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Post by WildlingKing on Jan 24, 2020 15:39:59 GMT
Barron V Brisk wind blew from the Blackwater Bay to the green and barren moor at the border of Hollard and Staunton lands, making the banners of House Durrandon and House Darklyn flicker. Prince Barron was mounted on his war horse, by his side Lord Renly Darklyn. They were surrounded by an envoy of a couple dozen mounted men, among them Ser Edwyn Darklyn, Ser Edric Hollard, Lord Denys Stokeworth and Lord Edgar Fell. With them was also the chained hostage Ser Egbert Staunton – a broad-shouldered man on his early forties, who had grown a shaggy black beard and looked dirty and haggard from his months spent in the dungeons of Dun Fort. They were all looking to the horizon, watching the approaching envoy riding under Staunton banners. Leading the Staunton envoy was Lord Morgan Staunton himself, a stocky, short and balding man on his mid-sixties. His cleanshaven face was reddened and in his greyish green eyes was a stern glare. Right next to him rode his grandson Jonos, a lean young man on his early twenties with a sullen expression on his beardless face. Next to Jonos was his wife and the hostage of the Stauntons, Emberlei Darklyn, who looked to be in considerably better condition than Egbert Staunton. She was a pretty young lady of nine and ten, with a long and silky black hair that reached beyond her shoulders, and a prideful expression on her sharp-featured face. A tense silence lingered between the two parties for a while, until Prince Barron cleared his throat. “Lord Staunton, I am glad you agreed to this meeting,” he spoke up with a polite tone, to which Morgan Staunton responded with a tense nod. “I have no quarrel with you or House Durrandon, Prince Barron,” he spoke calmly, shifting his glare to Lord Renly. “Aye, it is me he blames for everything,” Renly Darklyn spoke up with a mocking tone. “And if Ser Edric hadn’t captured his oaf of a son his goons would still be raiding my lands.” “Enough,” Barron barked strictly, giving Renly a meaningful glare. “We are here to bring an end to this conflict, to negotiate peace between House Darklyn and House Staunton, and to exchange hostages.” “Lady Emberlei is no hostage, she is the lawful wife of my grandson,” Lord Morgan was quick to remark, to which Renly reacted with a sarcastic laugh. “Is that so, Emberlei?” he asked. “Rook’s Rest is a miserable place with miserable people, grandfather, but they’ve treated me well enough,” Emberlei responded nonchalantly. “I can see the same is not true for my son,” Morgan said sternly, looking at Ser Egbert. “I captured your son after he had pillaged, raped and murdered dozens of innocent people on the lands of House Darklyn and House Hollard,” Ser Edric Hollard reminded sharply. “You should be grateful I brought him to Duskendale instead of taking his head.” For a moment Morgan almost looked ashamed, turning his gaze down and taking in a deep breath. “Innocent people have been pillaged, raped and murdered for years by Lord Renly’s son,” he responded sternly, the anger in his eyes restored. “My firstborn son Ser Merret was merely the latest victim of this Robin Darksails.” “I’ve severed all ties to the bastard years ago, he is not my family,” Renly hissed. “Yet you’ve failed to bring him to justice for his crimes,” Morgan said sharply. “If it is so easy to capture him, why haven’t you done it yourself, Lord Staunton?” Renly asked with a smug smirk. “Don’t play a fool with me, Lord Renly,” Morgan bellowed angrily. “You are in possession of the largest fleet in Blackwater Bay, yet you claim it impossible to capture one pirate crew. Horseshite, I say. I think you are protecting your precious bastard boy. He never attacks ships sailing under your banners, does he?” “I will not listen to your foul accusations, lord…” “Enough!” Barron yelled again, glaring at both Renly and Morgan. “It is clear to me that this Robin Darksails cannot be allowed to continue to practice piracy on Blackwater Bay. I shall degree in the Storm King’s name that Lord Darklyn must increase his efforts to bring him to justice.” “And what of my son’s life?” Morgan asked bitterly. “Lord Renly has refused to compensate me for it, even though it was his flesh and blood who killed Merret.” Renly was about to speak up, but Barron raised his hand to cut him off. “The Storm King and House Darklyn together shall pay a compensation for the loss of your son’s life. Two hundred pieces of gold will do, I’m sure.” Lord Staunton didn’t look entirely satisfied by the proposal. “Four hundred,” he haggled. Barron turned his eyes to Renly, who shook his head. “Three hundred,” Barron proposed with a sigh, and after a moment of consideration Morgan nodded begrudgingly. “It will do.” “I assume we can then move on to the exchange of prisoners,” Barron said tiredly, glancing at Ser Egbert and Lady Emberlei. “But, my prince,” Jonos Staunton spoke up with a gulp. “Lady Emberlei is my wife. I do not wish to give her up.” “You could always come to Duskendale with me, husband,” Emberlei suggested with a sly smirk. Lord Morgan did not look at all pleased by this development. “I believe it is for the best that Lady Emberlei returns to Duskendale for now,” Barron stated calmly. “If Jonos wishes to join him he is free to do so.” Ser Egbert’s chains were removed, and with his head hung low he walked back to his father. Meanwhile Emberlei proudly took her place between her father and grandfather, while Jonos Staunton looked on with a troubled expression, but ultimately stayed by his grandfather’s side. “Well, that went better than expected,” Edgar Fell quipped quietly with a relieved tone. With a stern expression on his face Barron rode between the two parties. “Now that there is peace between House Darklyn and House Staunton, we should turn out attention towards Riverlands,” he spoke with an authoritative tone. “The Faith Militant has disturbed the peace there once again, crowning a false king and threatening to overthrow the Storm King’s rule over the region. We must act swiftly, to root out this rebellion before it thrusts the Riverlands into chaos and further bloodshed. An army loyal to the Storm King is being gathered at Duskendale as we speak, and I would summon you to join us, Lord Staunton.” “You have returned to me my only remaining son, Prince Barron,” Morgan stated quietly, looking at Ser Egbert who had by now found his way atop a horse. “You have my gratitude, and you shall have my swords and spears, as many as I can deliver.” As they began their ride back to Duskendale, Lord Denys Stokeworth approached Barron. “I take it you aren’t planning to contact the lords of Crackclaw Point?” “That will have to wait for after the war,” Barron answered with a sigh. “Back in Duskendale Lord Renly informed me of the large tributes this Aelor Celtigar has been paying him. He is clearly not just some lowly pirate, but one with the wealth of a king. Gods know how he got such wealth. Regardless, I believe the Storm King himself should decide how to deal with him.” When they returned to Duskendale two days later, the army camped outside the town’s walls had grown notably larger than what it had been when they left. Among the newcomers Barron spotted the banners of House Harlton, House Chyttering, House Cargyll and House Byrch. Riding into the camp, Barron was approached by Lord Armond Harlton. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Prince Barron,” the balding river lord greeted him, looking tired and ungroomed. “I see you’ve managed to muster a formidable number of troops for our cause,” Barron said approvingly. “Is Lyonel with you?” The look in the Harlton lord’s eyes darkened slightly as he heard that name. “Lyonel remains in Castlewood, resting,” he answered with a sigh. “He returned from his mission to Stoney Sept, but so badly injured that I doubted he would survive even through the night. Thank the gods for Maester Bennis and his healing skills.” Barron nodded and paused for a moment to take in a deep breath. “What did he learn in Stoney Sept?” he asked carefully. “Perhaps we could discuss that more in my pavilion, my prince,” Armond suggested. “As it happens, I have a couple visitors there right now that you might recognize.” Lord Armond led them to his large green-and-silver pavilion, and in there they found Queen Shana and Princess Arya waiting for them, as well as a tall and grey-haired man that Barron didn’t recognize. “Uncle Barron, you’re back,” Princess Arya said with a smile, which for the first time in days brought a smile to Barron’s face as well. “How did it go?” Queen Shana asked with a more serious tone. “It’s been settled, Lord Staunton will join us,” Barron said with a thin smile remaining on his face as he took a seat. Then he turned his eyes to the grey-haired man, who now had a soft smile on his craggy and cleanshaven face with a strong jaw. He looked to be about the same age as Lord Armond and was dressed in red-and-gold quilted tunic with a black wool cloak donned over it. “Prince Barron, it is an honor to meet you,” the man introduced himself with a deep and warm voice. “I am Lord Desmond Cargyll, the brother-in-law of our common friend Lord Armond. We have seen each other before, if only briefly, years ago after your brother had lifted the siege of Raventree.” “Well, then it is a pleasure to meet again, Lord Cargyll,” Barron responded calmly and shook the man’s hand. “This time there is no Arlan to save the Riverlands, but I shall do my best in his stead,” the old prince promised, shifting his gaze then back to Lord Armond. “Now, I believe you wanted to tell me about Lyonel’s mission in Stoney Sept.” “Indeed,” Armond confirmed with a sigh. “He learned that King Lucifer is to reinforce his alliance with House Harroway by wedding Lord Osmund’s daughter. And since then, a combined army of the Faith Militant and traitorous river lords has marched north along the western shores of the God’s Eye, Harroway no doubt being their destination.” “How strong exactly is the enemy force?” Barron asked sternly. “We’re not sure,” Desmond Cargyll chimed in with a calm tone. “But it seems the Smallwoods, Keaths, Vances of Atranta and Rygers have all joined King Lucifer’s cause. And if they’re gathering in Harroway, it most likely means they plan to take Trident Hall.” “Trident Hall is held by my uncle, Lord Robert, right?” Shana asked with a hint of concern in her words. “Aye,” Barron said with a sigh. “Robert is a warrior; he will not yield easily. And hopefully Lord Brydan can aid him as well, if our forces don’t make it there soon enough.” Tense silence followed Barron’s words, a concerned expression on each of their faces. With a sigh the old prince shifted his gaze towards his niece. “Young Lady Emberlei returned to Duskendale with us,” he told her calmly. “She isn’t much older than you, I think you two might get along. Would you like to meet her?” “I’d love to,” Arya answered softly, looking at her mother who nodded approvingly. And thus, they made their way from the camp to Dun Fort, where they found Lady Emberlei on the courtyard with her handmaidens. Barron and Shana watched from a distance as Princess Arya approached the girls. “I believe you two should remain here, until the war has been won,” Barron said quietly. Shana turned her eyes to him, the look in them conflicted. “I do not wish to put Arya in danger,” she admitted with a gulp. “However, I do not wish to delay either, I wish to be reunited with my little brother.” “Brydan is the Lord of Raventree Hall and the Warden of Riverlands,” Barron calmly remarked. “He’ll be too preoccupied with fighting this war to have family reunions any time soon.” “Precisely,” Shana responded with a saddened tone. “Soon he will ride to battle, just as father did sixteen years ago.” “You fear that Brydan might not live to see the end of this war?” Barron asked with an empathetic tone, and with tears welling up in her eyes Shana nodded. “I fear he might die thinking that his sisters have forgotten him.”
