd. You will beat this,” she promised him, and Eddin cupped her hand as he flashed her a warm smile. “Not the throne,” he clarified, and her brow furrowed, “Do you wonder how things may have been had we not been so engulfed in these ambitions? I look to my grandchildren and barely recognise them as family, merely pawns and assets to further our claim. And our sons… I fear our plights only worsened them, our sweet boys, we took the gift of childhood away from them.” Sofina shook her head. “You cannot think like that. Everything we have strived for, everything we have achieved, it has all been for the good of the realm. The sacrifices we have made have been necessary,” she assured him, and Eddin nodded patiently. “Yes, but to what end?” Her hand pulled away from his cheek. “We have stripped the good away from our sons, forced them into the lives they have led, and now we have done the same with their children. I know the importance of our task, Sofina, do not mistake me, but I question if the cost was worth it. Perhaps for our grandchildren’s grandchildren, but was it worth that sacrifice for us?” Sofina glanced between her lover’s eyes without words, she choked on their shared ambition as she now focused on the morality of their decisions, the lives they had stolen and wasted to pursue their agenda. She could not answer, she feared what she might say would jeopardise all she had stood for. The doors to Eddin’s chambers flew open, entering Benedict with the household guard, though his appearance was of concern. His sword was drawn and bloodied, as were his garbs and flesh. Sofina immediately rushed to his aid. “Benedict, my boy! What has happened? Are you hurt?” she wailed, and Benedict grasped her shoulder before passing her to the guards, his eyes grim. “Secure my mother to the tower chambers, allow no one entry until I arrive, am I understood?” Benedict ordered, and the guards bowed before rushing the unwilling woman away. Eddin mustered his strength to sit himself upright in his bed. The doors to his chambers shut. Benedict immediately knelt, throwing down his sword and catching his breath. Eddin glanced at him with powerless eyes. “Benedict… What has happened?” Eddin’s voice was riddled with concern, yet his words were weakening, as was his condition. Benedict shook his head before lifting his gaze, horror depicted in his eyes. “The wedding… The King…” Benedict uttered, crawling to his father’s side. “Braedon murdered the King, father, he put a knife through his heart,” Benedict revealed, and Eddin froze, a thousand thoughts racing at once. His eyes trembled as he gazed at his son. “The children?” he asked, anticipating the answer to be one he did not wish to hear. Benedict grasped his father’s frail hands. “They live. The bedding ceremony was called before the bloodshed begun, but Uncle Broden and Aunt Tila took up the sword as we attempted to seize Braedon… We were left no choice,” Benedict said, and Eddin’s eyes distanced as he came to terms with this information. “What of Braedon now?” he asked, and Benedict sneered. “The kin slayer is under guard in the dungeons. We are unaware of if this act was planned, but we are locking down the castle in precaution, Braedon dismissed his children before assassinating your father. They may be progressing his actions to the rest of our family,” Benedict explained, and Eddin nodded. “Our family must be guarded at all costs,” Eddin agreed weakly, and Benedict regained his footing. “Gyles is gathering our children and his daughter to the hall for their protection until Braedon’s family are found. With mother now safe, there’s only you to worry about, my King,” Benedict said, and Eddin felt a lump form in his throat at the mention of that title. He barely recognised it as his own. Benedict sat himself on the edge of his father’s bed, grasping his hands. “I swear to you, these traitors will not lay a finger on you.” Eddin flashed his son a thankful smile, but his eyes were remorseful. He looked upon an obedient servant rather than a son. “I should have been more grateful to you, shown how proud I was of the man you have become. You are a good man, Benedict, and I love you,” Eddin remarked with pride as he gazed upon his son with wet eyes. Benedict glanced at his father with tearing eyes before he bowed his head. “I am what you made me, father.” Benedict released Eddin’s hands and cupped his father’s cheek. He pressed his lips against his father’s forehead, then pulled the pillow from under his head and smothered him with it. In these final moments, the King of the Hour recognised that his duty bestowed a heavy toll. A king had neither friends nor loved ones, only fools and foes. A king did not know true love or compassion, he only knew that which he wanted to see. The cold came as a reminder that the king was truly alone, destined for the darkness that came with the sins of his commands. Yet what harrowed Eddin most was the realisation that the coldness he felt would not dissipate with his life… but succeed him.
