12th month 302 AC, Storm's End

Ashara sat upon the massive grey stone floor, yet she did not feel the cold. Or rather, she did feel it. But only as a numbness in her limbs. The sensation of cold itself had long since faded.

A summer's night in the stormlands was nothing like one in Dorne. One did not hear the countless armies of crickets and dragonflies and other insects. Somehow, the humming in the air was missing, that constant, faint vibration born of the heat. Even the smell was different.

Yet the air was warm all the same. And the wind was softer, even when it raged. It almost seemed as though the air itself had no wish to disturb the beauty of summer too greatly. To shake the heads of the flowers too harshly.

Tonight was such a night.

The wind sang as it swept past the ancient walls, but its song sounded lovely against the dull heartbeat of Storm's End. And it made her breathe warmly, though her body had grown cold.

Ashara did not know how long she had been sitting there with her face turned towards the heavens. Nor did she care.

For the sky was full of stars.

And she was introducing them to a new member. Or rather, introducing one of them to the new member.

"Don't tell your papa we've been awake for so long, all right?" Ashara whispered in a hoarse voice, scarcely audible, lowering her gaze towards her lap.

There lay a little bundle.

Dressed in a linen shift, wrapped in a cotton blanket, and nestled within the folds of her mother's gown, there rested Ashara's heart... Another piece of it. With raven-black curls and violet eyes.

"He would only wonder why we didn't wake him," she whispered even more softly.

She lifted a finger to stroke the roots of one little curl, but thought better of it and withdrew her hand, holding her finger before her lips and then beneath her nose.

It was always a curious thing, becoming acquainted with a new part of oneself. Especially when that part lay before you with such beautiful eyes.

"How can all of you be so... pretty?" she murmured down at the tiny creature.

Cortnay. Her daughter. The newest... and smallest member of House Baratheon.

"Your eyes look like purple iris," she told the little droplet before her. "My aunt would have planted one for you in a little flowerbed of your very own."

Her hand slowly returned to the cocoon of cloth, stroking gently back and forth as her weary smile faded. It was always sad to remember all the things those who had already passed away had missed, and all the things they would yet miss.

Ashara leaned back again, a little more heavily this time, and felt the dull pressure of the wall against her back and head.

She looked upwards once more, her eyes travelling from left to right, her mouth slightly parted as she marvelled at the lights glowing high above.

Ashara knew that people looked to the heavens in search of answers. Or to ask for strength. Or to beg for mercy. She liked to leave little letters there, in the form of conversations with herself. Sometimes more often, sometimes less. But sooner or later, always after someone had departed this world or entered it.

There was nothing ritualistic about it. No foolish superstition, nor some desperate fancy of the mind. Only something innocent and comforting... and eternal.

The same sky that she and Arthur had gazed upon thirty years ago was still there... And surely that was something beautiful. Something she could still share.

"You have..." she began again, shifting her position slightly against the wall. "A very large family."

Her hands continued their ceaseless caresses over the fabric, whilst the tiny eyelids covered the even tinier eyes more often than they revealed them.

But that was quite all right. Ashara would be delighted if Cortnay fell asleep in her arms... One more reason to remain outside a little longer rather than go back in. To remain numb.

"You have nine aunts and uncles, and a..." She stopped herself with a dry little laugh. "A frighteningly fast-growing number of cousins-"

Cortnay stirred ever so slightly within her mountains of cloth, and Ashara's voice trailed away.

"Some are funny and playful, like Eshar and Davos."

For a moment, Ashara glanced down at Cortnay, as though she needed to make certain that the babe understood her.

"They are your uncle Symon's sons."

She looked upwards again, whilst her other hand slipped behind the fabric where Cortnay's little head rested, gently rubbing it. Though she suspected Cortnay could scarcely feel much of it. Ashara did not quite dare touch her more directly. She could not explain why... She simply seemed too precious for her fingers.

"And others are very gentle and shy little thinkers and tinkerers, like Vorian," she whispered down to her, smiling faintly. "Your uncle Gerold's son."

Her fingernail traced the fine fabric of the uppermost blanket, embroidered with even finer little whirlwinds.

"But there are sooooo many more," she breathed, almost proudly. "And every one of them will look after you."

A lump formed in Ashara's throat, one she could not quite account for.

"Even our loved ones that are not here anymore," she murmured, overcome with tenderness, and looked upwards again. "There is an entire army watching over us."

The corner of her mouth twitched faintly, though her eyes grew unspeakably sad.

"Sometimes I wonder..." she began, even more quietly now. Only for herself.

"Whether you grow cross up there-"

Ashara stretched her neck back, gazing over the different shapes that formed upon the black canopy of the heavens, searching for the brightest stars.

"At every little face down here that you never had the chance to meet, Artie."

The words emerged as little more than dry, broken sounds. Her voice was failing her. There was a sorrow lodged within her unlike anything Ashara had ever felt before, and it left her utterly unbalanced.

"But don't you fret, brother," she tried again, somewhat louder, sniffling as the stars began to blur beneath the tears gathering in her eyes.

Her brows drew together, her lips twisted, and Ashara lowered her gaze towards the little face once more. She watched a tear fall upon the pristine cocoon of cloth. Then another upon Cortnay's tiny face.

Ashara hurriedly rubbed at her eyes, almost frantically, but it did nothing to stop the tears from falling.

"It was... the last time," she finally breathed.

She could hear the trembling in her own voice. And feel it in her lips.

The thought of losing her in childbed, during the birth of one of their children, had always frightened Bryce to death. And during her last confinement, when the twins had been born, they had... nearly lost Arthur.

Ever since, the wish for more children had gone hand in hand with an inescapable fear. That she might lose her child. Or that her family might lose her... A cruel and terrifying reality that one could only truly understand after having lived through it.

And Ysa, thank the gods, had understood. She had taken Ashara's fears seriously and helped her through them. And Bryce, of course, had done everything imaginable to support her.

Yet it had been plain to see that throughout her last pregnancy, he had struggled with far more worry than joy.

"Your mama..." she began again, sniffling as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Has grown too old now."

As a child, Ashara had found the very thought of growing old repulsive. As a young woman, it had frightened her. When one's parents were dead, one's brother fallen, one's dearest friend fleeing for her life, one's own house ruled by a hated sister, and one's own child seemingly beyond reach, youth was the only thing that promised there was still... time. It had given her hope that there might yet be... chances. To... stitch everything back together...

One had almost felt immortal throughout those years in which one scarcely noticed the little lines of laughter growing deeper upon one's face.

And then she had met Bryce...

And although she still wished for an eternity of time, time itself could not be stopped for anything in the world. Indeed, it seemed to race away.

She had slowly come to understand that time flew when one was enjoying one's life. And that was precisely what made it so precious.

She did not wish to gamble away the time she had left...

Ashara wanted to spend it with her family.

Even if she could have borne Bryce a dozen children, she knew what an immeasurable blessing she already possessed. Her five beloved little ones. Her sandstorms.

It was simply a strange realisation to endure, that time was taking something away from her... once again.

"I was so scared about you..."

Ashara's fingers crept across the cloth towards her child's little face, brushing over the soft cheek as lightly as a breath.

What she had not dared do before now seemed almost something she had to do. As though she needed to test whether this miracle was truly real.

"I always swore to myself that I would never become like Mother," she crooned.

And although she was looking at Cortnay as she spoke, her words were perhaps meant more for her brother. Whether he was watching from above or not.

"And this way..."

Ashara had to sniffle again, wiping her eyes almost frustratedly dry with her sleeve.

"I hope, at least, that I can be there for all of you for as long-"

Her mouth twisted painfully, and the tears continued to flow without end.

"-as you need me."

Meanwhile, Cortnay's eyes shone up at her in complete innocence, as though she were trying to puzzle out what peculiar sounds her mother was making.

"I shall try to make it to a hundred and twenty," Ashara added sarcastically, managing a dry little smile. But it soon faded again.

Once more, one finger stroked the little girl's skin. Over one of the tiny beauty marks beneath her eye.

"Do me a favour and try not to grow up too quickly. Your siblings weren't that kind," she sniffled, narrowing her eyes painfully. "All right, Nay-nay?"

Merely speaking her daughter's little nickname sent a rush of joy through her body, pumping from her heart into every last part of her.

Bryce and she had never necessarily followed any particular system when naming their children.

Myriah's name was Dornish. Melony, Arthur, and Cortnay had been named for loved ones they had lost. And Clementine was a more unusual name, though one Ashara loved dearly, neither traditionally Dornish nor particularly common in the stormlands.

Yet all of them had their Rhoynish names.

Names she had first devised almost as a thoughtless little amusement, out of sheer freedom and fancy, but which suited them as naturally as heat and a peal of thunder.

And if one shortened Cortnay to nay, it meant... droplet.

Like the little marks upon her face. Or the tears her mama had just wept upon her. Or the fact that she would forever be the smallest storm.

Nay-nay was Ashara's last drop.

The tournament of the wedding of Cletus Yronwood and Tyene Sand, including:

• Adult melee
• Drinking contest
• Archery
• Horse riding
• Boat race

Winners will be posted at the end of each contest.

The sept was filled with the quiet murmur of gathered nobles, the warm glow of candlelight illuminating the ancient stone walls. Yet, as Cletus Yronwood stood before the altar, the solemnity of the occasion barely registered.

His attention was entirely devoted to Tyene Sand, whose presence seemed to render everything else insignificant.

Dressed in a golden Dornish attire, matching his hair, he had spent much of the ceremony attempting to maintain an appropriately composed expression...which proved to be increasingly difficult.

The realisation that Tyene would soon be his wife left him with a peculiar mixture of anticipation and disbelief. He had heard the septon's words, though their meaning occasionally escaped him whenever his gaze returned to his bride.

When the septon finally pronounced them husband and wife, Cletus scarcely registered the declaration. He was too captivated by Tyene to pay proper attention, a faint smile appearing upon his face.

Tyene Sand was now his wife, and the thought alone was enough to make the rest of the world seem distant.

Across the sept, his family had witnessed his apparent distraction with varying degrees of amusement. His father, Lord Anders Yronwood, regarded the newlyweds with quiet satisfaction, whilst Rhaena, Cletus's beloved elder sister, smiled warmly at her brother, while his younger siblings, Qoren and Gwyneth, appeared particularly entertained and curious.

His favourite cousin, Archibald Yronwood, wore a particularly mischievous grin, clearly delighted to have acquired new material with which to torment Cletus later. His youngest brother, little Aerion, remained blissfully unaware of the significance of the event.