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Post by WildlingKing on Feb 8, 2020 23:44:42 GMT
Bernarr III It was the third evening after Bernarr Bolton had arrived at Winterfell, and the Great Hall was filled with the cheerful noises of chatter, laughter and singing. Lords Gyles Glover and Ebbert Mormont had arrived earlier that day from the Wolfswood with over a thousand fighting men, and King Harlon had decided to hold a great feast to welcome them. Lord Mormont, the brother-in-law of Harlon, was a large and loud man on his late fifties, whereas Lord Glover was a quiet and gloomy man on his early fifties with a gaunt face and greasy dark hair. They shared the high table at the dais with the King, and a bard beside them was playing lute and singing songs about the heroics of the past Kings of Winter. Bernarr Bolton was seated at one of the tables furthest away from the dais, his trusty captain of the guards Torren Ironthorns by his side. They shared their table with Rickard Hornwood and his son Harrion Hornwood, as well as Hornwood’s captain of guards Torwyn Holt, Lord Luke Long and his brother Eyron Long. Harrion drunkenly told them a story about how he had challenged a poacher to mount a moose if he wished to avoid being sent to the Wall, and the moose had kicked the poacher to the head as he had tried to climb atop it. No one except Torwyn Holt and Harrion himself seemed to find the story particularly amusing. Luke Long then told about how he rode by Lord Orryn Umber’s side as they hunted down and ambushed Bjamir the Climber and his band of wildling raiders. The Long lord was a tall and strong man on his mid-thirties with a comely face, deep green eyes, long brown hair and a close-cropped beard. “They had climbed over the Wall between Sable Hall and Rimegate, and were heading back there when they came across us,” Luke explained with a serious tone. “Apparently those two castles are some of the most lightly garrisoned by the Night’s Watch. It’s a shame, but there simply isn’t enough black brothers left to effectively guard all of the Wall, and mutinies like the one that recently happened in Eastwatch certainly aren’t helping.” With those last words Luke glanced briefly at Bernarr. “What do you think your brother intends, Lord Bolton?” asked Eyron Long, who looked much like his older brother except for being cleanshaven and having a shorter hair. “I haven’t seen Goren since I was a child,” Bernarr answered calmly. “I do not know what kind of man he has grown to be in the Night’s Watch.” “A traitor, clearly,” Eyron said sharply. Bernarr narrowed his eyes as he looked at the man, but nonetheless gave him a small nod. “So it would seem.” “Forgive my brother, Lord Bolton,” Luke Long spoke up with a polite tone. “He seems to have forgotten that you were just a child when our father died at White Knife.” “I am aware,” Eyron chimed in dryly, turning his tense gaze now to the Hornwoods. “Just as I am aware that our three other companions were there that day, fighting by the side of the Boltons.” “Two,” Torwyn Holt corrected with a thin smirk on his bearded face. He was a burly and bald man on his mid-thirties. “I had been injured when we took Wolf’s Den, and remained there until the Starks came to reclaim it.” “Water under the bridge,” Rickard Hornwood spoke up with a tense smile forming on his face. He was a plain-looking and black-haired man on his late forties, and the heir to the lordship of Hornwood. “We are all here to serve King Harlon now, are we not?” “Agreed,” Harrion quickly said, grinning as he raised his mug for a toast. “Agreed,” Luke Long said calmly. “Agreed,” Bernarr quietly joined the toast. “For King Harlon,” Eyron said sternly and chugged his ale. Quietly they all took a deep gulp from their mugs. “Speaking of kings,” Torren broke the silence with his gruff voice. “I’ve heard grumblings of a King-beyond-the-Wall lately. There any truth to that, Lord Long?” “Hard to say,” Luke answered with a sigh. “Even the Night’s Watch has trouble keeping up with what exactly is going on beyond the Wall. There are often conflicts between the wildling tribes, when one chieftain seeks supremacy over the rest, but there hasn’t been a leader successful in uniting the wildlings in generations. However, now there is talk of a man called the Horned Lord, who is apparently hailed as king everywhere from Hardhome to Frostfangs.” “Horned Lord, eh?” Harrion spoke with a slightly amused tone. “You think there’ll be a war against him someday?” Luke shrugged. “Who knows. The whole thing could be nothing more than a rumor, or if the bastard really exists, he might get slain by some other wildling chieftain. That’s how it usually goes.” Bernarr instinctively pictured in his head his brother kneeling before this wildling king. Would he truly do it? Would he join forces with a wildling just to get a chance to avenge our father and brothers?These questions continued to trouble Bernarr’s mind throughout the night, making him turn from side to side and lay awake in his bed. The dawn came what felt like mere moments after he had finally fallen asleep, and now it was time to prepare for the march ahead. Tired and chagrined, Bernarr broke his fast in the castle and then made his way out to the camp, to command the Bolton troops to pack their arms, armors and supplies. “There was one drunken brawl between a couple of our men and some Umber boys last night, but nothing too serious,” Big Ben reported to Bernarr and Torren with a nervous grin on his broad face. “No bodies?” Torren asked sternly. “No bodies, cap,” Ben confirmed with a relieved tone. “And I’ve disciplined those involved already, no need to worry about that.” “Good,” Bernarr muttered tiredly. The three-day march of the army of some eight thousand Northmen led by King Harlon from Winterfell to Castle Cerwyn was troubled by heavy and icy cold rains. Finally seeing the small grey fort of House Cerwyn was perhaps the most welcome sight Bernarr had seen in his life. Around the castle was a camp of some two thousand more soldiers, dotted with banners of House Cerwyn, House Waterman, House Marsh, House Locke, House Woolfield and House Wells. Even with just the noblemen of the army attending the small mess hall of the Cerwyns was cramped full. Luckily Bernarr found himself a place near one of the hearths. Next to him stood a tall and broad man on his early twenties, with green-grey eyes, short brown hair and a full beard. He was wearing a dark blue cloak, which was lined with dark fur and fastened with a golden clasp in the shape of a ring, runes engraved on it. “Lord Bolton,” the man greeted him with his deep and calm voice. He then offered Bernarr his hand. “I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself to you. I am Harrald Umber, the grandson and heir of Lord Orryn Umber.” Bernarr shook the man’s hand and gave him a respectful nod. “Pleasure to meet you.” “I heard there was a minor scuffle between our men and yours back at Winterfell,” Harrald said, his tone still calm and respectful. “My apologies, one of my subordinates has assured me the men involved have been disciplined for their actions.” “Oh, no need to apologize, as I understand it was our men who were the instigators,” Harrald said with a thin smile. “They’re Orryn’s men to the bone, and Orryn has certainly taught them to hate the Boltons.” Bernarr sighed and turned his gaze to the fire burning in the hearth. “The scars left from the war fought between our late fathers are yet to be healed, it seems.” “Indeed,” Harrald said, taking in a deep breath. “However, it doesn’t mean that we must be enemies, Lord Bolton.” Bernarr raised an eyebrow and gave the young Umber a curious glance, to which the man reacted with a chuckle. “You look surprised that I don’t despise you like my grandfather does,” he stated amusedly. “Aye, it is true that my father died fighting against yours, just as yours died fighting against mine. But I’ve heard you have a son of your own now, aye? I have two… all the more reason we shouldn’t repeat the tragedy of our own fathers.” “You can rest assured I have no such intentions,” Bernarr responded tensely. “I’ve come here to prove my loyalty to King Harlon and to the North.” “As have we all,” Harrald said softly. At the first light of the next morn the Northern army, now ten thousand men strong, continued its march. The cold rains were now replaced by warm sunshine, and this time King Harlon led them towards west, towards Torrhen’s Square. By the noon of the sixth day after leaving Castle Cerwyn they reached the seat of House Tallhart, and the large lake it stood by. On the fields north of the castle there was camped an army of some four thousand men under the banners of House Tallhart, House Dustin, House Ryswell and House Slate. However, the truly important sight was what was at the beach to the east of the castle. Hundreds of new longships were beached there, a wolf’s head made of bronze adorning each of their bow. “What you see before you is the greatest fleet the North has seen since the days of Brandon the Shipwright,” King Harlon boasted before the men looking at the ships in awe. “These ships shall take our great army across the Saltspear, to reclaim Cape Kraken!” The lords and common soldiers alike cheered loudly at the King’s words. “THE NORTH REMEMBERS!” roared the king’s brother Karlon Stark, and the men began to chant it, Bernarr joining them. “THE NORTH REMEMBERS! THE NORTH REMEMBERS! THE NORTH REMEMBERS!” A feast was held that night in the great hall of Torrhen’s Square, and this time Bernarr and Torren found themselves sharing a table with the Ryswell twins Ronard and Tomard, as well as Lord Bennard Locke and his two sons Brandon and Beren. The Ryswell twins were on their mid-twenties, both thin and tall and with handsome smiling faces. However, whereas Ronard kept his long brown hair loose and face cleanshaven, Tomard’s hair was tied to thick braid and shaved off from the sides, and around his mouth was a goatee. Lord Locke was a plump and balding white-haired man on his early sixties. His heir Brandon, a man on his early forties, looked much like him except for having a full head of light brown hair. Brandon’s younger brother Beren on the other hand was a sturdy and muscular man on his mid-thirties, with a short-cropped hair and a shaggy dark beard. The atmosphere in the hall was cheerful throughout the feast, the lords and their sons clearly being eager for the war ahead. Bernarr allowed himself to enjoy the night as well. This is exactly what the North needed, he thought confidently while listening to the Ryswell twins singing a rousing song about Ironborn raiders being driven out from the Rills. A war against the Ironborn to unify us once again after the ugly civil war started by my grandfather.When it was almost the hour of the wolf, Bennard Locke drunkenly climbed atop the table and started singing an old song about King Theon the Hungry Wolf, to which the whole hall quickly joined: There once was a King of Winter called the Hungry Wolf, Crown in head and sword in hand he sailed over many a gulf, Before him fell the Andal, Wildling and the Ironborn, But after every victory still more he did yearn!Hungry, hungry was old Theon! Hungry, hungry like a wolf! Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king, In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!Side by side with Bolton he beat Argos Sevenstar, At the Weeping Water Northmen proved their skill at war, Then he sailed across the seas to the invaders’ land, And he showed the men of Andalos his hunger ever grand!Hungry, hungry was old Theon! Hungry, hungry like a wolf! Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king, In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!The Hungry Wolf then sailed his ships across the windy Bite, The raiding and unruly Sistermen he wished to fight, With ease he took the isles and so the Three Sisters cried, But still the wolf king’s hunger was unsatisfied!Hungry, hungry was old Theon! Hungry, hungry like a wolf! Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king, In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!Years later Theon rode to Rills to put a rebellion down, A Ryder lord there had made himself a traitor’s crown, On the battlefield the king and pretender came face to face, With a single fatal swing he put the rebel to his place!Hungry, hungry was old Theon! Hungry, hungry like a wolf! Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king, In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!With the brothers of the Watch he rode beyond the Wall, To find the wildling raiders and to kill them all, And so, the wolf’s hunger left many a wild one dead, Theon’s sword painting the Haunted Forest with red!Hungry, hungry was old Theon! Hungry, hungry like a wolf! Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king, In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!From seas came the Ironborn to raid and burn the North, Those hardy men were the toughest foe Theon had ever fought, But bravely he drove them out from Bear Isle and Stony Shore, And when the last one fell, he asked: “Are there any more?”Hungry, hungry was old Theon! Hungry, hungry like a wolf! Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king, In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!When the song was over King Harlon himself climbed atop the high table, raising his horn of mead and bellowing: “Let us be as hungry as Theon was! AWOOOOO!” “AWOOOO!” the whole hall howled drunkenly in response to the King.