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Aug 31, 2022 1:58:02 GMT
Gyles Two great pyres were erected on the high sandstone cliffs that overlooked the Dorne sea. Upon them rested the two most powerful men of Yronwood – its king, and its heir. Gyles tried to feel sorrow for the passing of the king, but truthfully he had never cared much for the lunacies of his vengeful grandfather. He tried to feel remorse for the passing of his father, Prince Eddin, dubbed ‘the King of the Hour,’ yet like the king his father had always been engulfed in his own ambitions. Standing between these two wooden monuments was Gyles’ brother, the newly anointed King Benedict the First. Gyles tried to imagine the compassion his brother might feel for these losses they suffered, yet in reality he knew that Benedict had long been awaiting this moment, and though he stood with a solemn disposition beneath his new crown, Gyles knew that mask was not to hide feelings of weakness, but feelings of exaltation. Their father’s sudden passing following Olyvar’s assassination was a morose coinciding event that had saddened the kingdom, though Gyles was not one to believe in coincidences, nor one to expose his unsolicited opinions. In this grieving hour, Gyles found himself accompanied by his lady wife, Shara of House Shell. It was rare to see the two in shared company for lengthy periods of time, not for any resentment or lack of love, but simply a lack of shared interests. Their marriage was a political stint organised by Eddin in reaction to Broden’s marriage proposal between his son and the wealthy Wade’s of the Greenblood. Such an alliance would have enabled their rivalling family members great trade routes and started a civil war in the Greenblood that would have worked in their favour, so Eddin acted swiftly to keep the Shell’s pacified with a marriage of their own. Gyles and Shara had known love, bore two children and nurtured them appropriately, but their interests in one another distanced beyond that. Shara was family-oriented, and her love for her family back in the Greenblood transferred to her children. Gyles on the other hand never really cared for family affairs. Of course, he cared for his children and had his hand in raising them, but he saw them pessimistically for what they would become – for what he had become – pawns for their family’s agenda. Now as he glanced across to his daughter, standing beside her newly wedded husband, Ser Alaric Vaith, he knew his pessimism was not misplaced. Kings and cattle, Gyles surmised with a frown, a sad truth which he wanted no part of. “I cannot believe the audacity of Braedon’s action. He has brought ill-tidings for our kingdom,” Shara muttered under her breath as she stared at the pyres. Gyles had remained neutral in this family rivalry, not caring for the politics that divided his house, and had subsequently never found any fault in Braedon’s character. “His wife’s family, allies to our kingdom, were murdered and Olyvar did nothing. Were it your family in place of the Wade’s and Olyvar’s absence of response the same, would you not have had me react the same?” Gyles questioned, and Shara lifted her nose in silence before averting her gaze from him. Her honour to her family made her refuse to compare herself to her family’s rivals, yet her husband’s logic was sound. Gyles only questioned his own character, should he have been placed in the same position as Braedon, would he have been bold enough to have done the same? He hoped he would never have to find out. “People of Yronwood and friends of the kingdom, I regret to have you gathered here,” Benedict announced from his elevated position, and silence quickly swallowed the gathered crowd. Benedict gazed upon each of them before sighing. “The atrocity that occurred at the grand wedding feast will be a moment sorely remembered, it was no secret that tensions ran thick between the two families my grandfather sired, but none expected this to be the result of those conflicts. I would like to assure you that the traitors have been dealt with, though that small mercy is severely outweighed by the losses. “King Olyvar was a strong man who ruled for nearly seven decades. He brought peace and wealth to this kingdom, defended us from the Storm Kings and ended a war with the Greenblood. We have known no greater a man to sit on the Yronwood throne,” Benedict announced, and the crowd murmured in agreement. “Prince Eddin, my father, too was a great man. He was Olyvar’s second son, but after losing his heir in the war with the Stormlands, my father rose to the occasion to prove himself as the new heir to Yronwood. He ruled the kingdom as Olyvar warred with the Greenblood and was well loved by the people. Should his health have not been wavering, he would have been a great king, a title he was born to fit. I would raise a toast to my father for his service to the realm, to the King of the Hour!” Benedict stated as he raised a cup of Dornish red into the air, and the crowd echoed his chant. After a moment of silence, Benedict glanced upon his forebears before returning his gaze to his kingdom. “As your new king, I swear to uphold the strength that came from the men before me and to usher our kingdom into a new age. Our recent alliances to the Andal already brought us new knowledge and weaponry to strengthen our kingdom, and in honour of this new alliance I intend to establish new lands for our new friends to settle. I recognise the restless conflicts brewing in the Greenblood, and history has shown we cannot leave these petty kings to squabble amongst themselves, so I declare that we shall unify their lands into greater kingdoms. We will ride to aid King Horvis Shell in ridding the Greenblood of its petty rivals, and both expand the borders of our kingdom while establishing new kingdoms for our Andal allies!” Benedict announced, and there was a great cheer from the mixed crowd of Andals and First Men. Shara was elated, Ser Alaric Vaith and Princess Ella exchanged gazes of excitement, and Gyles stood with feelings of concern. Not for the grand schemes his brother was planning, but for the simple connection that complicated his role in this affair. His son, Tywin, served with the mercenary, Tor Thunderstorm, in the Greenblood. As sellswords, their services drifted from kingdom to kingdom, and a fear consumed Gyles, a fear that he might find himself on a battlefield against his son. Benedict rose a torch in either hand. “Let us commemorate the lives of King Olyvar and King Eddin of House Yronwood and celebrate the future that awaits our kingdom!” Benedict shouted, and a roar of excitement joined him as he threw the torches onto the pyres, the wooden platforms igniting in flames. Gyles gazed upon his brother with conflicted eyes. As Benedict reveled in his newfound glory, Gyles did not see the makings of a great king, he saw the foundations for a tyrant.
