Vanq

Palingenesia: A Modern Greek Gods Saga

I rescind my laugh.

What a fun and interesting idea, whoever came up with is must truly be a genius.

@Ezekiel

Palingenesia: A Modern Greek Gods Saga

We'll be working on the OOC this week! Glad to see the interest :)

Palingenesia: A Modern Greek Gods Saga

@shagranoz Hecate is a titan, so not a minor god, but she would be fair game!

Palingenesia: A Modern Greek Gods Saga

And you have my interest dang it Vanq.

@Apollosarcher

Sorry not sorry

Palingenesia: A Modern Greek Gods Saga

Palingenesia:

A Modern Greek Gods Saga

---

---

_{with @Ezekiel}

Power cannot exist without faith, not even that of the gods.

Millenia of war, of strife, of bitter blood feuds eroded the gods’ powers. A little at first, nothing to be concerned with as humanity’s tongues changed and morphed. A few brought their concerns to Olympus, signs and portents of what was to become of them. Zeus refused to hear of it and the others largely fell in line. They were unwilling or unable to face their fate. Most carried on as they always had, falsely secure in their supremacy. By the time they were relegated to stories, to nothing more than myths, even the Olympians slumbered in an aether, separate from the mortal realm and their own, they remained suspended in the space-in-between.

Humanity moved on, evolved. They inherited a vibrant world, became masters of it and its deepest mysteries. Their power was uncontested and unchecked except amongst themselves. They warred, they stripped the planet bare, they howled to the empty universe around them that it did not offer them more, that it did not other them an escape from the hell they had created for themselves. Disasters plagued them, but they did not submit quietly to the rising temperatures and oceans. They did not stop even as famine and droughts ravaged their lands or viruses their bodies. Their feuds and hatred deepened until all out nuclear war nearly wiped them from the planet.

Nuclear power, the concentrated rending of the cosmos, stirred ancient slumbering things. The gods and more ancient titans began to stir, first to consciousness but still adrift in a vast emptiness. Their long dreams ended, their hopes and desires and fears made real in the unending sleep dissipated. They woke to find the world that had left them behind had paid for it dearly.

Though some hesitated to assist the mortal realm, the knowledge of what irrelevance had done to them was still fresh and biting. Most eventually agreed to work together to mend what had broken. And in rebuilding the world that humanity has destroyed, the gods had peace among themselves for some time. Old grievances were ignored while there was so much work to be done, while there was so much of humanity eager for them. There was no shortage, even in their diminished state, of mortals to worship them.

Equilibrium would never have lasted long, and it did not. The world was restored, though not returned to what it once had been. Mortals built great monuments and temples once again, and soon, the gods eyed each other as competition. They began their ancient dance for power and quickly reverted to using mortals as their pawns in a great game. War was inevitable.

When it broke out, it was a revolt against Zeus. Had it not been him who had led them to their insignificance in the first place? Who was he to try and crown himself again, after all his failures? The battle raged bright and hot until an unexpected interference from the mortals. Their nuclear weapons had not been exhausted in their wars, and stockpiles had been uncovered. Though few would say it aloud, they could destroy the gods as much as their distant power could wake them.

The Olympians called a cease-fire to secure the weapons away and to find a way forward. Agreements were reached in what came to be known as The Accords. Even as his allies signed with the rebellion, Zeus refused. He fled to raise new armies, to find new allies. In the end, he was captured and imprisoned like the Titans he had once overthrown.

The Accords gave each god provenance over their own realms as they were. Any gods found to be meddling beyond their spheres of influence or their geographic domains, would be held accountable by their peers. There was to be no king of the gods.

And for a time, it has worked. Humanity flourished in a new golden age under the gods’ thumbs. Not all remain pleased with the new status quo - god or mortal. A new threat has formed within humanity, small enclaves brought together by shared, virulently anti-god beliefs. The gods had not found all the weapon stockpiles and these enclaves now control those that had been hidden. Far removed from the great metropolises that had formed, the gods watch and worry from a distance. Rumors of something else borne from the ashes of Old-Earth plague gods and mortals alike. Surely it is a just a story,

TL;DR:

• The gods went to sleep because of irrelevance (3rd-4th century CE)
• In that time humanity got big and strong then did bad things to the earth and themselves (mid-21st century CE)
• It's been roughly 400 years since humanity nearly erased itself from existence (approaching the 22nd century CE, now notated as NE - for “New Era”)
  