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Stigz
Full Member
Vibe check.
Posts: 150
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Post by Stigz on Feb 14, 2020 11:05:53 GMT
Ah man, that poem was fucking awesome. I miss writing the Invasion, and this just rubbed salt in that nostalgic wound XD very well done!
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Post by WildlingKing on Feb 24, 2020 14:07:39 GMT
Walton VIII A disorganized mass of some few hundred knights, soldiers and civilians marched in the light rain along the road leading to Ashford. The Reachmen had been defeated in the Battle of Stonebridge, and Ironborn were reported by refugees to be raiding along the Mander. Which means they’ve broke through my lord father’s defenses at the mouth of Mander, Walton Manderly deduced bitterly. Lord Symon Tarly, who had been like a second father to Walton, had fallen in battle, along with hundreds of other Reachmen. Walton knew among those fallen to be such noblemen as Lord Arstan Roxton, Lord Bernard Bridges, Ser Flement Fossoway, Lord Armen Cockshaw and Ser Hobert Haswyck, whereas Lord Oscar Caswell with his family had presumably been imprisoned by the Lannisters. Ser Garth Meadows and Ser Jon Norridge had led a small force of retreating Reachmen soldiers towards east to the Grassy Vale, but Walton had joined the larger group heading south, led by Ser Richard Ashford, Lord Gordan Middlebury, Ser Ethan Sloane, Merle Flowers and Ser Halmon Hunt. Ethan Sloane and Lord Middlebury with their men had separated from the main group when they reached Sloane Keep on the fourth day. Dozens, if not hundreds, of soldiers had also deserted them during the march, most fleeing in the night towards east. However, it hardly mattered because they were no army to begin with, just a band of defeated men on the run. On the eight day after the defeat in Stonebridge they finally reached Ashford. The people of the town were clearly fraught with shock as they saw the heir of their lord returning at the head of a defeated force. Women, children and elderly folk rushed to the streets to welcome their returning fathers, husbands and sons, but many were left waiting in vain. That night Walton joined Halmon Hunt for a jug of ale at one of Ashford’s taverns. The tavern was called ‘the Singing Soldier’, and while it was filled to brim with soldiers that night there was no singing to be heard. “So, you’ll come back to Horn Hill with me, right?” Halmon asked calmly after having downed his first mug of ale. Walton remained silent for a moment, unsure what to answer. He had been Lord Symon’s ward and squire, but now Symon was dead. The rest of the Tarly family were of course also dear to him, but he wasn’t sure if he could bear to see them now, much less to be the one to bring them the news of Symon’s death. However, he couldn’t go to Dunstonbury either. For all he knew the Ironborn could’ve taken it and slaughtered his family. No, it can’t be, Walton tried to convince himself. Dunstonbury is a formidable fortress. “You’ll be welcome there, lad, don’t worry about it,” Halmon spoke up again, having waited for Walton’s answer for a drawn-out moment. “You’re part of the family, practically speaking, and Horn Hill might be one of the safest places in all the Reach to be in right now.” “What about Highgarden?” Walton asked quietly, to which Halmon raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know,” he answered sincerely. “I know King Greydon was amassing an army there while we marched to Stonebridge, but I have no idea what has happened since. Perhaps he has marched against the Ironborn and been defeated, perhaps he is still fortified in Highgarden and waiting for the Osgreys or the Hightowers to join him.” “Highgarden can’t have fallen,” Walton insisted. “If it has, this war is already over. No, Greydon must still be amassing his forces. There is still hope, His Grace can still defeat these invaders.” Halmon eyed at Walton with a puzzled expression and gave him a small nod. “What’s in your mind, lad?” he inquired. Walton downed the rest of his ale and took in a deep breath. “I will go to Highgarden,” he decided then and there. “I do not wish to hide in Horn Hill. I wish to avenge Symon, to defend the Reach, and to fight alongside my king.” And alongside Willam, Walton added in his mind, knowing his second cousin would be by King Greydon’s side. “You have an admirable attitude,” Halmon complimented Walton, measuring him with his attentive blue eyes. “But you don’t have to do all that. You’re a young lad still, not even a man grown, it shouldn’t be your responsibility to avenge Lord Symon or to defend the Reach.” “I rode by Lord Symon’s side at Stonebridge, killed Lannister soldiers and watched my brothers-in-arms die all around me,” Walton sternly reminded the Hunt knight. “I’m not a boy anymore, ser.” Halmon poured himself more ale, nodded his head, and raised the cup in a respectful gesture. “You’ve clearly made up your mind, lad,” he said with a thin and melancholic smile on his handsome face. “Good luck, wherever it is that fate will take you. I’ll tell the Lord Tarly’s lady wife and children that you fought bravely by Symon’s side, and that you are not to blame for his death.” “Thank you, ser.” At first light of the next morning Walton began his ride towards Highgarden, accompanied by a couple dozen mounted fighting men, most notable among them Merle Flowers, the bastard son of the Lord of Cider Hall. Merle was a tall and broad-shouldered man on his mid-twenties, with a square jaw and long sandy blonde hair. He struck Walton as a stern and humorless man, but it may have been just because of the circumstances. Come evening they camped by a small creek on the lands of House Yelshire, around them a deceivingly peaceful view of green meadows and small woods. “You’re Lord Manderly’s son, aye?” Merle Flowers asked Walton as they sat around the campfire. He nodded, keeping his eyes on the flames. “I’ll be honest, I’ve never thought particularly highly about Manderlys,” the Fossoway bastard said with a thin smirk. “Always saw you folk as greedy and dishonorable. More mercantile than chivalrous, if you know what I mean.” Walton raised his gaze and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Merle. “House Manderly has produced as many great knights as any great house of the Reach,” he protested with a slightly offended tone, to which Merle let out a small chuckle. “Maybe so,” he conceded with a shrug. “Never was much of a student of history. All I know is what I’ve seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears. That said, you seem like a fine lad at least.” Begrudgingly Walton decided to just take the compliment and nodded to Merle. There was no further conversation between them that night. Next morning they continued their ride, arriving at Pommingham Hall a few hours before the sunset. There they were welcomed and hosted by Lady Miranda Pommingham, a shapely and plump noblewoman on her early forties, who told them that her lord husband and their two sons had rode to Highgarden over a week ago to join King Greydon’s host. “So, what happened at Stonebridge?” Lady Pommingham asked them at the dinner. Merle and Walton exchanged a look, after which Merle spoke up. “It was a bloodbath,” he said grimly, and Miranda’s eyes widened slightly in shock. “We were badly outnumbered,” Merle continued with a sigh. “However, it was at least somewhat under control until their cavalry somehow completely flanked our defenses at the fords.” “They came from the forest,” Walton chimed in quietly, remembering only too well the sight of Lannister knights charging towards them. “The forest east of the town… They had moved part of their cavalry there during the night before the battle.” “So, the Lannisters hold the Stonebridge now?” Miranda asked with a saddened tone, and Merle gave her a stern nod. “Where do you think they will go next?” she asked tensely. “Hard to say,” Merle grunted. “They may want to hold on to the territory they’ve conquered up north, take Tumbleton, Grassy Vale, maybe even Longtable, set up their defenses and bring reinforcements from the Rock, and then just wait for King Greydon to march against them. However, if it were me leading that Lannister army, I’d take the opportunity to march against Highgarden now before Greydon has the time to assemble the full might of the Reach behind him. And if that is indeed what they plan to do, then there will be another great battle very soon, and a decisive one this time.” For a couple seconds Lady Pommingham almost looked like she was about to faint. “May Seven save us all,” she finally muttered weakly. It took them four more days to reach Highgarden. Walton felt weird seeing the great white castle of the Gardener kings again. It hadn’t been that long since the great tourney, the festivities and celebrations, Ivar knocking him out in the squire melee, Willam winning the joust. It had all been just weeks ago, but it felt so distant now. A formidable army had already assembled at Highgarden, having set up their encampment where the tourney fields had been. It was hard to estimate, but Walton was sure it was at least more than ten thousand men, maybe even fifteen thousand. As they got closer, Walton spotted Tarly banners at the southern edge of the camp. Triston is leading those troops, he then remembered. A part of him wanted to go and search Triston right away to tell him all that had happened, but something kept him from doing it. Perhaps it was fear or shame, but nonetheless he remained by Merle Flower’s side as they approached the camp from the east. “Here to join King Greydon’s army?” asked the middle-aged knight in House Rowan’s colors, who halted them at the edge of the camp. “Aye,” Merle grunted. “We come from Stonebridge, which has fallen to the Lannisters.” “We heard about that some days ago,” the knight said with a sigh. “And who might you be?” “I am Merle Flowers, bastard son of Lord Franklyn Fossoway. With me are a bunch of freeriders and hedge knights, as well as Walton Manderly, son of Lord Waymar Manderly.” The Rowan knight shot an intrigued glance at Walton before speaking up again. “I am Ser Benjamin Ball, one of Lord Lomas Rowan’s captains,” he finally saw fit to introduce himself. “So, did I understand correctly that you were there at the Battle of Stonebridge?” “Yes,” Merle answered. “I see,” Ser Benjamin said, eyeing them with great interest. “To my knowledge you are the first ones to arrive who were actually there. So far it’s all been second hand knowledge or ravens sent from castles near Stonebridge. I imagine His Grace would like to meet you personally, so you can tell him what happened.” “If you say so,” Merle muttered nonchalantly. “Yes, ser, I would be happy to speak to His Grace about what happened at Stonebridge,” Walton spoke up confidently, which brought a small approving smile on Ser Benjamin’s face. “I shall take you there right away, follow me.” They had to wait in the audience room for what felt to Walton like an hour, before finally the King arrived. His Grace was escorted into the room by four of his royal guards, Ser Raymund Redwyne, Ser Benedict Bulwer, Ser Arwood Roxton and lastly Ser Willam Manderly. Willam’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw Walton, but he didn’t break his decorum and remained by the King’s side. As Greydon took his seat, both Walton and Merle bent the knee before him. “Stand up,” King Greydon muttered laconically. “Merle Flowers and Walton Manderly,” he said nonchalantly as they stood up. “I was told you were at Stonebridge when it fell to the Lannisters.” “Yes, Your Grace,” they said in unison, and Merle went on to meticulously explain everything that had happened from the defenses being set up to the Lannisters breaking through them and crushing the Reachman host. Greydon listened through all of it with a calm but tense expression on his face. When Merle was finished, the King remained silent for a drawn-out moment, stroking his greying beard with a ponderous look in his green eyes. “Thank you, for telling me what you have,” he finally spoke up with a slightly distressed tone. “You’ve served the Reach well.” “Your Grace,” Walton spoke up, tensing up as the King shifted his gaze to him. Stiffly he kneeled before him once again, taking in a deep breath. “I wish to offer you my sword in the battles to come, to avenge Lord Symon and to protect this kingdom.” Greydon stood up from his seat and approached Walton, offering him his hand. With a gulp Walton kissed it, and then His Grace helped him back up on his feet. “You’ve proven yourself to be a courageous young man, Walton Manderly,” he complimented him. “When we march to war, you shall be my squire.” Without waiting for an answer from Walton, King Greydon took his leave. The royal guards followed after him, but Willam stopped shortly by Walton. “Congratulations,” he whispered, patting Walton on the shoulder. “And sorry, for what you’ve had to see and go through.” “Thank you,” Walton responded sincerely. It felt good to be close to someone he considered family again. “I’ll see you around, lad,” Willam said with a friendly tone, before hurrying after his king.