Cletus barely noticed any of them. For once, the expectations of House Yronwood, the watching nobles, and the responsibilities attached to his name could wait. His attention remained upon Tyene, and as he walked beside his newly wedded wife towards the feast, he found that he had little desire to look anywhere else.

2nd Moon, 304

Ever since the expedition, Arron and Lythene had remained in King’s Landing. While it wasn’t that they lacked homesickness, it would be foolish to deny the many, many benefits that came from staying in the capital for a spell. For Arron, he found himself indulging in good wine, better whores, and the company of dozens of like-minded men. For his niece, she could do whatever business she wished, with a veritable swarm of potential allies all around her. It was only logical.

The plan was that Tyene, his grand-niece, would come up, stay with them for a spell, and then they would all return to Dorne with her betrothed, the Queen’s nephew. The first part worked just as it was supposed to.

Then, things started… shifting.

There was no open announcement, but, as much as some might like to think otherwise, Arron wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed that, suddenly, there was a sort of tension.

Whispers of something coming. Something strange; something big. Some Baratheon cousin had been whispered to have left suddenly with a large surge of men. He could tell that it was driving Lythene half-mad, staying in the dark like this.

Even so, there was no confirmation until right now.

Tyene, who was still little more than a girl in his eyes despite being a grown woman to the Realm, had paled. “Euron Greyjoy?” She’d repeated, eyes large as dinnerplates as she clutched to Lythene’s hand. 

She was right to be shocked; after all, they’d all assured the realm that the Kraken would not be a threat anytime soon. Arron had hardly believed his ears, and yet, here in his rooms, he’d gathered his kin to him to discuss their plans.

“That’s right,” Arron told her, his single eye shining with a rage he’d not felt in years. “That damned beast has made a fool of us all and dared to attack our shores. It seems as though the Greyjoys have forgotten what the mainland did to them when King Robert was first crowned; it’s about time that we remind them.”

Lythene turned to him, her brow furrowed. “You can’t think that you’ll be fighting!” She exclaimed. “Uncle, you’re five-and-sixty!”

He growled at her, slamming down his wine goblet. “I will not sit around as the realm fights for me!” He argued. “I refuse to die in obscurity as an old man, choking on my own spittle! If there is glory to be won, blood to be spilled, I will be out in the thick of it just like every other knight worth his salt!”

Tyene looked between the two older vultures, blinking owlishly. “Uncle Arron?”

Lythene seemed to be taken aback. “You would rather go to the Riverlands and play at being young than stay where it’s safe?”

Arron sneered. “Ah, ‘staying where it’s safe’ - you mean hunkering down like a coward, or a woman? Do you seriously think that they won’t need all the manpower they can? I might be old, but I’m not fucking useless; I’m still able to swing a sword!”

Tyene let out a small gasp; beside her, his niece turned cold. “You’ll lose more than your eye if you keep this up.”

“It doesn’t matter what I lose, when I have so much more to gain,” he countered. “Of course you don’t understand. Regardless of what happens, I plan on going to the seven heavens a true embodiment of the Warrior! Someone worthy of knighthood!”

Lythene stood from her chair, hands planted firmly on the table. “If you’re so determined to die, then do so,” she spat, glaring at her uncle. “You are more of a fool than I thought you were if you think that you can keep up with these men. This will not be like the Farman’s expedition - this is war.” She tugged Tyene up with her. “Come; we can leave this old man to his dreams of adequacy.”

Though the heiress shot Arron another harried look, she did not argue as she was dragged out of the room.

When the door slammed, Arron groaned, finishing his wine with a long swig before he stood as well. He did not care what these women thought. He was going to gather up the Men-At-Arms that he could, and he was going to do his part. And, if he did die, he would die a martyr, and not some forgotten old codger.

And, hopefully, he’ll get to take some lives along the way.

To The Faithful Lords and Ladies of Westeros, 

I am pleased to welcome you all to the Eyrie for another Valemen Remembrance Day in the seventh month of 304. In this time of trouble, the bonds that connect our vast continent are more important than ever. This year, House Arryn celebrates one of those bonds with the formation of the Consortium of the Faith: a collection of the most faithful of the houses of Westeros. All houses are welcome, as has always been the case, but this year we shall be commemorating those houses that have raised great septs. While being a land steeped in our love of the true Faith, Westeros has long only had two great septs: The Starry Sept in Oldtown and the Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing. While the High Septon shall be invited, and the Hightowers of Oldtown shall be celebrated for the continued acts to support the faith, we shall also be celebrating the lords and great men who have built Great Septs on their lands. These are: 

Baelor Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and patron of the Starry Sept of Oldtown
Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and patron of the Great Sept of Holyhall
Edmure Tully, Acting Lord of Riverrun and patron of the Great Sept of Stoney Sept
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and patron of the Golden Sept of Casterly Rock

They, along with the High Septon and Lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and patron of the Skysept of the Eyrie shall be honored with a service in the Skysept. 

The Consortium shall support the works of the Faith by facilitating the further construction of great septs, as well as supporting new highborn septons and septas, and the training of missionaries to reach some of those lands that still resist the True Faith.

The schedule shall be as follows:

Day 1: Father’s Day: shall honor the Father above and all fathers on this earth with a competition of falconry, that practice that the Arryns have long practiced. 
Day 2: Mother’s Day shall honor the Mother above with a peaceable feasting in the Eyrie’s gardens, and a chance to honor motherhood by celebrating both mothers and their babes in a Baby Race.
Day 3: Maiden’s Day shall have a Maiden’s Day Ball, with a judged dancing festival.
Day 4: Warrior’s Day shall be honored through a series of martial events: a great melee, a series of jousts. Please know that these events shall be reserved ONLY for those who have been knighted and maintain their devotion to the Seven. There shall also be squire duels!
Day 5: Crone’s Day shall be commemorated with an event emphasizing verbal skill! Be it prose or poem, song or speech, this shall be an exercise in wit. 
Day 6: Smith’s Day will see the judgement of the fine art competition. Be it painting or woodworking, sculpture or embroidery, all crafts are welcome! 
Day 7: The Stranger shall be honored with a moment of silence, before a great farewell feast. 

Let us come together and honor the many years that we have remained as a united Seven Kingdoms, and come to give praise to the Seven-Who-Are-One. The doors of the Eyrie are opened to all, and we welcome you through our gates to partake in feasting, fighting, arting, connecting, and more with your fellow Lord or Lady. Let us honor the memory of those dearly departed from us with wonderful and outgoing events.

High as Honor

Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Defender of the Vale, Protector of the Faith, Founder of the Consortium of the Faith, Master of the Falcon Knights, and Warden of the East

1B, 304

Lord Merin Sunderland stood alone, a mere flicker of a lantern guiding his way through the empty alleys of Sisterton in the dead of night. He kept his head low, running the words of the letters in his hand through his mind again and again. A demon has returned to the ranks of the Ironborn in the south, and they look to be moving north, towards their very waters.

The Sunderland family had been quiet these past few years, turning to internal improvements and structural overhauls of the Three Sisters. The ports of each sister have been overhauled, rotten wooden docks replaced with strong stone. Sisterton in particular got the greatest attention of all, with a brand new shipyard erected beside the population center. And in that shipyard was a grand project, one previously never seen before now in these waters.

Merin pushed through the heavy iron doors of the shipyard, entering into a grand warehouse with an open side facing out towards the water. A massive frame loomed in front of him, the lantern barely able to light even a corner of its hull. Tomorrow would be the day that he reveals this Goliath to the world, and not a moment too soon. It was nearly a year ago that Triston quietly transferred the title of Lord to him, and it was time to break the silence that held over his family and reveal his first act as Lord of the Three Sisters.

The next day, Sisterton would be bustling with the news that Lord Merin Sunderland would address the citizens of his house on the growing whispers of Ironborn seeking to creep back towards their shores. The crowd gathered near the front of the shipyard, watching as lord Merin took the stage with his honorguard in tow, wearing the same crimson red attire that he has grown so notorious for.

“Attention, Sistermen!”

Merin would shout over the crowd, waiting for the crowd to quiet down before continuing his speech.

“As you well know, I am Lord Merin Sunderland. My father, Triston Sunderland, entrusted the safety and security of our fair land to me a scarce few years ago. In that time, we have been uncharacteristically quiet. I am not a man who is fond of secrecy. I pride myself on my honesty, that I am honest to myself and I am honest to those who serve me. So I will be honest with you now. We have been sent warning that Ironborn have been seen plundering coastlines near the border of the Vale, and that they may seek our shores next.”

The crowd would begin to mumble and whisper amongst themselves at the alarming confirmation, but that was quickly silenced by a raise of Merin’s hand as he continued.

“I understand why you may feel concern about this. It has been awhile since we had anything threaten the Sisters like this. But, do not fret! We have not sat idly by! Our navy has grown strong, we have built many new ships to add to our ranks. And these new ships need a new flagship to lead them.”

Merin would turn to face the shipyard, looking up to the men who watched from above. With a few quick signals, the men would scatter, and from within came a loud, earth-shaking rumble.

“We will not stand idly by while pirates raid our shores, kidnap our women and kill our people. We will face them as Sistermen do, in the open sea.”

A new ship would begin floating out to sea from the shipyard, a massive Carrack whose copper hull shined like fire against the bright summer sun, its front long and sharp like a guillotine ready to slice through the hull of anything that stood in its way. On its three masts held the Sunderland and Arryn flags, along with a crimson flag bearing the burning heart of R’hollor. Merin would smile brightly at the sight, the exhilaration of the moment burning in his eyes.

“This is the fruit of our labors. If the Ironborn come to take from us, the Vindicta will answer.”

The crowd would respond with a roar of triumph, mirroring Merin’s excitement with their own.

Come, you unsavory beasts. Allow me to show you the true might of the Sistermen.

On a misty morning the Dolores, Gunthor Hightower's flagship, built with techniques from the Redwynes, the Velaryons and Essosi pirates, sailed northwards to the Shield Isles. It had taken more than five years to build the fastest, most advanced ship Oldtown money could make. Gunthor, while outwardly a simple-minded man with equally simple tastes, had a keen eye for naval life and warfare. He had travelled much over the last ten years, and all his knowledge culminated in the Dolores.

Under cover of mist, fires were lit on the deck of the sleek frigate, kept in barrels and continuously hosed down and lit again to thicken the already persistent mist. The frigate was hardly visible and kept to the shoreline as close as possible. The captain of the Dolores, Jeor Longbottle, a native of these lands, knew every rock and sandbank from Sunhouse to Blackcrown.