  • The gods restored the world in the course of about a century
  • God civil-war for 50 years
  • The Accords has been in place for about 200 years
• Humanity, with the gods’ aid, has rebuilt to essentially (our) modern levels
• The world looks different, there will be a map
• Main Factions:
  
  • The gods and demi-gods
  • Personifications, spirits, and other mythological humanoids (nymphs, dryads, etc.)
  • Mortals
• Sub-factions:
  
  • Gods and their supernatural underlings can be roughly categorized by how they feel towards humanity and their fellow gods
  • Mortals/humans have those who are fervent in their beliefs, passive, or the smallest group who are militantly anti-god and known as the Misotheists

Other Notes:

You will be more than welcome to create multiple characters across the factions. Writing standards and expectations are casual though may dip into “advanced” territory thanks to our love of writing collabs in place of shorter back-and-forth posts. That will largely be a personal decision for how you prefer to write.

Creating a god or other mythological character will be left to your creativity - pick and choose the myths and how they occurred in the character’s ancient histories or in their re-awakening. This also means crafting shared history among your characters is heavily encouraged.

Hades, Hera, Demeter, and Persephone are being used as GM characters (by Ezekiel and me), and Zeus will be unplayable due to him being…indisposed. For the main Olympian gods that leaves the following open to play.

• Poseidon
• Hestia
• Aphrodite
• Ares
• Hephaestus
• Apollo
• Artemis
• Athena
• Hermes
• Dionysus

Palingenesia: A Modern Greek Gods Saga

Palingenesia:

A Modern Greek Gods Saga

---

---

_{with @Ezekiel}

Power cannot exist without faith, not even that of the gods.

Millenia of war, of strife, of bitter blood feuds eroded the gods’ powers. A little at first, nothing to be concerned with as humanity’s tongues changed and morphed. A few brought their concerns to Olympus, signs and portents of what was to become of them. Zeus refused to hear of it and the others largely fell in line. They were unwilling or unable to face their fate. Most carried on as they always had, falsely secure in their supremacy. By the time they were relegated to stories, to nothing more than myths, even the Olympians slumbered in an aether, separate from the mortal realm and their own, they remained suspended in the space-in-between.

Humanity moved on, evolved. They inherited a vibrant world, became masters of it and its deepest mysteries. Their power was uncontested and unchecked except amongst themselves. They warred, they stripped the planet bare, they howled to the empty universe around them that it did not offer them more, that it did not other them an escape from the hell they had created for themselves. Disasters plagued them, but they did not submit quietly to the rising temperatures and oceans. They did not stop even as famine and droughts ravaged their lands or viruses their bodies. Their feuds and hatred deepened until all out nuclear war nearly wiped them from the planet.

Nuclear power, the concentrated rending of the cosmos, stirred ancient slumbering things. The gods and more ancient titans began to stir, first to consciousness but still adrift in a vast emptiness. Their long dreams ended, their hopes and desires and fears made real in the unending sleep dissipated. They woke to find the world that had left them behind had paid for it dearly.

Though some hesitated to assist the mortal realm, the knowledge of what irrelevance had done to them was still fresh and biting. Most eventually agreed to work together to mend what had broken. And in rebuilding the world that humanity has destroyed, the gods had peace among themselves for some time. Old grievances were ignored while there was so much work to be done, while there was so much of humanity eager for them. There was no shortage, even in their diminished state, of mortals to worship them.

Equilibrium would never have lasted long, and it did not. The world was restored, though not returned to what it once had been. Mortals built great monuments and temples once again, and soon, the gods eyed each other as competition. They began their ancient dance for power and quickly reverted to using mortals as their pawns in a great game. War was inevitable.

When it broke out, it was a revolt against Zeus. Had it not been him who had led them to their insignificance in the first place? Who was he to try and crown himself again, after all his failures? The battle raged bright and hot until an unexpected interference from the mortals. Their nuclear weapons had not been exhausted in their wars, and stockpiles had been uncovered. Though few would say it aloud, they could destroy the gods as much as their distant power could wake them.

The Olympians called a cease-fire to secure the weapons away and to find a way forward. Agreements were reached in what came to be known as The Accords. Even as his allies signed with the rebellion, Zeus refused. He fled to raise new armies, to find new allies. In the end, he was captured and imprisoned like the Titans he had once overthrown.

The Accords gave each god provenance over their own realms as they were. Any gods found to be meddling beyond their spheres of influence or their geographic domains, would be held accountable by their peers. There was to be no king of the gods.