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Post by WildlingKing on Feb 26, 2020 14:27:04 GMT
Allyria III Allyria Nymeros Martell woke up early in the morning to the ringing of bells. Opening her eyes and looking around, it took a few seconds for the princess to remember that she wasn’t in her own chambers back in Sunspear, but in the cabin of the Divider, a longship captained by the ironborn pirate Albion Greyjoy. She heard the ringing of bells again, accompanied with some unintelligible yells. She dressed up with haste and made her way out to the deck. “My princess,” Ser Mateo Toland greeted her at the door with a respectful bow. The Toland knight was one of the seven royal guards to accompany Allyria on this mission. He was a thin and tall man, who had just recently had his thirtieth nameday. He had sharp green eyes, curly dark brown hair and a thin mustache, and his choice of weapon was a spear. “Did you break your fast yet? Captain Albion has informed me that there are fruits and wine in the cabin, as well as…” “What is going on?” Allyria cut the knight off with an impatient tone, gazing at the pirate fleet around them and seeing the crews of every ship getting into work as their captains roared commands at them. “Are the Stormlanders here?” “Yes, my princess, King Vyros’s scouts have spotted the approaching fleet and given us a signal to prepare for the battle,” Mateo explained calmly. “It’ll be at least an hour before they are here though, and the Divider will keep a good distance from the fighting. In case the fighting turns against King Vyros’s fleet, Captain Albion has promised to deliver you safely back to Sunspear.” “With a Stormlander fleet at our heels,” Allyria remarked with a subtle gulp. “These pirates all seem quite confident that they can defeat the Stormlanders, if that is of any consolation, my princess,” Mateo said. “And if by chance the Stormlanders are victorious, the battle is sure to greatly reduce their numbers. Perhaps even enough to deter them from attempting to enter Greenblood.” “I hope so,” Allyria responded with a sigh. A little over an hour went by, before the Stormlander war galleys appeared from the north. Allyria watched by the railing of the Divider as the pirate fleet of Vyros Nahyr ambushed them, ramming them from the side and proceeding to board them. They were several hundred yards away from it all, but the water carried to them the sounds of hulls crashing, steel clashing with steel, and the screams of agony as the killing began. She had spectated jousting and tourney melees in the past, but this was something completely different. Men were dying on those ships, dozens, no, hundreds of them. “Wouldn’t mind getting in on that action,” Samwell Dayne said with a wistful tone, leaning on the railing. “Our duties are with the princess, Ser Samwell,” Ser Boran Sargen sternly reminded the younger knight, who merely rolled his eyes at the remark. “I for one am glad to remain on the sidelines for once,” Albion Greyjoy claimed with a thin smile on his pale face. “The thrill of battle is enticing, but too much of it will make a man lose his mind.” “Or his life,” Ser Boran added dryly. “I’ve lost many comrades on the field of battle, many of whom were just as eager as Ser Samwell here to charge into their demise.” “They died for a good cause, Ser Boran,” Allyria joined the conversation, her tone a conciliatory one. “You’re right, of course, my princess,” the older knight conceded with a respectful nod. “To die fighting for a noble cause is honorable. However, to die in pursuit of personal glory… It is merely tragic.” Ser Boran gave a meaningful glare at Samwell as he spoke those last words. “I guarantee you, good sers, most of the men dying to Stormlander blades on those ships right now aren’t doing it for personal glory, or a noble cause for that matter,” Albion said calmly. “They fight and die for simple and honest loyalty to their captains and brothers in arms. And well, perhaps as well for some hope of seeing a meager share of whatever rewards and plunder their captains lead them to.” “And what makes these men so loyal?” Allyria asked. “For most of them their crews are the closest thing they have to a family,” the Greyjoy captain answered, a piercing gaze in his blue eyes. “To fight and die for your family, for those you care about… it might be the purest thing in the world.” The fighting went on for another hour, before the remaining couple dozen Stormlander ships retreated to north. Soon after that Vyros Nahyr’s fleet headed east to the Stepstones. According to legends Westeros and Essos had once been connected by a land-bridge, and the rugged isles known as the Stepstones were what remained of that land-bridge after the children of the forest had used their magic to raise the sea and shatter it. It had happened thousands of years ago, Allyria remembered Maester Olivar telling her. Two days after leaving the Dornish shores behind the fleet arrived at a town, which the pirates called Torturer’s Deep. It was a peculiar settlement, built into a narrow and shadowy cove with wooden platforms constructed along the cliffsides and connected with rope bridges. At the very end of the cove stood an old stone fort, which apparently acted as King Vyros’s royal seat. A feast to celebrate the victory over the Stormlanders was held in the fort that evening. The main hall of the fort was small and drab in comparison to that of Sunspear, but nonetheless Allyria couldn’t claim the pirates of Stepstones to be sparing when it came to their festivities. The tables were filled with food and wine, musicians played strange and fast-paced songs throughout the evening, and beautiful Lyseni dancers danced to them. Allyria noticed Samwell eyeing those dancers lustfully a few times, which made her feel a bit jealous. Does he ever look at me like that when I don’t notice?“Princess Allyria,” King Vyros spoke to her as they were starting the third course. “Last time we had a conversation, I answered to your questions.” Allyria looked at the pirate king curiously. “And now you have some for me, I take it?” “Just one,” Vyros responded with a reassuring smile. He gulped down his wine before continuing. “I was curious, now that we have defeated the Stormlander fleet, do you think your mother, Princess Nymeria, might be willing to form a more permanent alliance with me?” Allyria took a sip of the wine, considering for a moment what her mother would answer to such a proposal. “My mother’s primary concern is the safety of Dorne and her people.” “Of course,” Vyros replied softly. “However, as a Rhoynar migrant she of all people knows the threat that the Freehold of Valyria poses to all of us who have a wish to remain free.” “And you believe that together we could resist that threat?” Allyria asked calmly. “I believe that sooner or later it will be the only choice we have.” “I see,” Allyria said, feeling slightly unnerved by the mere thought of dragons threatening Dorne. She had never seen one, and after hearing the stories about them she never wished to see one. “I cannot speak for my mother, but I do believe she shares your interest in resisting the Valyrians.” The pirate king grinned and slapped his hands together. “That is all I can ask of her.” As the evening went on Allyria found herself socializing with Sam, Fenris Snow, Faye Morrigen, Tyra Iheira and Arthur Jast at the lower tables. She asked Fenris questions about the North, Faye about Stormlands, Tyra about Tyrosh and Arthur about Westerlands. Fenris told her a story about how he came face to face with a bear in the Wolfswood when he was thirteen. “Thank the gods the bastard wasn’t angry or hungry and left me be,” he concluded with a thin smirk. Arthur then told about a great tourney in Lannisport he had attended as a twelve-year-old boy, describing with wonder in his eyes the glorious sight of a field filled with colorful pavilions and banners of noble houses, as well as knights in shining armors facing off in the tilts. Late in the evening Faye excitedly told Allyria and Tyra about a talking pet raven she had had as a child in Crow’s Nest. They all laughed with tears in their eyes as the Stormlander girl explained how she had taught the bird to say ‘stinky’ whenever someone entered the room. Tyra then told about how she had once bedded a Lyseni pirate who had a pet parrot, which kept babbling on about raising the sails while they had sex. Allyria was noticeably drunk when at last the feast was over and Samwell escorted her to the chambers reserved for her in the fort. “Oh Sam,” she purred with a seductive tone as they arrived at her chambers’ door. She bit her lip and put her right hand on the handsome knight’s chest. Samwell looked surprised by the princess’s advancements, reacting with a tense chuckle. Gently he removed Allyria’s hand from his chest and kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep well now, princess,” he said politely, before taking his leave. Allyria woke up feeling dizzy next morning. Her memories from the night were blurry at best, but she did feel a sting of regret as she remembered Samwell rejecting her. By gods, what a fool I am. After lunch that day the Outcast Company prepared to set sail again, to take Princess Allyria and her guards to the Skulls to meet the Crimson Prince. King Vyros came to the harbor of Torturer’s Deep to bid them farewell. “Good luck, Princess Allyria,” the pirate king said with a charming tone, taking Allyria’s hand and kissing it softly. “Please, come see me again once you’ve concluded the negotiations with the Crimson Prince.” “I will,” Allyria promised with a thin smile. “You have done a great service to the Principality of Dorne by fending off the Stormlander fleet from our shores. I shall do my best to repay that favor to you.” The atmosphere aboard the Divider was tense