They had set out that morning with a clear goal in mind: to gain any and all information on the dark shape rumoured to trouble the waters here. At the earliest notion of danger, Gunthor had instructed his loyal crew to either turn around or dock, depending on the threat. Lifeboats were plentiful.

The sailors were instructed to be quiet, and a Maester of the Citadel was on board to record any and all that seemed noteworthy. Gunthor also had a hawk aboard with a message to alert his family in Oldtown in the event something happened…

u/csadventureteam

Megathread for NSFW Redwyne adventures

RIP Myrcella’s Mental Health

Deep Den had settled a slumbering keep. The Lydden’s, had wilfully sequestered themselves to its depths often enough. Hidden mercilessly, they remained badgers burrowed. However, festivities defied such. Its state of disrepair, was defiled by a flurry of fixes.

For all the motivations of this wedding, the Lord Lydden would not allow this sorry state to become the perpetuated expectation of Deep Den.

The new repairs, as they culminated mere days before the festivities, refreshed the place anew. It was as if the Maiden had breathed life into the decaying keep. Wings that hadn’t been used in decades, were polished off. Painted fresh shades of brown and green.

Besides such refreshments, the environment remained much the same. Little ornery was adorned and Deep Den, the slumbering beast, only half-awoke. Life shuttled down newfound corridors and spacious shortcuts, making way for celebration soon after.

Lord Lydden himself, had employed plain but rich clothes. They were not decorated, or adorned with jewels and the like, rather they held but the simplicity of green and brown. His final layer, was badger hide, though it was taken from him by a servant as the sacred ceremonies approached.

Myrcella sits straight beside her new husband, cheeks rosy from wine and the general emotion from the event. Her hair has been parted into two braids wrapped into a bun at the back of her head, a necklace of alternating blue and red gems at her throat. The outer layer of the dress, a wrap fastened with a clasp at the front, is a deep shade of green, more Lydden green than Massey, while the inner sleeves and fabric over her chest is brown.

The Septon was a spindly man, with a nervously hunched disposition and the ceremonies were done with swiftly. He shuffled away, soon after.

Large platters of varying meats; pheasant, chicken, badger, cow, whatever one desired, were brought out. Accompanying them, were vegetables of all sorts and pastries and the like, a plentiful feast, but not enough to deign to call gluttonous.

[Taking place around this event]

[TW: Gore, Violent Content]

12th Moon, 303 AC, Goldengrove Tourney Grounds

Living up to its famed beauty, the countryside of Goldengrove was awash in golden light as the first rays of morning sun crept over the horizon. There were many already awake in camp, but most were focused on their work in spite of the stunning beauty around them. In a tent on the outskirts, however, one early riser took the time to watch the sunrise, but only for a few minutes before returning to work.

Nobody seemed to know who The Knight of Seven Colors was, save that they had a hushed endorsement from Lord Farman. Donned in the full colors of the rainbow in a gradient of feathers on their cloak, the mystery knight was notably quite short, but a similar plume of rainbow feathers on their helm made them seem much larger at a glance.

It wasn’t an easy life being a mystery knight; even with material support, logistics proved difficult. Armor, no matter how fine, was still burdensome, with a constant and unforgiving need for maintenance. Tournaments weren't just a singular event, they were filled with many smaller contests and proved busy to even the best prepared knights. Squires were more than just custom, they were a necessity for this kind of life. To be without one would truly leave a knight disadvantaged, a lesson this particular mystery knight was learning the hard way.

The week’s events were not going well for her, but Hanna Farman was determined to close out the Tournament of Silver and Gold in better fashion than it started. The loss in the archery may just have been a minor setback, but the loss in the melee stung, an embarrassing display that proved to be one of her worst ever performances. The joust was only marginally better, so coming into the penultimate day of the game, Hanna’s confidence was beginning to fray. Unlike the complex world off the pitch, the tourney grounds were supposed to be a sacred place. She wanted to focus, but her thoughts kept turning back home, to the fallout from The Eyrie, to her secret marriage with Josua, to even Euron Greyjoy's secret plotting in the east. Her thoughts were anywhere but the tourney pitch as the sun rose once more, beckoning forth a truly fateful day in the young woman's life.

Offered a single helper by her father to keep her involvement hidden, Hanna was rushing to fully don her armor after falling back asleep earlier in the morning. She dreamt of Josua again, greatly missing his loving presence in the stands cheering for her. Perhaps that was why she was doing so poorly, the sad thought inevitably came. She wished she could talk about it, but after the scandalous incident with Tyrek in the Vale, it was more important than ever to hide any details of her marriage.

Nearly late, she emerged from the tent, resplendent in her rainbow cloak and glistening silver armor. Hanna, or rather, The Knight of Seven Colors made her way to the pitch. Unlike other duel contests, this one used live-edged blades. It was a dangerous addition, but tourney armor was more than sufficient to keep everyone safe. A sword needed to be swung with lethal intent to truly be a risk, or so she told herself for confidence.

Silently taking her place among the other contestants, Hanna was surprised to learn that the first round was to be hers, against her brother’s former mentor no less. Lord Mallister was a distant cousin, and from what she’d heard, a highly skilled fighter as well. Whatever the case, she was sure Jason would be a fine opponent, so a fire naturally lit in her heart as she considered the challenge. Despite the clear disadvantage in size, the mystery knight seemed almost excited as the match set to begin.

While the contestants made their final preparations, securing weaponry and armor, Hanna had unknowingly overlooked a singular, yet important clasp at the base of her left gauntlet. Hidden for now, a small gap was primed to open once the armor was truly in motion, but her gaze was firmly fixed on her opponent. That gap, left unseen until the very last second, is exactly what Jason’s sword found when Hanna tried a feint she had practiced many times over with her own mentor, Victaria Costayne. It was a useful, but dangerous step, one that required great speed to achieve. This morning, though, after the chaos of the past few months, she wasn’t as decisive as she usually was, leaving the trailing edge of her body unexpectedly below his swinging blade.

Not a single spectator would’ve thought the sword would cut through her armor, but the sharpened blade seemed to pass right through the steel, cleanly slicing through the flesh and bone beneath and sending The Knight of Seven Colors’ hand flying through the air. The development was so swift, so unexpected, that it took the petite knight several seconds to even register that she took a hit. Only after watching her hand fall to the ground in front of her did she notice her cleaved wrist. Rather than scream, the mystery knight stood still with shock a long moment before collapsing in a heap. Rather than remain motionless, she slowly crawled across the ground, retrieving her hand and trying without luck to put it back on her wrist.

The flurry of activity that soon followed never made it clear just who the mystery knight truly actually was, as Lord Farman and the Rowans had the fallen knight carried off the field with almost lightning-like speed. The mood in the Farman stands instantly grew morose after the injury, and they soon withdrew en masse from the event altogether. To those who watched closely, Lord Farman truly seemed like a man possessed looking after the seemingly unrelated knight.

Later that night, a once peaceful corner of the Rowan keep became quite noisy as the maester’s performed their countless small miracles in keeping the gravely injured knight alive. The blood seemed almost endless, the young woman laying on the table looked paler and paler by the second. Her agonized screaming only lessened after a hefty dose of milk of the poppy. Thankfully, in the late hours of the evening, her condition finally stabilized. Despite the joy in the moment, the room was still a mess, with many bloody clothes needing a thorough washing. Not caring about the gore, Lord Farman knelt beside his daughter, his hands wrapped around hers for the rest of the night.

“Josua…Josua…” The only words coming from her mouth were a name spoken repeatedly with a great range of longing, fear, relief, but above all, love.

The sky was pitch black, but Hanna felt like she was flying through the air. She could tell she was traveling a great distance, but the flight eventually ended as she began to descend, faster and faster, hurtling to the ground until…

Her consciousness felt faint, but Hanna awoke suddenly with a panicked scream. She wasn’t in a castle, however, she was on the deck of The Whalesong, a medical transport serving as part of the royal fleet patrolling the Stepstones for pirates. She recognized this place, the awful sounds, the putrid stench especially, but she had woken up on this awful ship far earlier than she ever remembered being here.

In the distance, the battle against the pirate fleet was only just concluding. She could see the ship she should’ve been on at this moment, but its flaming hull was slipping beneath the waves. Her memory was of a fierce yet victorious close-quarters battle below deck. It was a battle that required constant vigilance to survive, a battle where she had to kill to save her friends from death. The chaos of that memory was deeply disturbing, but at least it made sense compared to what she awoke to.

Hanna was only twelve when she came to The Whalesong to aid an injured crewmate. She had been shocked to see how casually the blood-soaked medics laughed. She had been scared of the horrific screams from within, but worst of all, was the memory of seeing the horrible pile of amputated limbs they kept under a tent. It was burned into her mind the sight of flesh with every kind of damage and awfulness imparted on it, pieces of her comrades discarded and left to rot. Though the medical ship was here to help, it was far likelier to take a limb than the pirates were.

The horror had been quite overwhelming back then, but she was saved from spiraling into despair by the man she would one day squire for, Herbert Buckler. Though injured himself, Herbert was instrumental in helping her become whole once more, shielding her from seeing any more of the awful world they found themselves in. It was a bond forged in blood, and once that was forever in her heart.

That was the memory as it was supposed to be, one in which she found hope and purpose in darkness, but what she awoke to instead was laying under the knife of those horrible surgeons while they laughed. There was no savior in this memory, only the overwhelming sense of wrong as she watched them throw her hand into the pile and try to stitch up her arm. There was no stopping the blood, however, and soon she too was thrown into the pile, discarded and sinking ever deeper into a mass of amputated limbs until eventually there was only darkness…

She awoke again, this time in the gently rocking confines of a carriage. She was stuck looking up at the blue upholstered ceiling, a firm board under her body limiting her movements. Tilting her head as far to the side as she could, she was able to see out some of the window. It was dusk, and though the dim scenery was confusing and unfamiliar, the traces of sunlight dotted through the leaves was quite beautiful.

The pleasant look of the leaves reminded her that this wasn’t Essos. Where once she was entranced by the sight of the exotic trees, they soon became synonymous with the awfulness of slavery. Essos had drastically redefined her understanding of good and evil. When she was younger, there was no evil save for an overly strict servant. She had learned better in the Stepstones, but it was in Lys that she truly learned the truth - evil came in much deeper shades of black than she ever expected. How that twisted merchant could think what he did to those cats was acceptable was completely foreign to her, but then again, most people hadn’t killed multiple people either.