And for a time, it has worked. Humanity flourished in a new golden age under the gods’ thumbs. Not all remain pleased with the new status quo - god or mortal. A new threat has formed within humanity, small enclaves brought together by shared, virulently anti-god beliefs. The gods had not found all the weapon stockpiles and these enclaves now control those that had been hidden. Far removed from the great metropolises that had formed, the gods watch and worry from a distance. Rumors of something else borne from the ashes of Old-Earth plague gods and mortals alike. Surely it is a just a story,

TL;DR:

• The gods went to sleep because of irrelevance (3rd-4th century CE)
• In that time humanity got big and strong then did bad things to the earth and themselves (mid-21st century CE)
• It's been roughly 400 years since humanity nearly erased itself from existence (approaching the 22nd century CE, now notated as NE - for “New Era”)
  
  • The gods restored the world in the course of about a century
  • God civil-war for 50 years
  • The Accords has been in place for about 200 years
• Humanity, with the gods’ aid, has rebuilt to essentially (our) modern levels
• The world looks different, there will be a map
• Main Factions:
  
  • The gods and demi-gods
  • Personifications, spirits, and other mythological humanoids (nymphs, dryads, etc.)
  • Mortals
• Sub-factions:
  
  • Gods and their supernatural underlings can be roughly categorized by how they feel towards humanity and their fellow gods
  • Mortals/humans have those who are fervent in their beliefs, passive, or the smallest group who are militantly anti-god and known as the Misotheists

Other Notes:

You will be more than welcome to create multiple characters across the factions. Writing standards and expectations are casual though may dip into “advanced” territory thanks to our love of writing collabs in place of shorter back-and-forth posts. That will largely be a personal decision for how you prefer to write.

Creating a god or other mythological character will be left to your creativity - pick and choose the myths and how they occurred in the character’s ancient histories or in their re-awakening. This also means crafting shared history among your characters is heavily encouraged.

Hades, Hera, Demeter, and Persephone are being used as GM characters (by Ezekiel and me), and Zeus will be unplayable due to him being…indisposed. For the main Olympian gods that leaves the following open to play.

• Poseidon
• Hestia
• Aphrodite
• Ares
• Hephaestus
• Apollo
• Artemis
• Athena
• Hermes
• Dionysus

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Ashford

_{Collab with @Ezekiel}

Eventually, Ellyn had been moved from the room. No matter that a bond of sorts had formed with her one-time captors, she was initially relieved when the Warrior’s Son appeared and beckoned her out. It was a short-lived hope though. She was escorted, roughly, to another room somehow even less well appointed than the one she had briefly shared with the Baratheon lordling and his few men.

It was small, cold, and smelled of rotting hay and piss. The toothy grin the knight gave her as he shoved her was dark, a shiver of deep terror took hold of her body. Whatever the Faith Militant had planned here, it was not in service to the Seven. That it was Lady Dayne’s immediate thought caused her brow to furrow. When had this happened, how?

The Dornish knight leaned against a wall and sunk down, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She rested her head atop her legs. Years of wrongs, of slights, of pity, and of hatred spilled out in wracking sobs. By the time she fell asleep, her chest ached and it hurt to breathe. Sleep offered no relief, she dreamed of failure and death. She dreamed of blood on her hands, caused by each wrong and awful choice she made.

When she woke, it was to shouting outside her room. Ellyn stood slowly and peered out the narrow slit that passed for a window. She couldn’t see much other than a flurry of activity and the sound of men screaming orders. It sounded disorganized, not the put together order that the Warrior’s Sons demanded. No matter that she felt she could sleep for another day or that her body ached as she paced the small space, she knew she needed to act.

Beneath the layer of action was the desire to curl back up on the floor and let the Stranger take his due. The knightly lady ignored it, pushed it down, buried it. She didn’t have Dawn, and that became her need, her reason.

She leaned against the door, her ear pressed against it but heard nothing. No shuffling feet, no quiet talking. Her eyebrows raised up as she mulled over whether or not she was sane. But her hands pulled at the door anyways, testing it, and to her greater surprise, felt it move. She yanked harder but it gave no further. A guttural sigh came out of her throat; it wouldn’t be that easy. Instead she turned back to the room and began looking for anything that would give her leverage to wedge the door open.