as they left Torturer’s Deep behind. The crew was clearly nervous to leave the waters controlled by King Vyros, and Allyria noticed Samwell avoiding her as much as he could. I am here to serve my mother and the Principality, Allyria reminded herself while sulking in her cabin. Everything else is secondary. By the noon of the second day since leaving Torturer’s Deep they reached the Skulls, which were the Stepstone isles located closest to the Heel of Essos. Unlike the rest of the Stepstones they were thickly forested, making them the perfect place for a rebel faction to hide in. And indeed, it didn’t take long for them to come across a patrolling ship flying the blood red banner of the Crimson Prince. The ship was captained by a tall and lanky young Rhoynar man with dark olive skin and long black hair. He was clad in a leather vest that left his chest bare, and Allyria noticed several old scars running across it. “Arano,” the young captain introduced himself, a mistrustful look in his green eyes as he looked at Albion and Allyria. The Princess then introduced herself in Rhoynish and told Arano that they had been sent by King Vyros to meet the Crimson Prince. “We were told Vyros would send an envoy, but I wasn’t expecting a princess,” Arano spoke with a respectful bow to Allyria. For about an hour the Divider followed Captain Arano’s ship to the north, finally arriving at the mouth of a small river on the eastern coast of the largest of the Skulls. They rowed upriver for a couple hundred yards, until arriving at a small camp where half-a-dozen ships were anchored. Hakon Sparr and few others remained to guard the ship, but the rest of them were led by foot upriver deeper into the forested island. Finally they reached a waterfall deep in the forest, and Arano led them through it into a large cavern illuminated by torches. There were small ponds of water here and there, and dripstones hung from the ceiling of the cavern like massive spears. “This is your hideout?” Allyria asked with an admiring tone as she eyed the dozens of people inside busy with their chores. Most of them looked Rhoynar, but among them were also ebony-skinned Summer Islanders and fair-skinned men whom Allyria assumed originated from the northern parts of Essos. There were hardly any children among them, and for every woman Allyria spotted there were four or five men. “One of them,” Arano responded with a smirk. “Come, let me take you and Captain Greyjoy to the Prince.” Arano then led the two of them deeper into the cavern, where they found a large tent guarded by two Rhoynar warriors clad in scaled armors and wielding halberds. Arano explained to them that with him were the envoys sent by King Vyros, to which one of the guards nodded and entered the tent. “The Crimson Prince will meet you now,” he said as he came back out from the tent, holding the door flap open for them. With a respectful nod Allyria walked in, Arano and Albion coming in her coattails. A comfortable armchair was situated in the middle of the room, and on it sat the man Allyria deduced to be the Crimson Prince. He was a muscled and olive-skinned man on his mid-thirties, with a close-cropped black full beard, medium length hair, determined golden eyes and a scar running across his forehead. He was clad in relatively simple grey-and-black cotton and leather clothes, but over his shoulders was donned a bright crimson cape. By his side stood a blue-eyed warrior woman on her mid-twenties, clad in steel and bronze and carrying a curved sword on her hip. “Crimson Prince,” Allyria greeted the man with a deep bow. “I am Princess Allyria Nymeros Martell, the fourthborn daughter of Princess Nymeria of Dorne. With me is Captain Albion Greyjoy of the Outcast Company. We come here as envoys of Vyros Nahyr, the King of Stepstones.” “I have great respect for Princess Nymeria,” the Crimson Prince spoke up with his deep voice after having eyed them for a moment. “She led a great number of our people to safety after the Second Spice War was lost. May I ask, Princess Allyria, what exactly is your mother’s affiliation with King Vyros?” “King Vyros’ fleet fended off the Stormlander fleet attempting to invade Dorne,” Allyria explained calmly. “In return I agreed to act as an envoy in His Grace’s negotiations with you.” “Negotiations?” The Crimson Prince asked nonchalantly, to which Allyria nodded. “He wants to form an alliance with you.” The prince let out a small chuckle and turned his gaze down for a moment. “I have my doubts about that,” he said with a sigh. Allyria raised an eyebrow, measuring the prince with her eyes for a moment as she considered what to say next. “What exactly makes you doubtful, my prince?” she asked. “I suspect my ambitions differ wildly from those of Vyros Nahyr,” the Crimson Prince answered. “You see, unlike him I am not interested in carving some petty kingdom for myself here in the Stepstones and hoping to be ignored by Valyria. No, I wish to wage war against the tyrants who murdered and enslaved our people, burned our lands and destroyed our cities. I wish to free as many as I can from the shackles of the dragonlords, and I do not intend to stop before I am dead or there are no more slaves left to be freed.” Allyria gulped subtly at the fury and intensity in the Crimson Prince’s eyes as he spoke. For a moment she was stunned, unsure how to react. “Your… your goal is noble,” she finally managed to utter. “However, if the Freehold of Valyria is to be your enemy, you will surely need as many allies as you can get. Perhaps my mother and Vyros could be such allies, they have no love for the Valyrians.” The Crimson Prince narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard. “Maybe,” he conceded quietly. “However, first Vyros must prove that he is committed to our cause.” “And… how should he prove it?” Allyria asked carefully. The Crimson Prince stood up from his seat and walked at a table by one of the tent’s walls. Allyria and Albion followed him there, and the prince rolled open a map of the Stepstones and the Heel of Essos. He then put his finger on a symbol depicting a fort on the coast of Essos, slightly to the north from the Skulls. “Maroon Fort,” he said calmly. “One the most important shipyards of Tyrosh,” he continued, nodding at the Free City of Tyrosh on the map, located to the north of both the Skulls and the Maroon Fort. “Thousands of slaves work there.” “You plan to free those slaves,” Allyria deduced, and the Crimson Prince nodded tensely. “The fort is heavily guarded by a professional sellsword company, so even if the slaves rise up in our support taking it over won’t be easy,” he explained sternly. “However, a couple crews from Vyros’s fleet could certainly be helpful, as well as prove him to be a worthy ally.” Allyria then explained the Crimson Prince’s proposal to Albion in common tongue. The Greyjoy captain looked a bit suspect of the plan, but after a moment of consideration he nodded. “I shall sail back to Torturer’s Deep and inform King Vyros of this proposal,” he said calmly. “I am sure he will see the benefit in aiding the Crimson Prince’s cause. You can expect me to return within a fortnight, hopefully with a few more ships.” “While we wait for King Vyros’s response you are welcome to remain here, princess,” the Crimson Prince said with a smile after Allyria had translated Albion’s answer to him. “Amongst my people.” Allyria nodded. “Our people,” she confirmed, shaking the prince’s hand.
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Post by WildlingKing on Feb 29, 2020 17:16:59 GMT
Erich VI It was dark. The sounds of clashing steel, cracking bones and dying men echoed in the void. Men were begging and praying, which was followed by screams of pain. Then there was singing and laughter, somehow distant and overwhelming at the same time. Erich Storm opened his eyes. His body was aching, and his head was thumping with pain. He didn’t have his armor on, and he was tied to a pole inside a pavilion. The pavilion was otherwise empty, but beside the door flap there was a stool, and on it sat a black helmet depicting a human skull. We were defeated, Erich thought bitterly, memory of the ambush returning to his mind. Prince Baldric…For minutes he remained there, silently staring at the skull helmet while listening to the sounds of the Manwoody camp around him, until finally someone entered the pavilion. Erich recognized the black armor to be that of the skull knight, but he was surprised by the person wearing it. She was a comely young woman, with dark brown hair, fair skin and sharp green eyes. “Finally awake,” the woman said with a thin smirk, grabbing the skull helmet as she spoke. “You look surprised. Perhaps it is embarrassing to you that you were defeated by a woman, I understand. However, you should know it was not just any woman, but Lady Alayne Manwoody, the heir of Kingsgrave. And now that I’ve introduced myself, it’s your turn.” “Where… is Prince Baldric?” Erich asked, his voice strained but defiant. “He died in the fighting,” Alayne Manwoody responded bluntly. “Very tragic indeed for such a promising young prince to die on a skirmish in some nameless valley so far away from home. However, perhaps it will make his father think again before invading Dorne next time. Now, tell me who you are.” “What does it matter?” Erich asked sullenly. “Why am I even alive?” “Because I spared you,” Alayne answered sternly. “You want to know why? Because of your eyes.” “My eyes?” “You have the purple eyes of a Dayne,” Alayne clarified, now taking a step closer to Erich. “And not just the eyes, your face and your hair too. You look exactly like a couple of Daynes I know.” Erich turned his eyes down and let out a joyless chuckle. “Aye, I am Ser Erich Storm, bastard son of Princess Marleina Durrandon and a Dornish knight named Jamison Dayne, though