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Sept 5, 2022 10:30:48 GMT
Morgan A week’s appointing to the position of ‘Hand’ had brought little solitude to Morgan Martell or his venturing brethren. Sure enough, he held ownership to a keep he had yet to see – Sandship, originally the seat of House Hull, until they were done away by the Shell’s – as did his fellow warlords. However, Morgan had spent most of this time navigating between the wants of his new overlords and the needs of his people. Such demands had left him aching and weary. Now as he sat adjacent to the regularly empty head of the council table, he cradled his head in his hands. He oft arrived early to the council meetings if only to find a quiet space to rest his ears. As Horvis’ ‘second,’ Morgan was expected to govern and judicate over a realm that neither respected nor wanted him or his kind. Many were skeptical of Andal motives, and although Morgan’s intents were genuine, he feared he had to be sly with his hand simply to keep fellow council members from becoming adversaries. Morgan stood as the council trickled in one by one. First was General Klimpt, as punctual as ever and holding true to his trademark stern expression. Of the council, Klimpt had been the mostly openly against Morgan’s appointment, and his clear ambitions made him an easy man to read. House Teriokov were loyal vassals to the Shell kingdom, and as such, Klimpt’s motives were to upkeep their grand standing, no matter the cost. Prince Otis was next to arrive, with Avery Diikorn at his heels. Morgan had found Avery to be a reasonable man, accepting and even advocating for Andal values to be integrated into their culture. His interests in Andal culture had granted the appointment of old Maester Alfered onto the council, and he had spent much time picking the old scholar’s brains and learning about each of the links that weighed so heavy around his shoulders. Morgan’s only concern of the man was how close he kept himself to the crown prince, whom had only served to undermine Morgan since his ascension. Alfered’s coming to the council had brought some relief to Morgan by diversifying the council, and his influence had brought an Andal spin to their management. As such, Avery had been assigned Master of Laws, and Prince Otis the Master of Coin – an appointment Morgan considered imprudent, but a decision that was ultimately made by Horvis. As such, Morgan had assigned Lorias Roxton, only recently back on his feet, as Master of Ships, and kept Ser Humphrey Dalt close as his guard. Now all they missed was a Master of Whisperers, though rumours spread well enough without one. Morgan cleared his throat. “General, you made mention that your scouts have spotted activity up the Greenblood,” Morgan started, and Klimpt bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Ravens have been flying to-and-fro Greenbrook. Today the scouts spotted multiple banners arriving at the Brook’s kingdom – the Lake’s, the Holt’s and the Brownhill’s. It’s as I suspected, Lords, Lyonel is rallying the kingdoms against us,” Klimpt announced bitterly, to which Avery shuddered. Otis kept his chin high. “A possibility we have already prepared for, General,” Otis reminded him, glancing at Morgan. “Lord Varner and Tor’s sellsword company will counter-attack at Brownhill before seizing Greenbrook underneath their noses. Before Lyonel knows it, he will be fighting our forces on two fronts,” Otis said confidently, though Morgan was less certain of this plan. “ Should Varner and Tor succeed in taking Brownhill, I suspect by the time they have crossed the Greenblood to seize Greenbrook we would have already been outmaneuvered by Lyonel and the other kings. We cannot rely on their advantage,” Morgan remarked, evoking a sneer from the crown prince. Avery frowned. “So, my Lord Hand, what would you have us do? If we dally, we will be meeting their combined army at our walls,” Avery stated with concern, and Morgan nodded. “That is what I am suggesting,” Morgan divulged, receiving a snort from Prince Otis and a raised eyebrow from Lorias. Klimpt remained as stern as ever. “A siege, my Lord?” Maester Alfered clarified, and Morgan nodded, standing from his seat and glancing out the window which overlooked the kingdom. To the north was the mouth of the Greenblood, and south to east was the open ocean. “The Trove is naturally guarded by its ocean and river borders, our enemy has no ships, so we can only face a foot assault from the west. We gather provisions and wait, and perhaps these walls will hold long enough until the Yronwood’s arrive,” Morgan proposed, making Otis scoff with disbelief. “You discredit our reliance on Varner and Tor coming to our aid in time, yet you hold hope for an ally, whom you don’t even know, to come to our aid when he has shown no interest in the Greenblood since my father repelled him decades ago? You’re a joke, Morgan Martell,” Otis spat, but Morgan disagreed. “Olyvar has everything to gain. We face a losing battle, and he will know Horvis will be in his debt should he come to our aid. He will gain his share of free land following the defeat of Lyonel’s united army, and Horvis will remain as the sole ruler of what remains,” Morgan determined, and Otis grinned with disbelief while Avery shook his head. “Your plan betrays Horvis’ ambitions!” Avery retorted, to which Morgan snarled. “Horvis’ plans would destroy his kingdom