A few weeks ago she would have thanked the Crone for what she uncovered. Now though, she suppressed a triumphant yell. The room they had sequestered her in had once been a servant’s, or perhaps a storage area to quickly bring supplies to the lords and ladies under their charge. Against the short wall, she felt a breeze and with a little bit of work, found the hidden handle that easily slid open a door into a long corridor. It was empty but not dirty, obviously having been in frequent use.

She gave the small room one last look before heading down the long corridor.

It seemed to connect to several rooms in this wing of the castle but she ignored them all, unsure of what she would find inside. For now, she was alone and safe. The corridor ended quickly though, another door and from the breeze, she was certain it led outside. But to where? It was a few seconds of contemplation, and then action.

She opened the door a crack and peered out to see that it was a courtyard. There was noise in the distance, not far, but it was the same din of orders and men rushing about that she had heard from her room. Ellyn took a tentative step out, head held down, her mussed hair over her face to try and hide her eyes. It was not empty here, but it was thinned out. No one seemed to notice her and so she made her way around the building, in the shadows and in the opposite direction of where the noise came from.

Where would they have taken Dawn though? That bastard probably had claimed it as his. The irony of the rage that built in her wasn’t lost on her. No matter the fear in her gut at it, she turned and began to follow, at a distance, where the crowd went.

The sight in the distance caused her throat to constrict and her stomach turned. A scaffold had been erected and it was not empty. She blinked a few times as she ducked in and out of the crowd. Her hope that it was meant for some other hostages or criminals evaporated as she drew close enough to see Rogar held off to the side. She imagined that his hands were bound. Her mind formed the darkest thoughts and saw him pushed down to his knees and a sword swung down. She saw his head roll, dead eyes that would bore into her. Ellyn shook her head and cleared the unwanted images.

What did it matter, war had been bubbling and threatening for years now. It was coming to a head just as she thought and had hoped for. The dragon’s kin was guilty by association and she needed her sword. She needed to get it and escape, she needed to live, no matter how low she had fallen in the night.

Her body betrayed her, her subconscious betrayed her, and she moved off to the side to think through how to get to him unnoticed. Chaos erupted around her before she had decided on anything. Lady Dayne didn’t know what had occurred, but she thanked the Seven. Men yelled again and the pending execution stalled.

“Damn it.” Stalled, but for how long? Men cleared out just as quickly as they had filled this space and Ellyn caught sight of Rogar and some of his men being roughly shoved back towards where they must have been held before this. She had no weapons, but as she moved she saw a discarded sword, it was rough and cheap but she grabbed it and kept moving, following at a distance.

The Warrior’s Son knight locked a door, looked around, and seemed disappointed at needed to say there and not run off to where the rest of his men had run. Ellyn allowed one final moment to second guess her decision.

She moved, choosing a path that took her out of line of sight of the knight and around the building. Once again she was met with disappointment at there being no other obvious point of entry to the stone outbuilding. She crept back around to the front. The knight would need to die. She couldn’t risk him rousing to alert the others too quickly. He hadn’t been dressed in full armor, the only saving grace for her she thought.

With a deep breath to steady herself, she briefly closed her eyes and muttered a desperate plea that the Warrior would see the justice in this. When her eyes opened again, they were cold and determined. She charged but without a sound or cry.

Ellyn caught the knight off guard, though he was larger than her by a good deal, surprising him would only benefit her for the briefest moment. It was all she needed though. Ellyn avoided his attempt to shove back against her, ducking down and a quick step out of his reach. She’d hit him in her initial attack, an annoying wound and nothing more. But it made her smile to see him wince when he lifted his sword arm. She drew into him again, from the side, and drew the sword against his leg. He hissed angrily and stumbled. As she drew back to her full height, she plunged the sword into his armor-less side. The sword didn’t come free, but it didn’t need to.

Lady Dayne fished the key from his dying body. She spat on him, a hazy anger overtaking her. She opened the door, unsure of what to expect.

“A full pardon for my aid, Lord Rogar?”

The days had not been kind to Rogar, and the fleeting nights of unconsciousness no true reprieve either. The tender mercies of the Faith had turned out not to be tender at all, although they had stopped short of anything that might permanently disfigure the young lord, that was perhaps it. To parade a broken man would have been no victory, but that was all the restraint they had shown. His skin, pale like his grandmother’s rather than the Campaigners’ tan of his grandsire was marked across with bruising, and he couldn’t seem to open one of his eyes as the lock turned, and the door opened.