I have never met him, and he doesn’t even know that I exist.” Alayne studied Erich’s face for a moment with narrowed eyes. “Curious,” she said calmly. “So, will you kill me now?” “You said your mother is a Durrandon princess, aye?” Alayne asked, and Erich confirmed it with a nod. “Well, you might be worth a decent ransom then.” Alayne untied Erich from the pole and escorted him out of the pavilion. A cheerful Manwoody army of few hundred soldiers were camped on the northern slope of a wide and lightly wooded valley. At the bottom of the valley there was a small lake and a hamlet stood at its southern shore. Cattle and horses could be seen grazing on the fields around it. “They would’ve been victims of your invading army had we not ambushed you,” Alayne stated as she noticed Erich gazing towards the village. “Such is war,” Erich grunted in response, to which Alayne nodded. “Such is war,” she agreed and continued leading Erich through the camp. Suddenly Erich heard a familiar voice singing nearby. After looking around for a moment, he spotted Merry Mark playing his lute and singing for a group of Dornish soldiers around a cookfire. The bard looked to be in good health and spirits, and the Dornishmen around him were singing along with him. In a spontaneous spur of anger Erich rushed towards them. “No more songs about the dogs of Dorne, huh?” he barked, clearly catching Mark off guard and cutting off whatever song they were singing. “S-ser Erich,” he muttered with a gulp. “I- I’m just a bard, I sing the songs of those who f-feed me.” One of the Dornish soldiers, a young lad with a goatee and long dark hair, tapped Merry Mark on the shoulder and stood up, approaching Erich. “Calm yourself, Stormlander,” he said with a smug smirk. “And don’t worry, we heard his song about Baldric the Bold. Oh yes, we made him sing it to the prince’s severed head!” As the other soldiers burst into laughter Erich rushed forward and tackled the man to the ground. However, before he could do anything more, she felt the blade of a dagger on his throat. “Behave yourself, prisoner,” Alayne said strictly, gesturing for Erich to continue following her as she removed the blade from his throat. Erich swallowed his anger and did as she commanded. After another minute of following her silently, Alayne led them to the horses, where another familiar face was waiting. It was Ser Arys Selmy, with his hands tied and a few fresh cuts and bruises on his face. “Ser Erich, you survived,” the Selmy knight said with a relieved tone. “Prince Baldric is dead, and Ser Samwell Toyne too. I think Ser Raymont managed to escape though.” “Enough talking,” Alayne said strictly. “Let’s get moving.” Erich’s hands were tied as well, and he was raised atop the same horse with Ser Arys, their backs against each other. With Lady Alayne and half-a-dozen Manwoody riders around them they galloped away from the camp. “Where are you taking us?” Erich yelled. “To Kingsgrave!” Alayne responded with a grin on her face. They rode to east, through the hilly Manwoody lands nestled between the Red Mountains in north and south. They came across several villages, each slightly larger than the last, until finally reaching Kingsgrave about an hour before sundown. The ancestral home of House Manwoody wasn’t quite as grand as Nightsong or as elevated as Skyreach, but it did nonetheless look like a formidable fort perched on the mountainside. “We were victorious!” Alayne announced as they arrived at the courtyard, which was received with cheers and applauds from the household guards and servants. “I bring with me two noble hostages,” she continued as she dismounted her horse and approached the one Erich and Arys were sitting atop. She pulled them both down on the dusty ground. “Ser Arys Selmy and Ser Erich Storm.” “Mylady, I will inform your lord father of your return,” a grinning old guardsman said and hurried away. Alayne then helped Arys and Erich back up on their feet. “Now you shall meet the Lord of Kingsgrave,” she stated nonchalantly, while haphazardly dusting the dirt and sand from their clothes. “Son of Albin the Mad?” Erich asked quietly, and Alayne shot him with a sharp glare. “Yes,” she said after a notable pause. “Lord Arvin is not the kind of man his father was. He has honor and dignity.” “Even towards his enemies?” Ser Arys asked poignantly. “So long as they treat him with respect, yes,” Alayne answered strictly, eyeing her prisoners tensely. “Will there be a problem in that regard?” “Of course not, mylady,” Ser Arys was quick to answer with a polite tone, chivalrous as always. Alayne turned her gaze to Erich, clearly expecting an answer from him as well. However, before he could say anything the guardsman returned. “Your father awaits you at the audience room, mylady,” he said with a bow. Alayne and two guardsmen led the prisoners inside the keep, through the shadowy stone corridors and stairways, and into the lord’s audience room. It was an airy room with large windows opening a view towards the east. On the walls hung tapestries depicting battles and legendary Manwoody kings, ornate weapons, as well as a black shield with the crowned skull of House Manwoody painted on it. Behind the desk sat Lord Arvin himself, a dark-haired man looking to be on his early fifties clad in black and dark green silks and velvets. While the look in his green eyes was sharp and attentive, Erich thought he looked sickly. He was very thin, his skin was pale and his face was gaunt – even if he clearly tried to hide it with his greying beard. “My dear daughter,” the lord spoke up with an affectionate tone on his raspy voice. “I knew you’d be victorious.” “Thank you, father,” Alayne responded softly. “I bring with me noble hostages,” she continued, gesturing towards Arys and Erich. “So I was told,” Arvin said calmly, eyeing at them with little interest. “So, who are they?” “This is Ser Arys of House Selmy,” Alayne started. “The second son of the Lord of Harvest Hall. A well-respected knight among the Stormlanders, I believe.” “Second son, huh?” Arvin spoke with a frown. “Tell Maester Dramon to ask… two-hundred pieces of gold for him.” “It’s a more than fair price, mylord, I’m sure they’ll agree to that,” Alayne said. “Are you sure you don’t want to ask for more?” “I’m in no mood to haggle with marcher lords,” Arvin responded with a stifled chuckle. “The sooner we have these Stormlanders out of our castle the better. Who’s the other one?” “Ser Erich Storm,” Alayne answered to her father. “A bastard?” “Aye, bastard son of a Durrandon princess and Ser Jamison Dayne.” A moment of silence followed Alayne’s words, and a thin smirk formed on the Manwoody lord’s face. “I thought he looked familiar,” he said, studying Erich’s face with his eyes. “Oh yes, he looks exactly like his father. Brings back memories.” “How much would you want to ask for him?” Alayne asked, and Arvin thought on it for a moment. “He is a bastard, but he has royal blood from both of his parents,” the lord pondered. “Throughout my life my royal blood has always been secondary to my bastardy,” Erich chimed in nonchalantly. “I am no prince, so don’t expect anyone to pay a prince’s ransom for me.” “I see,” Arvin spoke with a mildly disappointed tone, turning his eyes back to his daughter. “Fine, tell Maester Dramon to send ravens to Wyl and Storm’s End about him, ask for a ransom of three-hundred pieces of gold.” And so, having learned their worth in ransom, Arys and Erich were escorted to the dungeons beneath the castle. Before the two of them were separated, Arys grabbed Erich’s arm for a moment. “Remember, you are the Storm King’s knight,” he whispered, before the guards dragged him to one of the cells. Erich was taken a bit further along the corridor. Later that night, after Erich had been given his meager supper, he saw a torch on the corridor approaching his cell. As it got closer, he recognized Alayne as the one carrying it. Before speaking a word, she pulled a flask from her coat, and threw it for Erich. Opening it, he could smell it was filled with wine. “Thank you,” Erich spoke with a confused tone. “Mylady.” “The ravens have been sent,” she said nonchalantly, her curious green eyes glimmering in the light of the torch. Erich took a gulp of the wine. “Do you think they’ll pay the asked price for you?” Alayne asked sharply. With a sigh Erich turned his gaze down. “If it was up to my mother, I’m sure they would. However, I’m less sure about King Ormund.” “The Storm King is your uncle, right?” Alayne asked with a frown, and Erich nodded. “Three-hundred pieces for your nephew doesn’t sound that much to me.” “I never really was part of the family,” Erich said quietly. “Besides, I failed my duty to protect his firstborn son’s life.” “You’re hardly to blame for the young prince’s death,” Alayne insisted. “He could’ve surrendered, but he chose to fight to death instead.” “He knew that the Storm King’s heir being imprisoned by the enemy would mean the end of the war,” Erich said, tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn’t known Baldric for long, but he had grown attached to the lad, as well as seen his potential for greatness. By his side I could’ve been a great man too, but now I shall remain nothing until the day I die. “The war will be over soon enough regardless,” Alayne claimed confidently. “You know, Ser Erich, you’re as much a Dornishman as you are a Stormlander. If you chose to switch sides, you’d be welcomed among us.” “I am no turncloak,” Erich answered without hesitation. “I am the Storm King’s knight and will remain as such.” “Admirable loyalty,” Alayne said with a slightly amused tone. “Let us see how much your king thinks it’s worth.” With those words the lady turned around and walked away. With tears in his eyes Erich watched as the light of the torch grew smaller, until disappearing into the darkness.