and all of us with it! This at least gives us a path out of the chaos he has unleashed onto all of you,” Morgan remarked, and Otis slammed the table with his fists before unsheathing his iron dagger and pointing it at Morgan. “Remind me which kingdom you serve, Lord Hand?” The Lemon Knight unsheathed his blade and placed himself between the two of them. “The Kingdom of Andals and First Men, Prince,” Ser Humphrey answered for him. “I’d advise you put that gifted blade down before you hurt yourself.” The resulting tension was aching to boil over with the thrust of a blade, yet all that remained were glowering looks before Otis tossed his dagger onto the table and stormed out of the council chambers. Morgan let out a sigh of relief as he ordered Dalt to sheath his sword. “That act will not bode well for you, Lord Martell,” General Klimpt remarked placidly from his seat, and Avery shook his head hopelessly. “None of this will,” the Master of Laws muttered as he buried his head in his hands. Lorias let out a painful groan. “What exactly is your plan, Morgan?” Morgan glanced at his old friend before looking across the table. Maester Alfered tugged at his long white beard with one hand while rubbing the back of his bald head with another. The General’s stern eyes locked on Morgan’s, while Avery shook his head with frustration. “I will not sit in on this treason. The King’s demands are clear, and I will take no part in this disobedience. Suffer the consequences on your own accord, Lord Hand,” Avery remarked before hastily departing. Klimpt’s gaze followed the Master of Laws before returning to the Hand. “Your reasoning is fair enough, Martell, and while I don’t like you, I can agree that in our current positioning we are fucked. Such is our King’s desire, and I won’t be the one to question that,” the General stated, standing and bowing before taking his leave. Morgan frowned. “Of King’s and Men,” he muttered to himself, a saying he had learned from Septon Militar long ago. The phrased pricked Lorias’ ears also, as he too was familiar with its origin, and a small smirk graced his lips. Morgan turned his gaze to the maester. “Alfered, send a raven to Wade’s Helm ordering the immediate cease of the attack on Brownhill. Have Lord Varner sail for the Trove instead,” Morgan commanded, and Alfered stared skeptically at the Hand before nodding hesitantly and departing. “What of I, Lord Hand?” Ser Humphrey questioned, and Morgan gazed at the Lemon Knight a moment before shifting his attention to Lorias. “Rally any able-bodied Andal to the armory, volunteers only. Gather the rest and send them to Sandship. The Trove will soon be the epicentre of a siege, I will not risk the lives of our people for another man’s war,” Morgan declared, and Humphrey bowed his head obediently. Eventually there were only two. Morgan and Lorias. From rivalling children to competing friends and formidable allies, these two men had seen the harsh reality time-and-time again. Lorias slowly brought himself to his feet, hobbling to the King’s chair adjacent to Morgan. “ Of King’s and Men,” he remarked with a sly grin, before promptly pushing the seat over and planting his arse on the table. “Wise words from a wiser man. You have made your decision then,” Lorias stated, and Morgan nodded slowly, glaring at the fallen chair as the thought on their losses past and coming. “As the old man taught us, we must face adversity regardless of its strength. Threats must be dealt with, fires quenched, and tyrants pacified. We’re dealing with the latter now,” Morgan announced, and Lorias nodded in approval. “Then let us take matters into our own hands,” he stated, and Morgan stood himself upright. “Head to the armory and inform those gathered of our coup. I will take an audience with Horvis in his chambers. If he does not succumb to reason, then we will act,” Morgan said, but Lorias shook his head. “We must be swift, brother. Mercy will only enable him an advantage we cannot afford to give,” Lorias remarked, and Morgan locked gazes with the Master of Ships. “I do not seek to usurp Horvis’ throne nor serve as a martyr to our people. If we are to survive in Dorne, we must adapt and serve the strength of the land. The Yronwood’s are our last resort now, if we can appease them, we can cement our claim to these lands,” Morgan reasoned, but Lorias’ eyes begged to differ. “If the Yronwood’s are as strong as they claim, they will not respect the man you have just painted to me.” Morgan shook his head angrily. “Then what would you have me do? Fight the Shell’s and everyone else that stands in our way? We will know death before the Yronwood’s ever arrive,” Morgan remarked bitterly, but Lorias shook his head. “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Those are the words of your house; you would be wise to abide them.” “They are my father’s words, and I am not my father.” “No, you are a better man than the Golden Spear could ever aspire to be, but he has also proven stronger than you have ever tried to be. We must not bow, we must not bend, and we must not break, Morgan. Our claim must be through strength, we must be remembered as a reckoning, or our memory in these lands will wash away with the flowing sands,” Lorias stood himself up, placing a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Make your stand, Morgan Martell, Lord of Sandship, Deliverer of the Andals and Golden Spear of Dorne.”