He wasn’t sure how he had intended to react to her presence again, as several nights had passed he’d rather given up on seeing anyone he might recognise again, although he’d done his best to not show his captors such pessimism of his own fate. Rogar expected that he should be angry, for all her reactions of the day of their capture could have simply been falsehoods but some part of him doubted Ellyn could even tell a lie, let alone put on a murmer’s performance.

Instead he coughed through lungs that burned at the effort of expanding his bruised chest, the exposed upper half of his body a lattice of further marks and minor cuts, and rasped something that held a fraction of his usual easy charm.

“You’ll….have to forgive me…my lady….I am rather indisposed.” Finally, with the presence of someone who might not be here to beat him further, he allowed himself to sag, the defiance flooding his muscles all gone as the chains binding his hands to different walls rattled as he went slack, held up only by the tension in their making. “I wasn’t planning on writing up the charges….anyway.” He slurred a little, his mind going to fire then blissful absolution, if only for a moment, before he gasped and both eyes snapped open, a tremor rushing through his form as something instinctive in him urged him not to give up. She was moving towards him, he was half aware of that, seeking to catch him before he might truly strike the ground. The eye had opened, lashes thick with the juice of torture, was shot through red, but it still met her own with a sudden intensity which suggest the Lord was coming back to himself.

“Help me with the chains and…you have a deal.”

She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't this. Her breath in was a hiss, from a distance she hadn't seen the damage done, the pain inflicted. It was a kick in the gut to see him like this and she was frozen for a few moments before her feet carried her forward and into him. Ellyn’s hands caught him against his torso as he sagged, but the fire in his eye gave her hope. She forced a smile, thin and full of concern. “A little worse for wear than from the boar, it seems.” She didn't know what else to say, the levity was uncalled for but it was all that came to mind to fill the silence. Seven…Why had they done this?

The knight let the Lord rest against her as she reached above him to free one hand from his restraints and then the other. She dropped the keys she had pilfered from the dead guard as the Rogar crashed into her with his full weight, no longer restrained. As she helped him find his footing again, her hand briefly ran across his bruised and bloodied face, her voice an angry whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

She led them out, Rogar slumped over her, back into the daylight. The sounds of skirmishes carried over from a distance away and they were left here with only a few souls milling around. Ashford servants, artisans, merchants, who had had little choice but to allow and accept the Faith Militant’s presence. At least for the moment, few seemed to do more than glance at the pair and then scurry away. Armored men were still present but had other issues to contend with it seemed, and Ellyn was able to slowly walk with Rogar's arm slung around her shoulders, half dragging him, towards the set of buildings she had originally approached from.

In the shade of the relatively secluded spot, she propped him against a wall. “I don't think we'll be lucky enough to not need weapons to get away from here.” And go where? The question would need an answer at some point, any direction as long as it was not here would be good enough for now. It stung too, the reminder that Dawn had been lost to her. Not because of her family that she had spent so long running from, but her own decisions and mistakes. Ellyn swallowed hard and pushed away the thoughts. “Rest a little.” She wasn't convinced he had the strength for it, worry lined her face. It was better to have something to do, though, and so even reluctantly, she left him there to find swords for them both, a water skin if there was any luck, a hunk of bread to take away some of the gnawing in her stomach and what she could only imagine of the Baratheon lord's.

Her search, though rushed and leanings towards frantic, was fruitful. She returned to Rogar’s side with a quick study of him. Ellyn’s eyes struggled to not linger on him too long as she rested a sword and an axe against the wall next to him. She slid a small satchel from her shoulder and opened it to pull out a vaguely clean cloth and small wineskin. It smelled nearly of vinegar but was thin and watery. Good enough to take off the edge of thirst but not much more. “Drink some, but try not to taste it.” She offered him the skin with a warning only after wetting the cloth with a bit of it.

If they were going to get out he at least needed to be able to see and it was the only thing she could immediately attend to anyways. When he pulled the wineskin away from his lips, she brought the cloth to his face and wiped away the caked blood and pus. There was a tenderness in the act. “Stay still.” She chided quietly, no matter that he wasn't actually squirming about. “As good as I can do for now. The axe is yours.” She nodded to the weapons and claimed the sword.

Lady Dayne was uncertain of her next steps or of which path carried the least risk. But she didn't want to engage with a force of any size and indicated the alleyways back towards the castle. “It was emptying out already even before whatever has drawn them further away. Ready?”