She didn’t understand why this topic was what she clung to, but she remembered seeing surgical tools, smelling preserving chemicals, small reminders of that horror. Though she knew better, part of her worried that this carriage was bringing her back to that awful shop. Everything save the rustling leaves was formless noise, though, so she let the beautiful view give her some rest, at least for now.

Back asleep again, Hanna felt like she was swimming in cold and calm water, specifically picturing the small lake beneath Faircastle with the island in the center. She remembered that island well, how the slow yet constant drips of water would splatter against the stone. The rock was marred by large scorch marks and sharp gouges cut into the stone by a mighty claw. It was clearly the lair of a mighty beast, but the dripping water was what drew her attention most. It grew louder and louder as her consciousness fully shifted under it, drip by drip years, decades even seemed to pass without interruption.

There was vague noise growing in the distance, but the dripping water forced her to keep her eyes closed. The noise grew clearer, though, with shouting, laughter, the voice of children. They felt very familiar, so with great strain under the water, she managed to open her eyes. There, only feet before her, she saw herself, so young and naive, sticking her arm into one of the sharp crevices reaching for something.

“No!” She tried to shout to no avail. “You’ll hurt your arm if you do that!”

Forced to observe this memory from a new perspective, Hanna watched her younger self retrieve the dragon scales without any regard to her own safety, a bloody streak cut into her arm by the sharpened stone. As the other kids found their own prizes, Hanna had to watch as her younger self slowly, yet inevitably fainted from the blood loss, forcing her cousin to carry her back through the shallow water to safety. As quickly as they came, the children left her there alone once more.

“Don’t forget me!” She tried to yell, but the cave became dark once more. The dripping began to grow in intensity again, forcing her to close her eyes as drop after drop of water drained all traces of warmth from her body. A night, a year, a decade, a century, the cave was eternal, as was her place within it.

With a grumble, Hanna slipped back into consciousness. There was a strange weight on her chest, and her entire body felt like it was made of stone. If not for the strange wetness on her nose, she might have had no sensation in her body at all. She opened her eyes, the room at first hazy and ill-defined, but eventually her focus came back. This was her room in King’s Landing, filled to the brim with useless goods purchased on a whim in Essos. On her chest, explaining both the weight and the wetness, her one-eyed cat, Hero, sat and looked motionlessly into her owner’s eyes for a long moment, before eventually curling back into a ball, satisfied now that her owner wasn’t yelling in her sleep any more.

Her body was far too heavy to move, so Hanna let sleep come once more. Thankfully, this rest wasn’t interrupted by any bad dreams.

When she next awoke, a splitting headache had her in its grip, easily the worst she had ever felt in her life. Her entire body was screaming in discomfort, most severely radiating from her left wrist. Hero was at the base of the bed, but upon seeing her owner waking up, she walked back up onto her chest to look into her eyes once more.

“You’ve been taking care of me this whole time?” Her voice was croaking and awkward from days of disuse, but thankfully there was nobody she had to sound good for, just her beloved companion. Fighting through the sharp pain, she slowly lifted her hand to pet Hero, but as she reached out, the sight that greeted her wasn’t familiar in the slightest.

“Oh yes...” Her voice dropped with recognition, her eyes fixating on the bandaged nub of flesh where her hand once was. “It really is gone, isn’t it?”

Laying herself back down, Hanna was motionless as she tried to piece together what had happened. The last thing she remembered at first was stepping onto the tourney pitch, but flashes from the past few days came back in waves. She sighed, looking down to her wrist once more. The injury may have only been her hand, but it felt like her heart had been taken out as well. At least, she wished it had, for the heavy weight of worthlessness washed over her like a tidal wave.

“Like pet, like owner, huh?” She tried to cover up the hurt with a joke, bringing her other hand over to pet Hero. She tried to laugh, but the weight of tears was far too heavy to hide, so she sobbed instead. Alone in her room, broken to the world, Hanna cried to herself and pet her cat until sleep would come for her once more.

His heavy iron chains clattered onto the ground.

He laughed; the darkness was so fucking close to breaking him every single day. He saw ghosts. He saw himself. One day they were yelling at him; the next they were coddling him. He could finally peer toward that little beam of light his prison had afforded him. He could not help but grab onto the seams of the window and peek at what the Seven had been hiding from him. Rolling hills; he could have sworn he saw a fox scurry from one bush to the next.

“Fuck!” He cackled, his knuckles slamming against the cobble, “Fuck me!” He was giddy, a grin lining his lips from edge to edge. “Did my son finally come to my senses?” He asked the man who had uncuffed him.

“N-no, my lord,” stammered a small voice.

“H-Hendry?” Jonos tried to narrow his eyes even more in the dank torchlight of his cell. His eyes had never adjusted to the lack thereof, but he could recognize his little brother’s voice out of a thousand similar. He had been gone for a year, but still Hendry’s voice echoed in his head like it was yesterday.

“Yes, brother.”

Jonos’ eyes furrowed, Hendry had ever been the one that was better off in finding women: sharp face, confident demeanor, stocky build. His tone was unbefitting.

“What’s wrong?” Jonos inquired, trying to peer toward where his brother’s sound had come from.

There was nothing.

“Where is she? Did you name her?”

There was no answer.

“Hendry… What is her fucking name?”

“I… couldn’t.”

Jonos did not know if it had been minutes or hours that had passed. He could feel the warmth of tears drip down his face and find their marks between his naked toes.

The only sound that echoed between Jonos and his brother were the meaty slaps of knuckles against stone.

“Accidents happen; you’ll be able to again. You always wanted a daughter. The Seven will provide.”

“She is barren now, my lord.” Hendry started to cry as well, his voice shaking.

Jonos leapt forward to envelop his brother. It took a long while for it to be accepted.

The brothers held each other for as long as they needed in their invisible darkness.

“Am I being freed to be executed?”

“No, brother.”

“Does Loras even know?”

“No, brother.”

“You are my Castellan; I expected full loyalty from you. Why have you betrayed Stone Hedge?”

Jonos could feel his brother grip his hair at the back of his head, foreheads against one another.”

“The Ironborn have attacked the Riverlands. No one other than you would know what to do.”

Jonos rattled out a soft cackle. Of course he was freed when it was useful rather than when it was right.

“Did you ever try to ask me why I should have been chained up, brother?”

“As you said, I followed orders,” Hendry responded.

He crashed his brother’s head up against the cobble.

“I AM THE LORD. NOT MY SON. SAY IT!”

Hendry could feel his brain rattle in his skull from that impact. His brother was too dizzy to respond, so Jonos provided the same smack against the prison walls.

He pulled his brother’s head backward by his hair. “I am not dead. I did not abdicate. Why was I sent into a fucking prison, brother?”

“You beat your daughter, my lord. The castle was against you!” Hendry stammered.

“LOYALTY. TO ME.” Jonos roared into his brothers’ ears. “Not to the castle. Not to my son. To ME! You are no Maester.” He smacked his younger brother away from him.

Jonos walked toward the cell doors and closed them behind him.

“Please, brother! My wife needs me!” Hendry scraped at the bars in front of him.

“Why should I care? You won’t remarry.”

“If you do what I think you will to Loras, Merlyn will be the last of our line!”

Jonos cackled, “Do you think I’m such a monster?” He intoned.

The Lord of Stone Hedge shrugged his shoulders, “It depends. I’ve more important things to worry about.” Jonos shrugged his shoulders as he made to depart. Once he finally saw torchlight, he told the guard, “ Release him after four hours. I am taking my normal retinue to whoever this Ironborn is. Home school my dear heir from now on and keep this regent from my sight. Release him when I am done.”

For the year of 304 AC

Nestled against the banks of where the Green Fork spills into the Great Trident sits an ancient settlement dating back to time immemorial. Harroway, Harroway Town, or more formally recognized as Lord Harroway’s Town remains the seat of House Roote. An ancient house once subordinate to the eponymous rulers of the town, House Harroway, was hunted into extinction by order of Maegor the Cruel. With that, the ancient rivermen family of the Rootes were granted total stewardship of the small town.

Serving as a final stop before the long journey up the Kingsroad towards the Crossing and beyond that, the North, the town has grown rich from its ferry service. The Old King Andahar—the most notable ferry of the town—possesses the town’s mythical two-headed horse at its aft and fore. A symbol shared by those of House Roote themselves.

A stone of cobblestone and granite gathered from the town's rivers and from the nearby mountains of the moon make up the majority of the city’s quaint construction. At the town’s heart sits the great keep known as the Stone Stables, the seat of House Roote.

Horn Hill, 304 Years After the Conquest

The sun rises over the rugged ridges of the Dornish Marches, casting long shadows across fields of swaying golden grass and dense oak groves. Perched atop a steep hill, surrounded by thick walls and watchtowers, stands Horn Hill, the ancestral seat of House Tarly, hunters, warriors, and guardians of the Southern Reach.

The keep is a fortress of discipline and tradition, its banners bearing the striding huntsman rippling in the morning breeze. Within its walls, the clang of steel rings from the training yard as squires and soldiers hone their skills beneath the watchful eye of seasoned knights. The scent of roasting venison and hearthfire smoke drifts from the kitchens, mixing with the crisp air of the hills. Gardens grow not for beauty, but for purpose, herbs for healing, orchards for provisions, and beasts raised for the hunt.

Here, duty is not spoken, it is lived. Every man knows his place, every woman her strength, and every child the weight of the Tarly name. Whether you come as a bannerman, a guest, or a rival, know this: you tread upon the land of soldiers. Here, oaths are sacred, honor is steel, and weakness finds no refuge.

Locations in Horn Hill

• Herndon's Tower: The private residence of Lord Tarly, his family and most noble guests, offering secluded chambers and a commanding view of Horn Hill.
• Harlon's Keep: A guesthouse for noble visitors, providing warmth, comfort, and a place to observe the castle’s daily life.
• The Hall of Hunter: The great hall where feasts, ceremonies, and formal gatherings take place, serving as the heart of Horn Hill's court.
• Horn's Manor: A functional complex housing servants’ quarters, kitchens, and accommodations for lower guests.
• The Scrollkeep: The castle's center of knowledge, containing the war room, a vast library, and the rookery managed by Maester Osbert.
• Crimson Yard: The training grounds where soldiers and knights of House Tarly hone their skills in combat and discipline.
• Sept of the Warrior: A sacred space for the followers of the Seven-Who-Are-One, overseen by Septon Moribald.
• Pond of Bravery: A mysterious pond beneath the castle, rumored to possess magical properties that inspire courage.
• Walls of Horn Hill: A fortified defense featuring two gates: Hunt’s Gate for hunters and Horn’s Gate for formal entry.
• Woods of the Witch: A dense forest surrounding the castle, shrouded in myths and whispers of unknown forces.