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Sept 10, 2022 0:54:06 GMT
Jaremy The Bastard of Brownhill sat uncomfortably beside his brother around oval stone table in King Lyonel Brook’s great hall. Here sat each of the remaining petty kings of the Greenblood, along with other significant players in the Greenblood, a gathering ripe with distrust and malevolence. Jaremy glared at each of their faces with disgust. Edgar had given him a brief overview of each man and woman who sat with them prior to this meeting, though Jaremy had not cared for that conversation and retained little. The only man who had his attention was their host, who sat at the table’s head. Jaremy had heard much of King Lyonel as a boy, his father had joined with him once before to overthrow the once High King Horvis, and now four decades passing he rose again to do the very same. Lyonel was an older man now, however, in his late fifties and with years of battle showing on his dried leathery skin. A militaristic leader, Lyonel wore his grey hair short and with little care, an attitude that extended to the thick grey stubble that coated his face. For one of the more powerful kings of the Greenblood, his attire was plain, with a sleeveless green tunic that cut off at the knees, where he wore beige breaches and dark leather boots. At his hip was a bronze shortsword, the metal greened with age. A cautious king might have demanded all his guests be disarmed in this meeting, though Lyonel did no such thing. “Fellow kings of the Greenblood, you all know why you’re here, so I’ll keep this short. The situation to the east is growing out of control, and Horvis needs to be dealt with for good this time. He has conquered his neighbouring lands, leaving Queen Mayven of Blackbriar a widow, and King Julien Hull of Sandship an orphan,” Lyonel announced, and Mayven Briar held a burning look in her green eyes while the boy king Julien sulked beside her. “He intends this fate on all of us, and with the recent sacking of Wade’s Helm, I believe he has crafted an alliance with Andals.” A scoff came from across the table, from a plump man with sandy blonde hair and lazy grey eyes, his copper circlet barely large enough to fit his head. “An alliance with Andals? Old Horvis couldn’t keep an alliance with his wife should she bare him all the love and children in the world. What’s to say this coming of Andals isn’t just happenstance?” the man questioned, and Jaremy listened to Edgar sigh beside him. “King Adum, my brother fought the Andals at Wade’s Helm. This was no uncoordinated attack by pirates. The Andals had infiltrated the castle with knowledge and preparation,” Edgar stated, making Adum Lake chuckle. “This retort comes from the Bastard of Brownhill? Why should I listen to the account of a kinslayer?” Adum remarked, making Jaremy snarl. Another king quickly interjected. “You’ve called us out here, Lyonel. I assume you have a proposal?” the man stated, and Adum smirked. “Aye, Elijah. He wants us to fight his battles! Gods know this is just an old conflict between he and Horvis,” Adum stated casually, seeming to amuse Lyonel. “Have you ever seen war, King Lake? So far up the Greenblood where your only concerns are getting fat and heatstroke? You’ve lived a peaceful life thanks to the work of men like me and your father, a man I dearly wish sat in your place, for I’d rather fight alongside him than you,” Lyonel remarked before rising from his seat, leaning his knuckles on the tabletop. “I haven’t called you here to fight for me or to ask of an alliance. I’ve called you here for a reckoning. Half a century ago we banded together under one king to defend our lands and our people, because gods knew we were weakest on our own. We picked the wrong man to be High King, but even under Horvis we defied the strongest kingdom of Western Dorne from conquering our lands. With the threat of Horvis and now Andals, and god knows whatever else, I have called you here with the proposal of unifying under a new High King,” Lyonel announced, a topic which pricked the ears of the all the men around the table. “Or Queen,” Lyonel added as he glanced at Mayven. Elijah Holt stroked his blonde beard. “And who would you suggest for such a role?” Elijah queried curiously, making Adum sneer. “Himself, most likely,” he spat, but Lyonel modestly bowed his head. “I am aware such an election would easier spark a war amongst us than those who seek to destroy us, so I have accepted the offer of a future ally,” Lyonel turned and beckoned forward a young man with blonde hair and blue eyes, slim in figure and timid in composure. “Let me introduce you to Prince Edric Fowler, second-born son to King Rickard Fowler, who seeks to forge an alliance with the Greenblood. Prince Edric will stand as an impartial judicator, he will judge each candidate and nominate his choice – who will broker an alliance with the Fowler’s through marriage. That element discounts King Edgar Brownhill and King Adum Lake from the poll, unless you should choose to annex your marriages,” Lyonel stated, and