He couldn’t help but lean on her as they moved, any attempts to take more of his own weight resulted in shards of pain dancing under and across his skin, and even with the assistance, moving was difficult. The pain of his injuries was one thing, but the confines of being forced to hold one position had poisoned his muscles with acid and fatigue, and it was all the fires of the seven hells to move them again. When she finally set him down so that she could hunt for what they would need, it was a shock of relief, finally resting in something close to a position of comfort, his mind once again became a rush of nothing. When she reappeared it felt only a moment after he had been left, losing whole minutes to the ravages of his mind.

Already he felt purpose stirring in his form though, a shudder of needle like sensations across his limbs as they awoke, minutes behind the rest of him but still returning to form. He had a pain fuged memory of her words, and managed another, only slightly broken, smile for her.

“It is alright….Lady Dayne….they didn’t exactly do it in your name.” He coughed and the pain flared once more, but he kept his composure this time, his fingers curling around the shaft of the provided axe with a strength of grip he didn’t truly feel. “Something must be amiss.” He mused, focusing on her with both eyes, thanks to the efforts of her cleaning. “They were probably planning to off me before things went ‘more’ wrong, so thank the Seven for you.” The chuckle he gave, while pained, wasn’t bitter, as he pulled himself to his feet, waving off her support as he finally found the strength to right himself. “May they help us with the rest of it.”

The pathways were nearly as empty as she had hoped, though with each few steps she found herself looking at Rogar to ensure his feet still went one in front of the other. Her breath caught whenever it seemed he might stumble. They couldn’t get out, not with him in this condition. Especially not when those who passed them let their eyes linger on the battered man.

It had taken only a few words to come to an agreement. They were not far from the castle, one of its towers loomed over them. Ellyn led them down a bizarre path of twisting turns. She doubted anyone of worth would be following them, but it was better to be safe. They passed by countless whitewashed houses, but she wasn’t going to tempt fate by seeing what may have been left unoccupied - or if it was - what might be quickly returned to. Time was another enemy though. The reminder wasn’t difficult whenever she looked to her side to see Rogar soldiering on with her.

At last she found something suitable, or that she was then desperate enough to accept the risk of. One of the charming houses with its whitewash nearly bare, the wooden beginning to rot. It would not be pleasant, likely, but just the same she didn’t expect they’d be interrupted. It didn’t disappoint her on her assessment. It was abandoned, domestic detritus strewn about. There was not much to block the door and she had given Rogar a hard look when she told him to sit, again. Ellyn made due with pulling over old wooden crates that sent mice and rats scurrying with the movement to block the door.

Eventually, with not much left to be done, she looked for something to sit on, gave up, and slunk down next to where she had the Baratheon lord to stay. “Get some actual sleep, I’ll wake you after dusk and we can finish getting out then.” If he was going to argue, she didn’t want to hear it. “They didn’t chain me or torture me, you need it more.”

It turned out to only be half the truth. Her eyes were heavy and they had begun to open more slowly and linger shut. Voices outside the house woke her from her near slumber with a start. “Fuck.” Her lips moved even if her voice barely registered. Rogar was still asleep next to her, his head lolled over to the side. She regretted what she had to do, but she could risk him being startled awake. Ellyn covered his mouth firmly with one hand and pushed against his chest with her other. She shook him as softly as she could until his eyes shot open. “Outside.” A whisper in his ear before she dropped her hand from his mouth and slid away from him to grab her sword.

Multiple voices for sure, men. Someone who had seen them and finally found a spare soldier or two, with hopes of a reward? Or maybe just bad luck. She couldn’t make out the full conversation, only bits and pieces. They weren’t yelling, but Lady Dayne wasn’t sure if that was in their favor. She crouched, low, behind where the door would swing open if they pushed hard enough. And they did, eventually, the thud caused her to jump even as she was prepared for it.

One man burst through first, and stumbled over the crates she had used as an obstacle. Ellyn lunged at him with a groan but only managed to elbow the knight in his head. He shook it off easily as he found his feet and another two men entered behind him. The seven really wished to test her now, didn’t they?

Ellyn tried to move out of his path, but was not fast enough in the small and shrinking space of the house. The knight’s fist plowed into her abdomen and she lost her breath, a moment of agony and fear that left her nearly seeing stars. She grimaced, sword brought up in time to ward off his next assault. He had caught the sword in his hand and Ellyn twisted it free, the knight growling in response, his blood dripping down the sword, his hand mangled.