[M]: Due to its proximity to both the Stormlands and Dorne, Horn Hill remains one of the most well guarded castles in Westeros. Its gates and walls are always manned, with entry permitted only under the castellan's approval.

King's Landing

Starting in the first moon, 304 AC.

A dark cloud shadowed Westeros in the latter stages of the previous year, and begins the following with renewed cautious. Peace has endured for a long time in Westeros, to such an end that there are those who grow into young adulthood that have never known war or conflict. Yet, the value of peace can only truly be measured against times of strife. And now it begins.

King's Landing itself is a hub of commerce, trade and all things population. Many streets and sections of the city are dedicated to single crafts, and the craftsmen of the city are scarcely rivalled throughout the rest of the kingdom. So, too, does the Great Sept of Baelor stand proudly upon it's hill overlooking much and more of the commonfolk. A beacon of the Faith.

Building within the Red Keep

Kitchen Keep - Contains the kitchens as well as apartments for royal courtiers and guests in its upper levels

Royal Dungeons - Contains comfortable quarters for noble prisoners, quarters for the King's Justice/Chief Gaoler/Lord Confessor, and four subterraneous levels for prisoners (first = common criminals, second = highborn criminals, third = Black Cells, fourth = torture floor)

Royal Rookery - Rookery. The Grand Maester's chambers are located beneath the rookery. Current Grand Maester: Pycelle

City Watch Barracks - Barracks of the Gold Cloaks, with the Commander's and various captain chambers too.

Great Hall - Main throne room, contains the Iron Throne, can seat 1,000

Small Hall - Within the Tower of the Hand, can seat 200

Queen's Ballroom - In Maegor's Holdfast, can seat 100

Council Chamber - Meeting room for the Small Council.

White Sword Tower - The home of the Whitecloaks, the Seven Kingsguard.

Royal Sept - A small Sept within the Red Keep itself.

Royal Godswood - One acre of forest.

Royal Tutoring Halls - A hall within the Red Keep dedicated to the tutoring of children and nobles.

[M] This is a yearly rolling thread, as such, please date your comments as the month they are happening, please.

Guests (Not Small Councillors) that have been granted residence within the Red Keep, unless otherwise stated to them, are permitted to have ten guards with them. Only five may accompany them within the boundaries of the Great Hall.

Also, thanks to Writing/Tarly for this King's Landing Almanac!

King's Landing

12th Month, 303 AC

Ryam Redding strode through the streets of King's Landing that morning in much the same way as he always did. Or at least, the same way as he had since he returned from Essos a few months prior: pensively, frustrated, and a bit lost. The trip had been meant to bring him glory, battle, all the things he had thought he'd been craving, but instead it felt... hollow. He and Symeon had spent much of the trip keeping to themselves, listening to meetings of strategy but not contributing, lending their help as much as was expected but otherwise away from the group.

And now that Ryam was back to the city he had called home before the trip, he felt unsure of what he should do next. His days had fallen into a pattern of wandering the city, training by himself, talking with his son about the adventures and trouble the young man had been getting into, and drinking perhaps one glass too many of Arbor wine before retiring to bed. For the first time in a while, he could not figure out a purpose to his life. At least, he would not allow himself to acknowledge any of the ideas he had in mind.

But despite his avoidance of the subject, his wanderings throughout the city came closer each day to the public training yard where he had found himself nearly three years ago, a few months before he left for Essos. And as much as he lied to himself, told himself that he was simply tired of training alone and wished to spar with other knights, he knew who he hoped to see again. And today his self-deception and avoidance would finally crumble.

Standing on the outskirts of the training grounds, he could see her, sparring just as he had expected. Dacey Mormont somehow looked both exactly as he remembered her and far more beautiful than his imagination had preserved. He watched her for some time, watching the grace and skill of her movements and allowing his eyes to take in her form as if they were drowning men gulping down air.

It surprised him to realize where his eyes were drawn the most. He had appreciated the bodies of many in the past, and normally he looked where any man looked: breasts, backside, legs, all the places which stirred the loins to observe. He wouldn't even have been surprised if he found himself drawn to her neck or her hair, those were both places where women's beauty was commonly found. But to find his eyes drawn to her back, her shoulders, it flummoxed him even as he grew to understand it.

During the short time he had known Dacey before, he had seen her back as much as could be expected. And it had a great appeal, strong and well-formed and beautiful. When he had put his hand on it and felt tension, softness, strength, and a slight yielding all at once, he had felt a thrum through his own chest in reply. Perhaps that was why his eyes were drawn there: it was where he wanted to lay his hands first upon their reintroduction.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Ryam finally strode forward. He wasn't sure if she had noticed him watching or if she had been too engrossed in her own training, but he wanted to properly say hello, whatever the case. "Hail, lady Mormont!" he said, "It has been some time." He felt his breath hitch as he waited to hear her voice again after so long.

Storm's End 304AC

Located at the top of Durran's Point, on the Northern coast of the perilous Shipbreaker Bay, Storm's End made for a most impressive and daunting sight. It had stood since recorded history; it had seen Kings and Queens come and go, houses brought to the peak of their power, then to extinction. Even that of its own creator, Durran Godsgrief of House Durrandon. It had seen the coming of dragons to these shores, and their dying breaths; now it had seen the elevation of a new ruling dynasty - House Baratheon of King's Landing.

Ours is the Fury.

The castle itself seemed to shout those words. A colossal curtain wall of thick, defiant stone enclosed a single, giant, drum-shaped tower. Whereas most castles would have been battered and worn down by the onslaught of winds and storms, Storm's End showed few signs of wear, though perhaps that was the spells they say had been woven into its very foundations.

Under the rulership of Lord Renly Baratheon, Storm's End had come into its own, becoming more vibrant and bright. Tapestries of exotic, rich fabrics had been hung in the halls, and bright flowers were a common sight along the inside of the keep and along the yard.

Summer had reigned over the Stormlands for several years now, and it was clear to see. The terrible and sudden storms and strong winds of Spring had died down. Most of the wind was a pleasant reprieve from the heat. Rows of flowers and farmland dotted the countryside as content farmers took in their harvests and nobles picnicked in vibrant fields of flowers.

It was a time both peaceful and pleasant.

*But dark clouds loomed in the distance.*

Starting 1st Month 304 AC

Previous year's Riverrun Open RP

Riverrun

Riverrun layout

Riverrun is the ancestral seat of House Tully, bordered by river on two sides, and by a massive man-made ditch on the third. In time of danger the sluice gates can be opened to fill the wide moat and leave the castle entirely surrounded by water, turning Riverrun into an island.

With high red sandstone walls, triangular layout and strong defensive position, Riverrun commands a view of many leagues, of water and land alike. The castle can be accessed by either land via drawbridge over the moat and the Red Gate, or by water via the Fisher Gate, a fortified arch partially submerged in the Tumblestone.

Tully PCs

Lord Hoster Tully (66)

King's Landing

The patriarch of House Tully is a man of ambition and grand plans, even more so in recent years in his position as Hand of the King. An accomplished diplomat, Hoster believes peace is forged through careful alliances and politics, securing not only the position of his house, but stability across the Seven Kingdoms. His ambition, however, often clashes with his love for his family, even if family remains the first among Tully values, and he continues moving his kin around like pawns upon the board. The burdens of the realm weigh heavily upon him, yet he remains convinced that difficult choices are the price of lasting peace.

Catelyn Stark (40)

Winterfell

Hoster's eldest daughter takes after her father in many ways, believing strongly in the values of family, duty and honour. A dutiful Lady of Winterfell and mother of the new generation of Starks, Catelyn is a protective, nurturing mother and a loyal wife. Though the North was difficult to adjust to, it did eventually start feeling like home. Cat hopes for at least a couple of peaceful years in Winterfell with her husband and children, though that dream keeps being interrupted by secrets and heartbreak. After a long period of being unable to bear a living child, she cherishes her little ones all the more.

Lysa Arryn (39)

The Eyrie

Isolated and lonely in the Vale, Lysa let the past heartbreaks harden her, focusing all her love on her children - especially the eldest, Robin, on whom she is fixated to an unhealthy degree. With the untimely death of her husband, she had assumed the role of the Lady Regent of the Vale, and though Robin now rules in his own right, Lysa remains his closest advisor and staunchest supporter, unwilling to surrender the influence she fought so hard to earn. Though lately, perhaps she wants to start living for more than just her children...

Roslin Tully (14)

Riverrun

Firstborn child of Edmure and his wife Samantha, Roslin is the elder twin of Robert, born minutes before him. She is a curious, cheerful girl, prone to exploring as much as she is allowed. Recently she had begun to develop a rather sharp tongue, following the example of her great-grandmother, lady Della, whom she admires.

Robert Tully (14)

Riverrun

Twin of Roslin, Robert is the new heir to Riverrun, though he blissfully doesn't know it yet. He is the more quiet of the twins, slowly beginning to grow into his own - though he would still follow his sister faithfully on any adventures she sets her mind to.

Meredyth Tully (11)

Riverrun

Meredyth is a happy child, fond of drawing in bright colours... if not particularly bright herself.

Theomar Tully (9)

Riverrun

Theo is a thoughtful little boy, often found in the company of his cat named Pearl.

Jonquil Tully (4)

Riverrun

Edmure's youngest and last child is just a happy little girl... for now.

Corenna Tully (16)

The Eyrie

Firstborn child of Lord Hoster and his second wife is growing into a proper lady, learning of what is good and proper in the world, in an endless struggle to not disappoint her strict father. Corenna feels drawn to the Faith that offers comfort when life's expectations begin to feel overwhelming, and admires lady Margaery Tyrell greatly.

Edwyle Tully (14)

Horn Hill

Edwyle is growing into an energetic youth, and has ambitions of becoming a great knight like his uncle Blackfish - to Hoster's dismay. Newly squiring for Randyll Tarly, he is beyond excited to be learning the ways of knighthood.

Symon Tully (12)

Sunspear

The younger, quieter Symon is fond of fishing and collecting shiny stones. Warded to Sunspear and a page to Prince Oberyn Martell, the young boy finds the Dornish culture fascinating... though he tries to avoid the spiciest foods.