Jaremy felt his brother tensing with a temper he had never seen in Edgar before. Adum, however, was the first to snap. “You would have a foreign king puppet us! You’re craven, Lyonel!” Adum spat, but Queen Mayven shook her head with disagreement. “The Greenblood needs this alliance, King Lake. Horvis has not only the backing of my husband’s army and the Hull’s, but also the Yronwood’s. If rumours be true, the Andals as well. If we do not unite, we will all die,” she stated begrudgingly, and Edgar crossed his arms. “And what is it King Rickard hopes to gain from this alliance, Prince Edric? The Fowler’s have remained forcefully neutral from the other greater kingdoms of Dorne, why us?” Edgar questioned, and Edric glanced at each member of the meeting carefully. “As you say, my father has been absent from the politicking of the other kingdoms. He has no love for them but recognises the Andal threat. He would see you reinforced to deal with this threat before it ever reached Skyreach, and the addition of this alliance would bring trade and opportunity to our aligned kingdoms,” Edric spoke diplomatically, but Jaremy recognised it as all bullshit the boy had been scripted to recite. No doubt Edgar did too. Adum lifted his nose. “This is all a fucking shamble, we should be the ones deciding,” he muttered, to which Elijah nodded. Lyonel let out a sigh as he sat himself at the edge of his table. “Shamble or not, friends, this is happening. Any who stand against this election will be forced to face Horvis and the Andals alone. We either stand together as one, or as none,” Lyonel remarked plainly, and the meeting roared with argument. Jaremy glared at each of the fools making their claims and saying their pieces with growing impatience. He glanced across to his brother who could only shake his head in disbelief. Fucking unbelievable. “Shut the fuck up!” Jaremy roared, smashing his glass on the stone table and rising to his feet. Each of the monarchs paused their raging outbursts they turned their attention onto him. “You fuckers didn’t fight the Andals. I did. They have Ghiscari soldiers with them. Have any of you ever gone up against a Lockstep Legion? No? Well I fucking have. Fifty of them can outfight five hundred of us, and fifty alone is enough to lay a castle under siege. With Andals and Horvis’ army, we’re fucked even if we do manage to hold hands,” Jaremy growled, and Edgar glanced at him with widened eyes. Lyonel gazed at Jaremy with amusement while Mayven crossed her arms then. “What then, Bastard? Would you suggest we run? Stand and die?” she asked, and Jaremy smirked at her coldly before shaking his head. “I’m suggesting you ditch this fucking idea of ‘defense.’ The Andals are at Wade’s Helm, the Yronwood’s are at Yronwood. We join together, now, and take the fight to Horvis at his front gate. We wait for Horvis to regroup with his friends and we’re fucked,” Jaremy stated, making Adum snort. “The words of a kinslayer. I’ve heard enough,” Adum spat, rising from his seat. King Lyonel unsheathed his sword and pressed it against Adum’s chest, forcing the plump man back into his seat. “As have I. The Bastard of Brownhill has my vote,” Lyonel announced, and Edgar too took his stand, gazing into Jaremy’s eyes before giving him a nod. “And mine,” he declared. Elijah Holt rose to his feet. “Aye, the words of a kinslayer and a bastard no less, and the wisest words I’ve heard yet. I’m riding back to Greenholt to gather my forces. We’ll take this fight to the Trove,” Elijah stated, and Adum sneered as he glanced at the green blade pressed his chest. “You’re all fucking lunatics! You would make this bastard our king?! He’s a bastard!” he cried, and Lyonel shifted his attention back onto the plump king. “And the High King is the figurehead of all our desires, not just his own. What say you, King Lake?” Lyonel asked as he traced his sword up to Adum’s throat. The plump king laughed nervously as he raised his hands submissively. “I’ll rally my men at Drylake, I swear.” Lyonel smiled graciously, lifting his sword. “Be sure that you do.” Mayven took to her feet and bowed her head to Jaremy. “I may have no army to supply but you will have my support. I want to see Horvis’ head on a pike,” she seethed, and the boy king Julien jumped to his feet beside her. “Me too!” “I don’t know that Fowler support would arrive in time to aid this assault,” Edric stated timidly, “but as a show of good faith, I will also join you in this attack,” he stated, and Lyonel nodded. “It’s decided then, we march for the Trove in three days, and we march with the new High King of the Greenblood. King Jaremy Sand!” Lyonel declared, raising his sword. Edgar unsheathed his blade and raised it into the air, accompanied by Elijah Holt, Edric Fowler and a reluctant Adum Lake. Jaremy glanced around with confusion as he processed what had just happened. Was this some kind of wicked dream? He must have dosed off during the real proceeding. No, this was real. Jaremy glanced at each of their crowns with a horrid realisation. What the fuck?