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Post by WildlingKing on Mar 12, 2020 16:55:08 GMT
Lyonel VII Birds were singing and sun shined through the window as Lyonel Bracken opened his eyes. He was lying in a large and comfortable bed, feeling dizzy and weak. He felt a mild pain radiating from his lower back, but with a grunt he managed to pull himself to a sitting position. “Oh, you’re awake,” a friendly voice spoke to Lyonel’s right, and he turned his gaze to see Maester Bennis approaching him, pulling a small vial from his sleeve. “You’re in Castlewood, remember?” “Yes,” Lyonel muttered hoarsely. “How long has it been?” “Since you arrived? Well over a fortnight.” Lyonel grimaced at the thought of having been bedridden for that long. “Milk of the poppy?” Bennis offered the small vial to Lyonel, but he rejected it. “No more milk of the poppy,” he decided sternly. “It’s about time I get back on my feet again, there’s a war going on.” Before Bennis could respond, they heard the door being opened and shifted their gazes to see Axel Rivers entering the room. Seeing his loyal squire alive and well brought a smile upon Lyonel’s face. “Axel, it’s good to see you,” he said sincerely, to which the boy nodded. “It’s good to see you awake,” he answered with a small smirk. “I’ll let you two catch up,” Maester Bennis said, putting the vial back in his sleeve. “If you change your mind about the milk of the poppy, just let me know.” With those words the balding maester wobbled out of the room. Axel then took the seat next to the bed. “How are you feeling?” the boy asked with a gulp. “Weak,” Lyonel answered truthfully. “Better than before though. There is still pain, but it’s pain I can endure.” “I was quite worried for you during those first nights,” Axel admitted with a small chuckle. A moment of silence followed, as Axel was clearly hesitating to say something. “Something on your mind, lad?” Lyonel asked with a raised eyebrow. Axel let out a small sigh before speaking up. “You were feverish throughout the first week after us arriving here, and as I sat here by your bedside I… I heard you talk in your dream. Most of what you said made no sense, but there was a name you kept repeating over and over again. Lyonel, who is Jeren?” Lyonel took in a deep breath, gazing out of the window as memories flooded his mind. “He… was a dear friend of mine, long ago,” he started with a subtle gulp. “He was the Stone Hedge’s stablemaster’s son, so I knew him from as young as I can remember.” “What happened to him?” Axel asked softly, and Lyonel had to clench his fists and compose himself to not break into tears. “He died in the war,” he said quietly. “When Stone Hedge fell to the Teagues, he died fighting on the battlements.” No longer able to hold it back, Lyonel felt tears running down his cheeks. “I only learned of his fate when returning there after the war was over.” “I’m sorry,” Axel said with a regretful tone, and Lyonel was quick to wipe the tears from his face. “It’s alright, it was long ago,” he muttered. “He… was your lover, wasn’t he?” Axel asked carefully, and Lyonel shot him with a surprised glare. As he struggled to find his tongue, Axel spoke up again. “It’s alright, I’m not judging you,” he assured. “I’m a bastard, born of sin, who am I to judge anyone?” “You… you’re the only person to know,” Lyonel said with a vulnerable tone. “We kept it a secret from everyone, even though my brothers probably did have their suspicions. I… I’ve often felt shame, for what I shared with Jeren. However, there is nothing I wouldn’t trade to be with him again.” “I understand,” Axel said with a tense but empathetic tone. Silence lingered in the room for a moment, until suddenly Ser Elbert Harlton arrived, limping and leaning on a walking stick. With him came also the brown-haired Cargyll woman, whom Lyonel remembered having saved him from the Faith Militants in the woods. “Maester Bennis said you’re awake,” Elbert said with a grin on his broad and bearded face. “You’re looking better already.” “I’ll take your word for it,” Lyonel quipped in response. “I haven’t had an opportunity to introduce myself to you yet,” the Cargyll woman spoke up with a polite tone as she approached the bed. “I am Deana Cargyll, daughter of Lord Desmond Cargyll.” “Pleasure to meet you, Lady Deana,” Lyonel responded as he shook her hand. “And thank you, for saving my life.” “It was an honor,” Deana said with a bright grin. “So, what has happened while I’ve been sleeping my pain away?” Lyonel then asked. “My lord father has taken most of our troops to Duskendale together with Lord Cargyll, to join Prince Barron’s host,” Elbert explained calmly. “They mean to take back the lands held by this King Lucifer and his allies around Trident.” “Lucifer is no longer in Stoney Sept then?” Lyonel asked with a frown, and Elbert shook his head. “He has marched north with the Faith Militant, most likely to wed Lord Harroway’s daughter as you found out he planned,” he said with a subtle gulp. “And now that they’ve amassed in Harroway I can only assume their next move would be to take Trident Hall.” “And Lord Brydan?” Lyonel asked quietly. “He has taken back Fairmarket,” Axel spoke up. “And I believe the latest report was that he is preparing to march in Lord Robert’s aid.” “Yes, together with lords Tully, Bracken and Mallister,” Elbert confirmed. A moment of silence followed, as Lyonel pondered what he should do next. A part of him wanted to join Prince Barron’s host. It would be a shorter travel, meaning he might be able to make it there before the fighting begins. My duty is with Lord Brydan and House Blackwood, he reminded himself. Within Barron’s army he would be just another soldier, whereas Brydan undoubtedly would be in need of more personal guidance. “I shall ride back to Raventree Hall, as soon as possible,” Lyonel declared. They all looked at him with a surprised expression. “Are you sure you have the strength for such a long journey?” Deana asked softly. Lyonel let out a sigh and stretched his arms. “Well, I better have,” he said nonchalantly. “Because I’ve made up my mind regardless.” “You certainly are one hardy son of a bitch, Bracken,” Elbert said with a grin, tapping Lyonel on the shoulder. “I’ll come with you,” Deana then stated calmly. “Since you’ll have to ride through enemy territory, it’s better you have some protection.” “I suppose so,” Lyonel replied with a respectful nod for the lady. Lyonel, Axel, Deana as well as half-a-dozen mounted Cargyll soldiers left Castlewood the next morning, Ser Elbert waving them bye at the courtyard with his wife, sons and mother. The first few days on the road were especially hard for Lyonel, but he pushed on without complaint. They avoided most settlements, sleeping in woods and staying off the roads where they could. Aside from a few chilly rains the weather was mostly decent. After reaching the shores of God’s Eye they headed west to the lands of House Smallwood. There they spotted a small band of Poor Fellows guarding a bridge. Instead of risking a fight they decided to take a detour to south, crossing the river at a shallow ford upstream. From there they rushed with haste towards north, and after nearly a fortnight’s travel Lyonel was filled with relief as they finally saw the inn Drunken Ferryman on the southern bank of Red Fork, and the old stony bridge next to it. “I must say I admire your loyalty to Lord Brydan, Lyonel,” Deana said as they filled their first mugs of ale in the common room of the inn. “How so?” Lyonel asked calmly, taking a first sip of the ale. “You could’ve remained in Castlewood, certainly no one would’ve thought worse of you for it,” the Cargyll woman spoke, studying Lyonel’s face with her narrowed eyes. “Yet you rush back to your lord with a barely healed body after almost getting killed on a mission he sent you for.” “I’ve pledged my sword to his service, that’s all there is to it,” Lyonel claimed nonchalantly, to which Deana chuckled slightly. “No man is that simple,” she argued. “You are a genuinely loyal man, I do not doubt that, but why to Brydan? Loyalty to family is one thing, but the Blackwoods and Brackens have been enemies throughout most of history. Loyalty to someone you admire is also common, and I could imagine you having admired Lord Roderick, but what has young Brydan ever done to gain your admiration?” “What are you getting at, mylady?” Lyonel asked tensely. “I think you are loyal to Brydan because you need some principle to cling onto, a purpose for your life,” Deana spoke softly. As Lyonel frowned and glared at her she let out a small chuckle. “Sorry, ‘twas just a thought I had,” she quipped, taking a gulp of her ale. “And what is your purpose, Deana?” Lyonel asked quietly. “What principle do you cling onto?” Deana shrugged, turning her gaze down for a moment and taking in a deep breath. “Protecting my family, I suppose,” she then said with a thin smile. “My father and mother, my little brother and his kids. And if that means going to war with the Faith Militant, or the bloody gods themselves, then so be it.” “I’ll drink to that,” Lyonel grunted, raising his mug. Before sundown next day they arrived at Raventree Hall. It was easy to see from the trampled fields around the castle that an army had somewhat recently been camped there. In the courtyard they were welcomed by Ronas Blackwood, Ser Uthor Wayn and Lady Ellyn Blackwood. “It is good to have you back, Lyonel,” Ronas said with a grin on his face, while Ellyn rushed to hug her cousin Axel. “Brydan has marched to war, then?” Lyonel asked quietly, and the grin vanished from Ronas’ face as he gave him an affirmative nod. “They left for Fairmarket six days ago,” he said calmly. “There Lord Mallister will join them as they march for Robert’s aid in Trident Hall. We can only pray they make it there before the Faith Militant does.” “Lord Mallister remained loyal after all, then,” Lyonel spoke, scratching his beard. “Are you sure we can trust him?” “I believe so, yes, for now at least,” Lady Ellyn now spoke up with an assertive tone. “Lord Mallister came to visit me personally while Brydan was taking back Fairmarket from the Poor Fellows. He admitted that he had considered betraying Lord Brydan and the Storm King, but chose to remain loyal because he sees Lucifer the Liar as the High Septon’s puppet and doesn’t want to see him as king.” “And a puppet he certainly is,” Lyonel noted calmly. “I met the young pretender king in Stoney Sept, and I got the impression that the poor lad has been brainwashed by the Faith to sincerely believe in these delusions of being the last scion of the Justman bloodline.” A modest feast was held in the great hall of Raventree that night, but despite the seemingly upbeat mood Lyonel could sense the dread under the tense smiles and nervy laughs. The war had begun in earnest and all of their future was veiled behind the blood red curtain of fate. On the following dawn Lyonel, Axel and Deana prepared to continue their ride, this time east towards the Blue Fork where they hoped to catch up with Brydan’s host. However, as Lyonel was packing the saddle bags of his horse he was approached in the stables by Lady Ellyn. “Mylady,” he greeted her with a slightly surprised tone. “These must be hard times for you, having to wait here for your husband’s return… I wish I had something encouraging to say, but the words escape me.” “I will be fine,” Ellyn assured calmly, a nervous look in her eyes. “However, there is something I wish you to tell Brydan when you meet him.” “Sure, of course, I will relay whatever message you wish,” Lyonel promised. Ellyn gulped, turning her gaze down and taking in a deep breath before speaking up again. “I wish you to tell him that I am carrying his child.” Lyonel’s mouth opened, and for a few seconds he struggled to find his tongue. “That… is wonderful,” he finally uttered. “Congratulations, I’m sure Brydan will be overjoyed to learn this.” “I learned two days ago myself,” Ellyn said quietly. “For now, you are the only person to know besides myself and Maester Joseth.” The lady now grabbed Lyonel’s hand and looked him into the eyes. “I know Brydan trusts you, Lyonel,” she spoke with a pleading tone. “Please, tell him that I will give him a son, and that that son will need him.” “I will,” Lyonel promised with quiet but confident words. “I will tell him.”
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 12, 2020 16:29:46 GMT
This was a very nice chapter, rather quiet, but in terms of atmosphere it really contrasted nicely with Erich's more threatening part before. I liked it! Also, speaking of Erich, he continues his journey to be my undisputed favourite PoV. It is really not just the NW connection that brings me the most nostalgia through his parts, but he is a generally engaging character with a nice storyline, that whole thing is my favourite at the moment (though not even nearly as undisputed as Erich's status as my favourite characters, there's a lot of enjoyable storylines, such as Lyonel's, Bernarr's and of course Allyria's). As for Erich, remind me, this was the first time we actually learned of who rules over Kingsgrave, eh? While I previously suspected it to be Arvin's son, I am happier than I thought I would be to see Arvin again. He was a douche in NW, but an enjoyable douche and it seems like he mellowed in the meantime. Also, him mentioning that he knows Jamison makes me super curious about his fate. It seems to me, this is an implication he actually survived Nymeria's War (although I know you once mentioned that the two stories are not necessarily set in the same continuity), but I look forward for learning more about the situation in Dorne.