Cynthea Tully (7)

King's Landing

Hoster's little daughter is a bright, dauntless little girl, though she is terrified of her father.

Oscar Tully (2)

King's Landing

Hoster's youngest child is just a baby.

Brynden 'the Blackfish' Tully (61)

King's Landing

Knight of the Kingsguard, Brynden doesn't let age change him too much, or so he hopes. Always a man of honour and contradiction, Brynden is known as much for his sharp wit as for the stubborn streak that earned him the name 'Blackfish' from his elder brother in the first place. He has fought in more battles than he cares to count, yet longs for peace more than glory, and serves his King with unshakeable loyalty, while taking time to train a new generation of knights. Emotionally, he has been on a journey of discovery and healing, feeling at peace with himself - as much as one in his position can.

Samwell Tully (59)

Riverrun

Youngest of the three Tully brothers, Samwell keeps out of politics and quarrels. He wishes for a quiet life alongside his wife, lady Willow of House Roote, loves his children dearly and hopes for them to find happiness. He speaks rarely and listens well, offering gentle wisdom when pressed but never pushing his counsel. In a house of proud tempers, Sam is the soft voice often passed over, though his expertise in stewardship is always put to good use in Riverrun.

Celia Tully (38)

King's Landing

Eldest child of a cousin branch of House Tully, Celia is keen-minded and proud, quick of wit and sharp of tongue. Firmly rooted amidst the shadows of King's Landing, she navigates the murky waters of courtly intrigue, balancing duty, family, and love. Her relationships are terribly complicated and only getting more tangled as time goes on.

Helaena Silverdrake (10)

King's Landing

Celia's youngest child is being raised by a multitude of people, though her mother is rarely amongst them, as Celia's relationship with the girl has been rather complicated from the start. Fixated especially on her brother and on lady Naeryn Scales, Helaena firmly believes herself to be the center of the world. She had picked up new duties as a lady in waiting to the Queen and her daughters, and the pressure from her mother is not making it any easier.

Marissa Tully (30)

King's Landing

Marissa remains adventurous and defiant, spirited, and even blunt at times. With the arrangement made with her husband, she continues searching for her place in the world, trying to balance the freedom she fought so hard for, with the responsibilities and challenges of motherhood. Still, she is only unsure what tomorrow may bring, but that doesn't make her lose hope.

Allyria Lannister (8)

King's Landing

Marissa's only child, passed off as Tyrion Lannister's, though the truth of her parentage is a little more complicated, takes after her mother in many ways. She is energetic and spirited, excited to explore the world and make new friends.

Tristifer Tully (28)

Storm's End

Tris is a tender-hearted man with a poet's soul and a knight's dreams - though not so much for the slaying of foes, but for the saving of innocents and the righting of wrongs. He adores stories and songs, enjoys playing his lute and aspires to write songs that will move many to joy and tears. With his fate tied firmly to Storm's End - for Tristifer would rather die than let anything bad happen to Lord Renly - he remains caring and loyal, compassionate and kind. Now a married man, though with a particular arrangement regarding his relationships, there are no doubt many challenges that lie ahead for the young knight...

Bryce Tully (5)

Storm's End

Little Bryce loves to eat and listen to stories, especially when he can do both at once.

Rennelyn Tully (5)

Storm's End

Rennelyn adores anything that glitters, especially precious jewels and pretty dresses.

Tyene Tully (25)

Riverrun

The youngest of Samwell's children is more often found listening to birdsong or perusing dusty tomes than engaging in conversation. Like her father, she doesn't speak much, though when she does, it is with utter, disarming honesty, an air of constant wonder, and sometimes a strange wisdom. Gentle and caring, Tyene keeps to libraries and gardens, in the company of cats rather than people, and always makes sure that moths don't get burned by candles at night. She finds particular joy in healing, and has devoted much of her time to studying the ailments of the body and ways to fix them.

[M: Date your posts]

The smell of sea salt, accompanied by the sound of seagulls, could be the first indicator that one had arrived at the gates of Oldtown. When the hundred bells of the Starry Sept rang, it would give final confirmation. Whether guests arrived via sea or land, both the Citadel and the Hightower would be visible from afar. White marble would dominate the streets, and the common folk seemed richer than anywhere else in Westeros. On every corner, craftsmen and artisans tried to sell their goods alongside traders from the furthest reaches of the realm, and beyond.

Almost all knowledge known to man was kept here and guarded by the Maesters of the Citadel and their staunch protector, the Lord of Oldtown. The entrance was flanked by two enormous sculptures of green marble sphinxes that would make anyone think twice before entering without consent.

Amidst the bay lay Battle Tower, and on top of that island stood the Hightower, both made of an unknown black marble-like stone, heavier and darker than all others. For the lucky few who made it to the top of the tower, there was a view stretching all over the Sunset Sea to the Summer Islands.

The city was well guarded and protected by the Beacon's Watch, clad in dark green and silver, under command of Ser Eddison Rowan, who lived in the city with his family.

Not all Hightower permanently resided in the tower as many had spread their wings and married into great houses of the Realm. All who had left however would find themselves truly home from time to time, never forgetting were they came from originally.

Residents of the Hightower

Lord Baelor and Lady Rhonda
Alexanna Hightower
Elric Hightower
Ormund Hightower

Malora Hightower

Ser Garth Hightower
Sera Durwell
Ser Jace Hill
Wenona Snow

Ser Gunthor Hightower
Ser Cletus

Alaric Marbrand
Jon Flowers

Steward Alton Beesbury

Alyn Rowan
Helicent Rowan neé Baratheon
Elinor & Mathis Rowan

Residents of Oldtown

Eddison Rowan
Leona Rowan neé Costayne
Lynden & Iris Rowan

304 AC & beyond

Old and proud, the castle of Heart’s Home sits on the foothills of Mountains of the Moon in the eastern edge of its ranges where it formed fjords and glaciers overlooking a great river of the Vale and the Narrow Sea. Here the Lord Lyonel Corbray has long ruled over his forefather’s lands and his vassals old and new, though the lord is oft to leave on certain months when his presence was required elsewhere in the Vale or in King’s Landing in keeping with his office as the Lord Marshal of the Vale. And here too in this castle, so do most members of this ancient house dwell with their own stories and kin.

Please use this thread to complete birth rolls for the following year. As a reminder, these rolls need to be linked in the appropriate almanac section.

Link to birth rules can be found here.

Last year's birth rolls can be found here.

Important Notes

• The child must be rolled in the nine IC months period between their conception and their birth. Retroactive birth rolls are only possible with mod approval.
• The names of both parents must be stated, along with the baby's birth month. Both parents have to: be over 18, consist of a male and a female, and be able to have children.
• For the rolled child to be a PC, their parents must be either 2 PCs or a PC and an SC (marked as an SC on the almanac).
• When rolling a child with another player's Character, permission from the other player is required.
• It is allowed to roll a child with an unclaimed spouse should the played Character be the father in a non-matrilineal marriage, or the mother in a matrilineal marriage, unless there is previous lore or RP indicating that they wouldn't be willing or able to have children at the time. In all other circumstances, mod permission is required to roll a child with an unclaimed spouse.
• If the mother's death is rolled, the player may instead choose to make the mother infertile. This can also apply when rolling a child with an unclaimed spouse.
• The mandatory rolls are: Multiples, Survival, Sex and Spacing.
• The results of the Spacing Roll represents the minimum time between the birth month (or would be birth month for children who die) and the soonest possible time the mother can conceive again, and must be adhered to.

Failure to adhere to any of the rules above will result in the birth roll being invalid.

Reminder - Spacing Roll Maluses

Do not forget to apply the following maluses to your Spacing rolls:

• +15 if mother suffers a Complication
• +12 for each previous child born to the mother who survived birth (after game start)
• +25 if the mother is 40-44 years old
• +50 if the mother is 45-49 years old

Spacing only needs to be rolled after the mother had her first child who survived childbirth.

To roll a child, make a comment in the following format:

Child born in [month] [year], to [parent 1] and [parent 2].

Spacing [malus number]

[Any other modifiers]

<Baby>

/u/maesterbot

So for example:

Child born in 1st Month 284, to Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully

Spacing 24

Prayer of Fertility

<Baby>

u/maesterbot

Make sure to modmail the children you roll, with the year of birth, whose child is it, and in which Province they are born. Otherwise they won't be added to the Meta Almanac and won't be able to move!

Castle Black, 12th Moon of 303 AC.

Quite a long day had it been, while most were patrolling under the leadership of Ser, no, Lord Commander Jon, Samwell had found himself being more useful. Instead of spending his day getting beaten up in the yard, trying not to be so easily killed by a wildling, Sam now spent his days in the Maester's Tower, helping with the ravens and other matters. That day, he had been helping to count the granary's storage to know how much more they needed to prepare. Fortunately, the situation seemed to be under control; no rats nor plague had afflicted them, and there was still a season before winter, not that Summer would last much longer, he knew, he always knew.

After some, certainly not delicious, but at least warm supper, the man of the Night's Watch retired to the barracks, although he could swear he saw a crow on the roof of a tower. But it was getting dark, so perhaps it was nothing at all. He readied himself to sleep surrounded by his brothers in arms as he rested his head on a pillow that should be free from any lice, or so he hoped. He had made sure to check if it was clean the previous night.

Soon, the sworn brother of the Wall fell asleep, and he dreamt, something Sam rarely did in those days. It was easier for him just to wake up the next morning. While a pleasant dream could be something some would enjoy, nightmares would only wake them up in the middle of the night. For him, it was different; his dreams let him see, not the past like some others he had known, but the future, and it manifested warnings during his sleep, similar to how he would know how long autumn would last. Some would call it a gift, but without knowing how to interpret it, it only made him worry about what could happen.

The Shining Fish and the Kraken

That night, he dreamt. His body was still in the barracks of Castle Black, and yet, when he opened his eyes, he was... somewhere different. He couldn't make much of the place, but there was a river instead of snow, and the grass was even greener, so he walked, for he had learned to follow the river to find people, and so he did. He walked for what felt like hours. Beautiful, shining fish were swimming along, such a peaceful life; he almost envied it. After taking a brief rest, he decided to wash his face in the river, if only to refresh himself and keep going. He closed his eyes, and suddenly the water felt thicker, it smelled of ash and steel, some even got into his mouth, its metallic taste could only mean one thing: blood.