“We’ll keep you alive for a bit of fun, bitch.” He sneered through the pain. The men behind him had taken stock of the situation and seemed to like their odds. Ellyn couldn’t blame them, Rogar was in no state for this. She wasn’t either, no matter what she had told him.

She offered no response other than moving herself between the men and Rogar, slowly. They watched her and spread themselves out. The one with the mangled hand lunged at her first, but it was an obvious move and she avoided him, and drove the pummel down on his back as she moved behind him and out of his way. Perhaps surprised that his fellow knight had managed to bungle it so poorly, the second moved on her as well, the final man moving off towards Rogar. She prayed it was enough of a chance.

Her own luck failed quickly, the second knight caught her coming away from the first. A hard backhand that sent her vision black and her muscles slack even if only for a second. It was enough that her grip on the sword faltered and fell away from her. The man with the mangled hand kicked away with a laugh. He’d gained his footing, again. Ellyn reached, half blind, for anything to stop them. Her hand met metal and she grabbed it, it was heavy and only as she swung it did it register what she had found. An old pan, blackened from years of use in the now dead hearth. It was a desperate swing but the sound she made when it connected with the mangled man’s head was gratifying. A squealing gasp erupted from the man as he crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

It was a short-lived victory, the second knight was on her to finish what he had started. He pushed her and she fell back effortlessly. Ellyn hit the ground on her back, the air knocked out of her again, the pain in her temple throbbing, blinding. She brought both arms up over her face and chest, tried to bring her knees up to take the blows and kicks she expected.

Something heavy hit the knight as he moved in to strike at Ellyn.

It wasn’t a charge, the object that struck the knight was entirely dead weight, spurred on by an opposing force that had struck it. In this case, it was the body of the third knight, axe protruding from the crumpled mess of his face plate and shoved back with a strength that spoke more of adrenaline and anger than anything else.

The weapon was buried with enough force that it was fully entrenched both in the metallic plate of the man’s helm and the skull within, and likely far too unwieldy to remove at speed, and so, the whole form had been improvised as a weapon.

As the two knights, one deceased, collapsed to the ground, the savage and beaten form of Rogar Baratheon followed them, pouncing down upon the pile of man and metal without care for the fact his body screamed at him, both in old pain and now in the shock of landing upon such unyielding metallic surfaces. Pinned beneath the sprawling ungainly weight of an armoured corpse, the remaining knight could barely act, pinned beyond us of his own limbs or weaponry. This did not make it a quick affair, Rogar’s weapon had been rendered useless for the moment, and so he fought with the man to claim the dagger at the belt of the dead knight. Rogar had the angle, but his hands were not plated, and every time he had to pull open the man’s grip his already ripped and torn fingers opened back up, nails pulling on segmented plate.

Eventually he took it though, pulling the dagger free and with a series of grim snarls, plunging it again and again into the gaps on the knight’s side, the cries of struggle from said knight steadily becoming gurgles and then ceasing.

Then he collapsed to the side, his world spinning once more as he struck the ground, white noise reclaiming his senses.

It was several moments of near silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing, before Ellyn opened her eyes again with a quiet string of curses. Whatever rest they had managed to steal had been spent, and likely borrowed against, she thought as she turned herself to her side and looked over Rogar.

“Let's call this even now, once and for all?” She struggled to stand and rested a little longer on her hands and knees. The lady knight knew she was in far better shape but this fight had left new welts and bruises. Breathing still caused her entire middle to ache. Still, she had tried for levity no matter that it fell flat as soon as the words were aired.

She wasn't sure how much he heard or paid attention to her, but she spoke anyways as she gathered herself.

“Staying here any longer won't do.” It was still dark, but she thought she spied a hint of light at the horizon. Dawn or fire? Ellyn smelled smoke but couldn't tell if it was from campfires or something more dangerous. “But you're in no shape to walk. More sevens-damned knights showing up and we're dead.” She paced in a small circle through the open room, eyes darting about as she considered their options. A thought clouded her judgement, everything in her told her it would be better to escape, alone if need be.

But she looked at him and couldn't. She couldn't abandon him, not while he still breathed and she could see his chest rise and fall. Could hear his pained breaths. “Stay still a little longer.” A command she doubted she needed to give.

Someone smiled on them, for when Ellyn peered out the doorway she saw a small cart. Meant to be hitched to a donkey, it was small but large enough for her to load Rogar into.