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Post by WildlingKing on Aug 9, 2020 19:25:21 GMT
Arthur IV It was a calm and cloudless evening. Ser Arthur Arryn stood atop a hill some five-hundred yards to the west from Trident Hall, at the head of a force of three hundred mounted men who had followed him to this war from the Vale. To their right on the hill stood a cavalry of some five-hundred riders led by King Lucifer Justman himself. Downhill from them were lined a thousand infantrymen, Lord Osmund Harroway ready to lead their charge to the castle’s main gate located on its western walls. The Trident Hall was a formidable fort, standing on the western bank of the Trident, a few hundred yards to the north from the confluence of the Trident and the Red Fork. The twenty feet wide moat surrounding the tall grey walls of the castle was connected to the river. And atop the walls could be seen hundreds of soldiers armed with spears and crossbows. All in all, it was a hard castle to take by a storm, yet Arthur knew they didn’t have the time for a drawn-out siege either. Why is he so confident we will succeed? Arthur asked himself once again while eyeing Lord Harroway giving a speech to his troops below. To the south, at the northern bank of the Red Fork, there was a large village – now emptied as its people had flocked behind the walls of the Trident Hall. Arthur knew that Queen Myrcella had been escorted into the small sept of the village together with Septon Lewis to pray for the duration of the battle ahead. On the fields north of that village another part of their army was organizing its lines, this one led by Ser Harrold Hill and Lord Roland Vance. With them were around a hundred knights of the Warrior’s Sons, over a thousand troops of House Vance, and almost as many Poor Fellows. They were to charge the southern walls of the castle. And lastly, on the fields north of the castle were amassed two thousand more troops, led by Lord Tommard Smallwood and Ser Helman Keath. Arthur rode to Lucifer. The young king sat atop his white horse with a prideful posture, which was almost enough to mask his nervousness. “It doesn’t seem like they intend to surrender, Your Grace,” Arthur said stiffly. “Do you truly intend to storm the walls?” “Wait, and perhaps you will understand, Ser Arryn,” Lucifer responded sternly, keeping his eyes on Trident Hall. With some confusion Arthur shifted his eyes back towards the castle. What am I not seeing?A few minutes went by, until finally Arthur saw it – dark smoke rising from within the walls of Trident Hall. “Fire,” the old knight uttered in disbelief. He turned his eyes towards Lucifer and saw that a faint smirk had appeared on the Justman king’s face. So, this was their plan.Screaming and sounds of fighting echoed in the evening, despite none of King Lucifer’s men having assaulted the castle. Chaos had befallen within Lord Robert Blackwood’s walls, and now Lord Harroway gave his men the command to charge the castle, as did Ser Harrold Hill and Lord Smallwood. Arthur could only watch with awe as the battlements were taken over by their men, the defenders being in complete disarray within minutes. Finally, the gates of the castle were opened from the inside, and by the king’s side Arthur led the cavalry charge into the courtyard of Trident Hall. However, by that point the battle had already been won, corpses of Blackwood soldiers littering the yard and those few that remained alive having surrendered. The doors of the main keep remained barred, but the Poor Fellows were eagerly hacking them open. Arthur dismounted his horse, looking around himself in disbelief. The stables and barracks had been ruined in the fire. But who started it and how?“Ser Arthur,” the voice of Osmund Harroway called behind him, and he turned to see the Harroway lord approaching him. His sword was bloodied, and a few dents could be seen on his armor, but he looked to have survived the fighting without any significant injuries. “My apologies, for not being more open with you about this battle plan. It was crucial that as few people knew of it as possible.” “You had an infiltrator within the walls?” Arthur asked with a frown, to which Lord Harroway chuckled mildly. “A couple dozen infiltrators, aye,” he said calmly. “The people of this castle and these lands were once the closest subjects of the Teagues. Lord Robert took their home with violence and murdered their Queen. It wasn’t hard to find people with resentment towards him from here.” As Lord Osmund finished speaking the Poor Fellows finally broke through the main keep’s doors and rushed in to fight the last surviving Blackwood defenders. “So, we have taken Trident Hall,” Arthur stated quietly, turning his gaze towards the young king who was currently surrounded by cheering knights and soldiers. “What next?” “Next we face young Lord Brydan, and after that whomever the Storm King has sent to stamp out our cause,” Osmund said with a small sigh. “However, before that there is justice to be served.” Not long after Osmund had said those words the bruised and struggling Lord Robert Blackwood was dragged out from the keep to the courtyard by the Poor Fellows, as well as his visibly pregnant wife and crying young daughter. They were thrown in the middle of the muddy courtyard and surrounded by the knights and soldiers of King Lucifer. Then, the king himself dismounted his horse and approached the captives with Ser Harrold Hill. “You must be Lucifer the Liar,” Robert spat, eyeing the young king from head to toe with contempt. “And you will soon be a dead man,” Lucifer responded nonchalantly, to which the soldiers cheered loudly. “Perhaps we should first make him watch as we kill his family,” Ser Harrold suggested bluntly, garnering more cheers. “No,” Arthur intervened sternly, stepping between Harrold and Lord Robert’s family. “Are we not righteous men of the Faith? Robert Blackwood must be punished for his crimes, yes, but his wife, daughter and unborn child are innocents. Only godless monsters would lay a hand on them.” For a moment the courtyard fell silent. The look on Ser Harrold’s face remained unmoved, but King Lucifer at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed. “Ser Arthur speaks truly,” he admitted calmly. “The lady and the girl will remain as our prisoners for now.” Having said that, the King turned towards Ser Harrold Hill. “However, to truly understand the consequences of betrayal they should be made to watch as Lord Robert is executed,” Lucifer degreed. Arthur glanced at the girl, who could not have been much older than five. “Your Grace, is that necessary?” he asked tensely. “Do not question the King, Arryn,” Harrold barked, unsheathing his sword. Arthur turned his gaze down in defeat, and wordlessly stepped out of Ser Harrold’s way. The Poor Fellows dragged Lord Robert’s wife and daughter a dozen feet away from him, both of them begging and crying desperately. Lord Robert looked at Ser Harrold with stern and stubborn defiance. “Do it then, you bastard,” the lord said and bent his neck. “With pleasure,” Harrold responded coldly, and with a single swing he beheaded Lord Robert Blackwood. A shrill scream of horror filled the cold night air. End of Act II
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Aug 17, 2020 16:59:20 GMT
Oh hell yeah, Wildling, welcome back! Does that mean you're back back? In any way, I really missed the story, so much in fact that the e-mail notification I asked fanfiction.net to send me triggered twice for the same part ^^ I did not think we were this close to the chapter finale, so this was a surprise. It was a great part though! Well, ahem, executed, one might say I definitely have to reread some of the older parts, but this was nonetheless really thrilling. I loved the atmosphere that was created, especially in the second half of the part, with Harrold even suggesting to wipe out the entire Blackwood line and Arthur stepping in to stop that. All in all, a great finale, definitely one of my favourite parts in the chapter (that's what I have to do some re-reading for). I am certainly excited for more
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Post by WildlingKing on Aug 18, 2020 9:34:05 GMT
Oh hell yeah, Wildling, welcome back! Does that mean you're back back? In any way, I really missed the story, so much in fact that the e-mail notification I asked fanfiction.net to send me triggered twice for the same part ^^ I did not think we were this close to the chapter finale, so this was a surprise. It was a great part though! Well, ahem, executed, one might say I definitely have to reread some of the older parts, but this was nonetheless really thrilling. I loved the atmosphere that was created, especially in the second half of the part, with Harrold even suggesting to wipe out the entire Blackwood line and Arthur stepping in to stop that. All in all, a great finale, definitely one of my favourite parts in the chapter (that's what I have to do some re-reading for). I am certainly excited for more Yeah, I am working on the first few parts of Act III currently, but the one that I want to start the act with seems to be the one I'm struggling with the most so we'll see how long that's gonna take Shamefully I have yet to start my catch up of FoT and Dark Eye, but I do plan to do that as well in the near future. Re-reading the older parts is definitely something I have been doing and need to keep doing myself going forward to really get into the flow of the story again. Oh, and the whole Blackwood line isn't actually present here, Lord Robert (Lord of Trident Hall... well at least before this part) is the uncle of Lord Brydan (Lord of Raventree Hall), who is the actual head of House Blackwood currently, and his wife Lady Ellyn is also pregnant as we learned in the earlier Lyonel part. I don't blame you for not remembering though, the Blackwood family is pretty complicated all around, but re-reading should certainly clear all that stuff Anyway, I'm very glad to hear you enjoyed this finale for Act II!
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Aug 31, 2020 0:05:31 GMT
Oh hell yeah, Wildling, welcome back! Does that mean you're back back? In any way, I really missed the story, so much in fact that the e-mail notification I asked fanfiction.net to send me triggered twice for the same part ^^ I did not think we were this close to the chapter finale, so this was a surprise. It was a great part though! Well, ahem, executed, one might say I definitely have to reread some of the older parts, but this was nonetheless really thrilling. I loved the atmosphere that was created, especially in the second half of the part, with Harrold even suggesting to wipe out the entire Blackwood line and Arthur stepping in to stop that. All in all, a great finale, definitely one of my favourite parts in the chapter (that's what I have to do some re-reading for). I am certainly excited for more Yeah, I am working on the first few parts of Act III currently, but the one that I want to start the act with seems to be the one I'm struggling with the most so we'll see how long that's gonna take Shamefully I have yet to start my catch up of FoT and Dark Eye, but I do plan to do that as well in the near future. Re-reading the older parts is definitely something I have been doing and need to keep doing myself going forward to really get into the flow of the story again. Oh, and the whole Blackwood line isn't actually present here, Lord Robert (Lord of Trident Hall... well at least before this part) is the uncle of Lord Brydan (Lord of Raventree Hall), who is the actual head of House Blackwood currently, and his wife Lady Ellyn is also pregnant as we learned in the earlier Lyonel part. I don't blame you for not remembering though, the Blackwood family is pretty complicated all around, but re-reading should certainly clear all that stuff Anyway, I'm very glad to hear you enjoyed this finale for Act II! That is amazing, I am really excited to see what's in store in Act III! On the topic of catching up, I can assure you that you haven't missed as much as you might think, I have genuinely struggled with writing over the last few months. To prevent any larger problems from coming up (like a decline in quality or a writing mistake that cannot be corrected), I made the decision to take a short break from FoT after finishing the current chapter (which should be in roughly 5 parts, finally ^^), so that I have time to properly plan ahead for Chapter 4 and to regain some much-needed focus. That might help with catching up, there's definitely going to be a few weeks in which I won't write any new FoT part. Dark Eye will continue as usual during these weeks, the problems that plague me in FoT are nearly non-existant there, but if I can help with catching up in any way, let me know! See, that is why I need to reread the entire story. Not that I'd ever complain, I like reading TAoS, but there's some details I definitely need to refresh my memory on to fully appreciate them. I have phrased the Blackwood comment poorly though, I have definitely not forgotten about Brydan, I would actually even say he's my favourite non-PoV character as far as I remember them right now. His role in Ellyn's parts made him a quick favourite of mine. I am currently re-reading Chapter 1 and I think he really shines there. What I meant was that there's this clear willingness by Harrold to kill every last living Blackwood, even someone as unquestionably innocent as Ellyn's unborn child and while I should not be surprised, because it's Thrones, it nonetheless made this scene way more tense. That being said, do not quiz me on the entire Blackwood family tree until I have fully re-read the entire story, I am not ready for this, but I think I will be soon
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