Sam quickly got his face out of the water, seeing the blood on his hands and feeling even more running down his cheeks. He turned to look at where he was heading, and there appeared the shore, a beautiful one and yet with such a dreadful sight. The sky was still blue, but the once translucent river had become a sea of crimson. The smell almost made him puke, as he soon heard the tides rising to devour the shore, with him close by. He dismissed the idea of outrunning it; he simply couldn't. Instead, he decided to hold onto a nearby tree, and then the tide of blood came, engulfing everything on the beautiful landscape.

The sheer impact made him let go of the tree, going with the flow and trying to get to the surface, or else he would surely drown. For a moment, he remembered himself back in Horn Hill when he was but a boy; his father had thrown him into the Pond of Bravery for him to learn how to swim, and when he couldn't, he almost drowned, if not for his father's Master-at-Arms, who rescued him. But this time, Ser Hunt was not coming to save him; no one was. So he tried, he pushed up, and he failed, letting his body get carried by the current as he seemed to lose consciousness. Yet he did not wake up, at least not in Castle Black, but by the shore of that place he could only think was the Seven Hells.

There was still a fish swimming, following him perhaps, struggling to get back to the sea of blood, as if trying to reach something, against the natural order. Sam considered holding it back, helping it, not to let it go into the crimson waves, but the moment he froze to think, the fish finally reached the sea. It was shining, and it gave him some hope; perhaps this place wasn't the Hells of the Seven-Pointed Star. So he walked again, against his better judgment, to see the fish swim amidst the crimson slowly turning again into water as if there was a better version of the landscape, only for him to hear something more, something below beginning to rise. A tentacle quickly took the fish. Sam didn't think twice and returned to the shore as he heard something emerge from the depths, a kraken. He saw the fish trying to fight its way free, and then another tentacle kept it in its grasp.

'No!' Sam wanted to scream, but he couldn't. His eyes couldn't leave the agonizing fish, which was without escape, and then the Kraken opened its mouth, preying upon the shining fish with horrible lust. Its teeth closed around the fish, beginning to devour it with such savagery that even the brutality of Gerold the Skinner would pale in comparison. It made him sick, and yet he could only stand there and watch until the beautiful fish was no more. And then, when the kraken submerged once more, silence returned, and nothing but one shining fin returned to the shore. Sam touched it and held it in his hands; it was beautiful.

He woke up with a tear running down his eye the next day, and with some fish soup for breakfast, Sam's stomach couldn't hold it, and he had to leave the common hall to puke, his mind returning to the depravity of how the Kraken had devoured the shining fish and the taste of blood in his mouth. Perhaps it was better to fast for a day.

The Cyclops Beneath the Snow

Some days passed, and he was finally able to see a fish without feeling blood running down his tongue. He had been assigned to visit some of the Watch's lands in the New Gift. It was not a very long ride, but Sam still felt it tiresome. However, he was about to get there, so perhaps it would be a good idea to simply walk and let his horse rest. After a few seconds, he was now on foot, walking through the snowy forest, until a sound echoed across the land.

A tree falling made him lose his focus. Sam let go of the reins for a second, and the horse ran away during the confusion. He tried to chase after it, but certainly, it was of no use. After a sigh, he finally resigned himself to keep walking towards his destination. Perhaps there would be some horse he could purchase for the ride back, so once again, cursing his clumsiness, he took the road once again.

For quite a while, nothing happened. He was growing tired from walking, but then he heard it again, a tree falling, and then another, and another one. It seemed as if something was moving, taking down the trees of the forest. Sam had no sword at hand; it was on the horse that had run away, but something seemed to be calling to him, so he walked again, trying to sneak by whatever was lurking there.

He heard heavy footsteps and quickly hid behind a rock, trying to look at whatever was going on. It certainly couldn't be human, nor anything animal, except, perhaps, a mammoth, but he dismissed the idea. After all, the Wall was between him and the wildlings, no? Without any logical explanation, he turned his head to see, not quite a giant, but something big, engulfed by shadows, walking by and turning its head, looking for something.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat as he hid again behind the rock when the creature turned in his direction, but after some minutes, the being kept walking, and Sam chose to follow it. He had to find out what was going on, but the further he followed it, the stranger the forest became. Now he wasn't sure if he was even in the Gift, or at least, it was a part he had never seen before, nor one he could spot on a map. The trees were different, the snow itself felt different.

And then, the creature knelt down on the earth. Only then did Sam finally get to see that the thing had only one eye, a cyclops according to the legends of old. But what was a cyclops looking for there? He decided to keep watching, this time from behind a tree, as the one-eyed creature began to dig in haste, desperately looking for something that it felt belonged to the beast.

The snow he threw was slowly forming an elevation, and nearby, an opportunity arose to look at it more closely. He saw an opening and ran behind it. It was too close; his mind tried to warn him, but he needed to know, to see what that creature of darkness was looking for. He finally heard the beast produce a sound that resembled laughter. He leaned in to see what it was, as the beast had succeeded. Buried in the snow, Sam only saw a glimpse of glinting light that blinded him.

Sam woke up at the camp, surrounded by his brothers. It was not yet his time to take the watch, but he decided to repeat his steps since he was away. However, when he tried, instead of a forest, there was a rocky abyss. It couldn't be here, he knew, but where? And what was the cyclops looking for? That was something he didn't know. He heard one of his brothers calling him back; it was now his turn to stay awake for the rest. Good, he didn't want to go to sleep again.

The Horn That Shattered the Sky

A week after, he was looking at repairs being made to one of the castles along the Wall. He had been sent to deliver materials and make sure nothing was missing. It was a clear sky; it wasn't snowing. Summer was at times very kind in the North, and this day was one of them. He had just spoken with one of his fellow brothers when he decided to explore the castle. Most of the roofs had collapsed; it was worse than what he had anticipated. The builders wouldn't be happy once he delivered his report.

Without much choice, he stepped into a tower. Fortunately, the stairs were still standing, so naturally, he went up to inspect the rest of the structure, and thanks to the Seven, it was easy for him to get up there. The sky had a few clouds and some birds flying; one surely had its nest somewhere close. It was nice. He allowed himself to close his eyes, letting the wind run across his face on that almost-ruined tower. He opened them again, and fortunately, nothing had changed; he was still there. For a moment, he feared something was going to happen, but it didn't.

He finished his inspection of the tower and was ready to go down the stairs, but as soon as he was about to step onto the first level, the tower began to shake and fell right before his eyes. Sam was barely able to jump back. The tower was still standing, but now there was no way down, unless he jumped, which would surely break his ankle, so instead, he looked into the yard of the castle to see if there was anyone there.

And there was, a man, hooded, strange. Most rangers used hoods and capes to cover themselves from winter, but there were no rangers there. Sam looked closer and tried to call out to him for help, but he didn't seem to hear him at all despite his best attempts. And then, the person, now a man who had some sort of runes on his hands, raised something. A horn, made of bone. Both his arms had those runes, but Sam couldn't see his face. A wildling, perhaps? He recalled reading about wildlings, but the runes on his arms seemed unknown even to him.

Then... the sound came. The man blew the horn, and he felt his ears bleed, making him close his eyes and fall to his knees as he tried not to hear the powerful horn, which seemed to shatter the skies and everything below it. He felt dizzy; his mind, his ears, his body couldn't take it anymore. He looked upon the sky and saw one of the nearby birds, which was already in the air, fall instantly at the power of the sound.

Sam tried to catch it, barely managing to do so, uncovering his ears and feeling the pain again, more intensely this time. However, when he opened his eyes, the sound had ceased, and the man was gone. But when he turned his head to see the poor bird, it was headless, with the blood from its neck running down his hand.

He jumped back, scared, and... woke up? He was once again on the border of the stairs that had just collapsed due to poor maintenance. He looked at the yard, and there were some brothers whom he would call upon, but no hooded man. On a piece of parchment, he quickly wrote down the runes his mind remembered. He needed to discover more about this. Ultimately, he turned around to see the bird's nest. There were some little ones there, and judging by the sound, they were hungry, but their mother was nowhere to be seen, perhaps looking for food, or not.

Where Sand Becomes Glass

Sam had slept terribly for the last few weeks, with dark circles under his eyes making it even more obvious. He also ate less and most of the time felt lost in thought. Sam tried to ignore it; he really had. Often, the dreams faded away, but this time it was proving too much, and he was worried about his own sanity.

After those visions, Sam would spend the next few weeks before the new year trying to find anything of use regarding his visions. He would even go without sleep for days, trying to find even the most minuscule of hints that might help him figure out what was happening to him. So he secluded himself in the library, even to the point that he would not eat for a day before his body or his brothers told him to take a rest.

He did, but not for long. One of the days, after two consecutive days without sleep, his body would give in once again in front of the candlelight, but not during those dreamless nights he preferred nowadays. Instead, he found himself in a desert. In fact, he could see a sandstorm on the horizon, and there was no refuge for him. He could only pray, but he wouldn't stay there for long. In the other direction of the sandstorm, there seemed to be fire, a fire so strong it could reach the skies, and for a moment, he was unsure which direction was safer.

But he didn't have the privilege of choosing, for the flames were approaching faster than any horse could travel. As they approached, the sand of the desert began to turn into glass. He knew how glass was made and how hot the fire had to burn. Going towards the fire was no option, so he ran into the sandstorm, but the fire followed him. There was a man, no, not a man, a shadow, humanoid enough, unlike the cyclops. He could even see its fingers and almost a face, but he didn't have the time; he needed to run.

And run he did, into the storm. Perhaps the wind would be able to hold back the fire. Just as he seemed about to reach the storm, a blaze of fire struck the sandstorm, turning the raging dust into a beautiful piece of glass. He tried to get through, but it was of no use; the glass was as solid as a castle's walls. He turned around, looking down to see that even the sand below him was glass, only to see the shadow once again, smiling as the flames expanded across the horizon, even beyond his line of sight. All the sand was gone, and there was only the shadow, smiling.

He tried to look into the shadows, to recognize the man behind them, whatever was hunting him. He needed to know. He did his best to stand strong as Ser Jon and Cedrik had told him to. He was not scared; he wouldn't run, so his pale eyes stared back into the darkness, and as he began to see human features in the shadows, the glass below him began to shatter. Yet he didn't turn away as the very ground he was on began to crumble. He was not afraid.