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Sept 20, 2022 3:34:44 GMT
Jaremy
A grand army assembled at Greenbrook, and each of its kings gathered in the Drywood to witness a true spectacle. Had someone told Jaremy his return to Dorne would make him king of kings, he would have laughed manically before punching them in the face. I’m a bastard, he would have said as he returned to his ale, bastards don’t become kings. Alas, the Bastard of Brownhill now stood before all the kings under a weirwood, the Bastard King of the Greenblood – some sick jape Jaremy still could not get his head around, nor could half the nobles attending. “Jaremy Sand, illegitimate son of the late King Franklyn Brownhill and revered warrior of the Brownhill army, you have been nominated by the Council of Kings to rule us all. Do you accept this nomination?” a voice droned in from his hind, snapping him from his thoughts. Jaremy gazed back at the man behind him, Lyonel Brook, his calculating blue eyes challenging the Bastard King’s gaze. Jaremy turned his glance onto the crowd. At its front stood the Council of Kings, each with a varying expression mounted on their face. King Elijah Holt inquisitive, King Adum Lake sullen, Queen Mayven Briar stern, the young King Julien Hull bored, and King Edgar Brownhill… Serious. How could anyone be taking this fucking seriously? Jaremy still questioned before nodding his head reluctantly. Lyonel bowed. “Your ascension binds our kingdoms under one man, and with that unity we demand an oath. Place your hand on the white wood, hear my words and speak them true,” Lyonel said, and Jaremy glanced at the faced tree eerily staring at him before resting his hand on its trunk. “I, Jaremy Sand, High King of the Greenblood, give my oath before gods and men,” Lyonel started, and Jaremy echoed the words with slight hesitation. “I swear to uphold not only the interests of the aligned kingdoms, but the Greenblood as a whole. “I vow to give my sword and service to the kingdoms, to fend off any threats that may endanger the kingdoms or peoples of the Greenblood, and shall do so until death frees me of my oath,” Lyonel stated, and Jaremy hesitated a moment as he glanced at each of the faces gathered to hear his words. His eyes paused on the face of his sister, his once lover and now distant memory, Elise Wern. He spoke the words. Lyonel nodded and placed a golden circlet atop Jaremy’s head. “Then I name you King Jaremy Sand, First of His Name, High King of the Council of Kings and Defender of the Greenblood. Each of us have heard your vow and will hold you to it. Gods give you strength,” Lyonel stated, and the crowd echoed his plea. “Now let us drink, for in the morrow we march for the Trove!” Lyonel declared, and the crowd cheered. Their excitement quickly settled as Jaremy turned to them. The Bastard King overlooked his now subjects with gleaning eyes. He awaited someone to blow a horn and initiate the bellows of laughter for the long-winded joke that had just reached its punchline. No horn sounded, however, and the people looked to him with anxious anticipation. Jaremy reached up to his crown and took it into his hands. “I won’t wear this band or any other lavish ornaments, so save the gifts,” Jaremy announced coldly, tossing the golden circlet at his brother’s feet before passing through the crowd. Murmurs and strange looks followed him as he left the Drywood alone. - They all gathered in the courtyard of Greenbrook in song and dance as they drank before the coming fight – by dawn, they’d all be marching for war. A true king might have joined his subjects and rallied hope in their hearts, yet Jaremy knew he was no true king. As Adum Lake had said, this was a shamble, and like the King of Drylake, Jaremy had been played for a fool. His judgment was clouded, but now he saw what this really was. The Bastard King pulled himself away from the window, returning to the table in his designated quarters and pouring himself another cup of wine. Since the ‘coronation’ he had fled here, drowning his sorrows until his sight was blurred yet his vision clear. The king of kings was no more than a figurehead to bestow the blame upon. Should this war go against their favour, the High King would endure the worst punishment, and the remaining may be spared. Scapegoat, Jaremy surmised with a smirk as he downed his cup. And I blindly swore my word to it. The door to his quarters swung open and entered a familiar face, too familiar for Jaremy’s liking, and as such the Bastard King poured himself another cup as he avoided the watchful eye of his brother. “Your Grace,” Edgar greeted with a bow, and Jaremy glared at the man before averting his gaze to favour the wine in his cup. “What do you want, Edgar?” Jaremy grumbled shortly as he forced the wine down his throat, and his older brother frowned as he shut the door behind him and took a seat at Jaremy’s table. “I imagine this all must be quite a shock,” Edgar surmised as he crossed his legs, making Jaremy chuckle as he rolled his eyes. “Hardly. You all needed a scapegoat and someone you could control, a man who could lead from a leash. A bastard of royal blood was acceptable, no real claim or entitlement to ambition. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a hand in planning it. Tell me, brother, do you think you can control me?” Jaremy questioned as he stared coldly into his brother’s cautious green eyes. Edgar sighed. “Yes, you made an ideal choice, something I have discussed in length with Lyonel, but make no mistake, you were not chosen for your illegitimacy or to take a fall in our stead. I see you as who you truly are, Jaremy, a true man with a strong heart that rallies others to follow him. Within months you gained loyalty from my men, you made a name for yourself that overwhelmed the titles of ‘bastard’ or ‘kinslayer.’ While you are right, the kings of the Greenblood are the true power in this alliance, you hold a power over the people. You are a martyr by both status and example.” Jaremy snorted. “I don’t give a fuck for your politicking, Edgar. I never wanted this; you’ve betrayed my trust by forcing me into this fucking position!” Jaremy spat, pouring himself another cup of wine. Edgar frowned as he crossed his arms. “Father once said to me that a good man doesn’t seek to lead, he is called to it, and he answers. After Ethan’s death and your banishment, I struggled with my identity as Franklyn’s heir. I questioned what being King of Brownhill was worth when my brothers were gone, my sister presently absent and my parents at each other’s throats over it. That struggle informed my bond with Elise, and when Father died I assumed my duty not because I wanted for his throne, but because I foresaw I could bring change. “I spent a lot of time thinking about you when you were gone, Jaremy, I even considered sending envoys to find you when I became king, but I knew if you were to come home it would have to be by your hand. You were wronged, and not by any wrongdoing over your own, you were judged by your very birth. Did being a bastard make you any lesser my brother? No. Were you any lesser Frankyln’s son? No. Yet you were treated as such, and for that I am sorry. “Now you are a king of kings, and a bastard no less. It is in your power to make change through your actions and your very existence, Jaremy, we can remake Dorne and its ancient traditions. All we have to do is win your kingdom,” Edgar proclaimed, to which Jaremy shook his head. “These are your ambitions, Edgar. I’ll fight this war, but after that I’m giving up this fucking crown and leaving this all behind. I was a fool to have come back here in the first place,” Jaremy stated, and Edgar arose from his chair and walked to the door. “If that is the choice you make, I will respect it. In the end you will be all I ever wanted you to be. My brother.” Edgar bowed his head with a saddened look on his green eyes before fleeting out of Jaremy’s quarters. The Bastard King glared at the shut door with a growl before hurling his cup at it and burying his head in his hands. A moment later, the door gently pushed open. “Jaremy?” a soft voice whispered, sweet and caring, distant yet comforting. He knew this voice. It belonged to his love. He lifted his gaze and his weary eyes confirmed it. Elise stood at the entrance with a concerned look in her green eyes. Jaremy’s eyes locked with hers and his heart raced with her arrival, yet the moment soured as reality pried its way in and reminded him of their standing. He broke off his glance and pushed himself upright, stumbling back to the window. “Elise,” he muttered coldly as he glared out the window, spotting Lyonel and that Fowler boy drinking together. “Edgar send you in to tempt me to his ways?” “No,” she answered softly, gently closing the door behind her. “When I came to you in Brownhill you were bedridden, now in Greenbrook you are a king of kings. Much has changed in such short time,” she remarked, to which Jaremy rolled his eyes. “I am a king of nothing, but it gladdens me to know your interest in me rekindles with my new title,” Jaremy uttered coldly, and Elise’s glare bit into him. “Why must you be so vile? Have you only returned to torment me?” Jaremy turned his glare on her. “I came back for you!” he growled, though his eyes met only a retaliating stare. Elise clenched her fists. “Sixteen years, Jaremy! My heart broke when father banished you, and it took me years to piece it back together. Do you think I simply stopped loving you? That I married willingly once you were gone? I had to tell myself you were dead! I believe the man I loved died when he took the life of his brother. I see his face now, but I don’t feel him anymore,” she confessed. Jaremy dropped his gaze. “You don’t know all the shit I went through to get back to you,” he whispered, and her eyes lowered to his level, matching her voice to his tone. “Nor do you know the suffering I endured to get over you.” Their eyes locked for a split moment before Jaremy shut his, grasping her hand. “I can make this right, give me a chance to prove my love to you, to prove myself to you. Run away with me,” he pleaded, exposing his vulnerability like he never had before. “No,” she said firmly, and the Bastard King’s chest sunk. “I have a husband now, and a child.” “Yes, the husband…” Jaremy seethed. Elise’s pitiful glance turned sour. “Yes, the husband! The husband you saved, the husband who is coming to respect the man he knew nothing but resentment for. If what you say is true and you still have love for me, true love, then do not betray me again. Do not betray those who have given you a chance, a second chance. They have entrusted you with a responsibility greater than yourself, do not squander this opportunity!” she advised, and Jaremy’s eyes flickered between hers at a loss before his thoughts closed off and his body acted. He leant in and kissed her, and for the briefest moment, her lips embraced his… but for only a moment. She snatched back and struck him across the cheek, retreating to the door. Jaremy reeled back in his drunken slumber. “Elise, wait!” he pleaded, and his sister waited at the door a moment before shaking her head and departing. The Bastard King collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down his dry cheeks as he coiled himself into a familiar position. For years in the slave pits, he had only himself to hold, bare against the cold stone floor. Perhaps being a king was not too dissimilar to being a slave.
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