Just before Sam could finally see the shadow's face, the glass shattered completely beneath him, as if the entire sand and earth below him had disappeared, making him fall into an endless pit of darkness, into the same shadows the man was made of. He woke up, raising his head a bit too fast, almost burning himself with the candle he had used to read. Agitated, Sam blew it out. He... he didn't want to be close to the fire, and after deciding it had been enough, he returned the books before going back into the barracks. Tomorrow, he had duties to do.

And so he did. The next few days seemed to have everything return to normal, and yet everything felt off, as if the exact moment were a play he had already seen, but the actors or the motions were different. Unsure of what to think, after a couple of days, he finally made his choice. Within the Maester's Tower, he wrote a letter south, not home, but to family. He needed answers, or at least someone who would understand. His brothers would most probably believe he was lying, or simply tell him to rest more, but he didn't need that; he needed answers, and there was a single person in Westeros who might be able to help him.

So, without any other choice, he wrote, even if it wasn't treason to send a raven, he felt as if it were. He had never written to anyone about his past life, but this time, he really needed to. As he looked at a single raven, a strong one, with a name on the cage: Brightwater Keep, he could only hope she would receive his letter and not burn it the second she knew what it was about. His aunt had been kind to him, at the very least understanding, but she seemed to have her own ideas regarding how to use their gifts.

To the eyes only of Lady Rhea Florent, a personal matter.

We haven't spoken in years, and I do not expect you to reply. You may know I am now a member of the Night's Watch, but there is no one else whom I can ask for help with this. If you ever thought of me with warmth in your heart, please, do not burn this letter, at least not until you read it.

You said your dreams would often show you what once was, and mine what was to come. I am seeing things, but not the usual kind. I fear I am going mad. There was a kraken eating a shiny fish, a cyclops finding something in the snow, a man with runes sounding a horn that made headless birds fall from the sky, and a smiling shadow standing amidst flames in a desert as the sand turned into glass.

I do not know what this means, and I hope you may know more about what is going on in the realm than I do. My oath requires me to protect the realm, but I know not what this means, nor how I can protect it, so I entrust my burdens to you. I know it is just as unlikely that they will listen to you as they would to me, but you have to try.

Keep yourself and the others safe.

S.T.

Instead of just waiting for an answer, Sam would then spend the next few weeks trying to find anything related to a shiny fish, the snowy forest, a horn of bone, or even the runes he had seen in his visions in the ancient libraries of the Night's Watch. He was afraid, of course, that if any of that came true, then there was something more dangerous than the wildlings lurking around. But during his investigation, when he was in the dark, alone in the library, and even before going to sleep, he would repeat the oath he had made when he first joined the Night's Watch:

'Night gathers, and now my watch begins.

It shall not end until my death.

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.

I shall live and die at my post.

I am the sword in the darkness.

I am the watcher on the walls.

I am the fire that burns against cold,

the light that brings the dawn,

the horn that wakes the sleepers,

the shield that guards the realms of men.

I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch,

for this night and all the nights to come.'

His duty was to be the sword, the watcher, the fire, the light, the horn, and the shield. He didn't need to be seen; he didn't need his name to be remembered as a hero. He didn't need to be known, no crowns and no glory. That night, and every other, he would stand vigilant at a corner of a world that never cared for him, knowing there was no person who would ever thank him for what he would do. And yet, he would make sure the realms of men stayed alive, protected, and secure, to dream of what he could not.

Even if his own brothers wouldn't know the burden he now carried on his shoulders, what awaited him every time he closed his eyes, he would still protect the realm, his brothers, and everyone he could. He was cursed; most would see it that way, even he did, but it didn't mean he couldn't use it for good, even staring back at evil if it meant protecting the realm, because he Samwell Tarly, was a brother of the Night's Watch.

[tw: blood, gore]

12th Month 303 AC, Saltpans

Their reckless charge had been a borne of desperation, of foolish courage and last-ditch hope. Fifty men had ridden down the hill behind their lord, banners snapping in the morning wind, steel raised against the raiders who had descended upon their shores. For a moment, Edmure even believed they might make a difference. They were Riverlanders, after all. They had not come so far to watch their people dragged away in chains.

That hope died quickly, as quickly as the first of his men.

The raiders had swallowed their charge whole. Men-at-arms were dragged from the saddles, horses screamed beneath them, and the ground grew slick with blood and spilled guts as a terrible smell filled the air. Edmure had swung until his arm burned, until his shoulder screamed with every blow, until the sword in his hand felt less like an extension of himself, as he had been taught, and more like an iron weight he could scarcely lift. Somewhere in the chaos, he had come face to face with the Knight of Many Gods, the monstrous bandit whose name had haunted the Riverlands for years.

Edmure Tully screamed and raised his sword with renewed vigour, fuelled by hatred for the man who had mutilated his friend, killed and hanged a defenceless woman, and murdered the innocent. And now he had come back to kill more of his people.

Their clash was brief and desperate. Edmure's blade had found its mark, and the great brute had fallen, wounded and cursing.

There was no time to savour the victory. There was no time for anything.

Twelve men remained around him, and then eleven, and then their numbers dwindled further. Edmure could no longer remember the name of the knight who fell beside him, though he had known it once. He could only remember the man's face, the sound of his scream. Details slipped away as quickly as the strength in his limbs. His sword grew heavier with every passing moment. His breath came raggedly, his vision narrowing until the battle became little more than flashes of steel and the awful laughter of the men surrounding them.

Then he saw Euron Greyjoy.

The Crow's Eye stood amidst the slaughter, his terrible burning eye fixed upon Edmure with an amusement that made his stomach turn. He was laughing. Of all the things Edmure might have expected to see on a battlefield, that laughter was the most incomprehensible. Men were dying around them. His own men were dying. And Euron Greyjoy was laughing.

Edmure tried to raise his sword.

He did not know whether he managed it. The last of his knights fell with a cry, and the world lurched sideways. Euron's laughter swelled, the terrible eye growing larger as he approached, until it filled the whole world, and edges of Edmure's vision darkened and everything went black.

When he awoke, pain was the first thing he knew.

It came from everywhere at once, a deep, sickening ache that could only mean that there was no way back... no path forward. Edmure tried to move his hands and found them bound. His legs were bound, too. He lay there gasping, struggling to understand where he was, why he was still alive, oh Gods, why...

Then he saw the stakes.

Fifty of them, he realised with a terrible premonition.

"Good," a voice said, cheerful and terrible at once. "I didn't want you to miss this."

Though close to leaving before, the raiders were now taking their time with this terrible display. A pile of bodies lay nearby, bloodied and mutilated beyond recognition. Edmure had known their names once, their faces, even the names of their children. Now, he had led them all to their deaths. Each body was lifted, with ghastly precision, and impaled on a spike. A sickening crunching of bones and spattering of blood filled the air, and Edmure thanked the merciful Mother above that the men were dead already, killed swiftly in a battle.

He shivered, realising that he himself was not given such mercy.

They had raised him upon a dais in the midst of the grisly display, bound hand and foot so that he could neither look away nor reach for the sword that was no longer at his side. The raiders moved around him with the ease of men finishing a day's work. They were not Ironborn, certainly not all of them, and they spoke in tongues that sounded foreign to Edmure's ears.

Euron came to stand beside him. A hand settled upon Edmure's shoulder in an almost companionable gesture. The Crow's Eye leaned close and regarded his captive with the fond patience of a father indulging a foolish child.

"Look at them," he said, his voice low. "All these good men, dead for a handful of peasants who you couldn't save anyway."

Edmure strained against his bonds. He wanted to spit in this man's face. He wanted to curse him, to promise that the Riverlands would answer this outrage, that the Crown would come for him, that Euron Greyjoy would pay for every life he had taken and ruined.

But his mouth was dry, and his body had no strength left to give him. All he could manage was a broken breath, and what strength he had was expended on holding back tears.

Euron's hand squeezed his shoulder.

"Now, now. You ought to be proud. You came when they called, and you fought bravely." His smile widened. "Let us make certain they remember you for it."

The raiders gathered about the dais. Edmure did not understand what was to come until they forced him forward and pinned him in place. He fought then, with what little strength remained to him, but his struggles accomplished nothing. The bonds held, and the men holding him were strong. His chest pressed against the wood. Something was digging into his breast pocket. Something small, something forgotten...

As if through fog, he remembered the day in the market in Harroway's Town. The earrings he had picked out for his beloved Samantha, tucked into his breast pocket for safekeeping.

Sam... I'm sorry...

Then, they began to cut, and Euron watched with undisguised delight as the sharp pain tore a cry from Edmure's throat.

He had endured pain before. Bruises from the training yard, cuts from the sword, even wounds from a battle. None of it could have prepared him for this. The pain was beyond anything a man could make sense of, and there was no end to it, no opponent to strike down, no blow to parry. There was only the ground beneath him, the hands that held him in place, and Euron Greyjoy's voice drifting above him, singing in a language he didn't know.

The Crow's Eye had chosen his punishment carefully. He would not merely kill the young lord who had dared oppose him. He would make a spectacle of him, a warning to every man in the realm who might think to take up arms against the terrible raider.

Edmure tried to hold on to the faces of his men, pale and lifeless. He thought of their names, of the homes they had left behind, of the families who would wait for them to return. He thought of the child whose cry had sent him charging down that hill. He had promised to protect them. He had promised.

He promised Samantha he would return soon. He kissed Jonquil on the top of her head, joked with Meredyth, reminded Robert of his lessons. Then he left, thinking he would be back soon.

He had thought he had all the time in the world.

The world began to slip away again. His breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, and the pain twisted and blurred. He heard the raiders shouting, heard Euron laughing, heard a sound that might have been his own ribs cracking, a terrible shriek that couldn't have come from his own lips...

Then there was nothing.

With the deed done, the bodies were left as they lay. Blood seeped into the soil, darkening the ground around the stakes. A gentle wind stirred the banners of the fallen, and crows circled above the burning town.

By the time the sun began to set, the black longships were loaded with plunder, their holds filled with stolen goods and the surviving villagers dragged from their homes in chains. A child's cry once more carried across the field, but there was no one left to answer it. What could not be carried had been broken, burned, or left to rot.

Euron Greyjoy departed with his men, leaving only the dead behind.

The Riverlands had lost fifty men in a single morning. Their commander had fallen with them, and there would be no homecoming for the Heir to Riverrun.

As the longships disappeared into the grey waters, the bodies of those fifty brave men remained upon their stakes, surrounding the grisly spectacle made of Edmure Tully's corpse. They were left exposed to the elements and carrion birds, as the night fell and the spilled blood sank slowly into the earth.

We back baby