She had to help him bend into fitting the cart. It didn't look comfortable but it was better than trying to have him walk out of this cursed town. A few pilfered blankets later - and a joke muttered under her breath about more theft allegations - and Ellyn gripped the bars that should have held beast of burden to it.

“I don't want to hear a single word from you about me being an ass.” Her last command before tucking her head down like some browbeaten smallfolk trying to go about her business in the middle of the chaos.

It worked well enough, and before dawn had fully broken against the horizon, Ellyn set down the cart, sweaty and exhausted, and roused Rogar once more. “Who do you think we have to thank for this?” She pointed in the distance, to the sight of what very much seemed to be the Faith Militant army fleeing Ashford.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

The Red Keep

_{Collab with @Ezekiel}

The stench of blood was in the air, a rotten sickly smell, not the hot iron of freshly spilled and vital but a stench far too close to rot for comfort.

Fires burned, both to fight back against the smell but also in ritual, a ring of braziers that surrounded the motionless form of the King, laid out before the attendants of this forbidden, forgotten place.

The air was heady with the scent of burning substances as well as that sweet but foul tang of decay, and the low cant of Valyrian only seemed to stir that distorting mix of reality and magic. Visenya stood over the King, unmoving, her arms raised above her as she called to ancient powers, the old gods of Valyria and beyond, any ancient power that might restore Maegor. The only champion, she was certain, that could prevent the Kingdom from slipping into eternal darkness. There were others who ‘could’ but only one who ‘would’ only she had raised the man strong enough to make the choices necessary.

She fought to keep her tone steady, to avoid the overspill of rage and worry that thrummed through her body. She called to the spirits of her siblings, her most treasured, lost years ago. She called to grandsires and great grandsires who had lead her family across the sea at the direction of her forebears, the women of House Targaryen who had always shouldered its greatest burdens, and forged its greatest ambitions.

Aegon and Rhaenys were beside her, she knew it, despite what bad blood had passed between her and their descendents. They would not let the dynasty fall, they would not let the world fall. She had sworn she would do anything to prevent that.

Which explained the presence of the witch, the one who had no grounding in the Valyrian arts of old but instead in darker powers, but if they lent their strength to the return of her son, she would give them everything, forever and a day.

Tyanna had thought that, perhaps, the king's mother would have resisted her aid. Instead, she stood opposite the woman, the once-queen, and was surprised to feel a sickly power envelope the room. Her face did not betray her or show her discomfort, she wore a mask of anger. She seethed, still, that it had come to this and that she had the taste of this Valyrian magic. It felt hot, heavy, a disturbing touch that repulsed her, disgusted her, even as a small bit of respect crept into her that Visenya wielded it at all.

It explained so much, Tyanna mused silently, about Maegor. But now was not the time to try and unravel that tangled mess.

She swallowed roughly to hide a gag at the cloying taste that assaulted her throat. The feeling here in the Red Keep was less oppressive than Dragonstone had been. It helped, and as the Valyrian prayers quieted, the witch spoke at last. Not in Pentoshi Valyrian, but in the common tongue. She would not lend even a small amount of power to that source.

Her hand hovered over the king’s body, moved in the air above him, pulled and pushed at the things unseen. “It is a deep injury, how remarkable.” Tyanna’s voice became barely more than a murmur, commands in an old language, parts of ancient knowledge that had been passed to her.

It rebelled against her and she gasped, her brow furrowing in frustration. It did not like the heat, it did not want this abomination to be alive. It wanted to be used as it was meant to be, for there to be ice and night and death. The witch growled, a momentary lapse in frustration, and cursed it. She felt it push back again, angry at her, a sudden feeling of ice down her spine.

Tyanna muttered an incantation anew, having moved to the king’s head, her pale hands gripping the muscular flesh at his shoulders. And that was it, the battle of wills won, or, at least, at a truce. She felt the power bend to her will, reveled in its obedience to her. It would assist the abomination and her magic. It had to, or it would need to wait for longer for the next opportunity to enter this world again.

“I will give you my strength for this, take what you need.” Her dark red lips pressed tightly together, preparation for how unpleasant she expected this would be. “After, there are tonics and potions we will need to treat him with. You will help me with this?”

“Drink.” The Dowager-Queen commanded, as a dark liquid was presented to Tyanna by one of the attending ritualists. A tonic, or potion as some would say, of Old Valyria, and one which would allow them to combine their strengths for the trial ahead. Visenya took her own, a mirror of the goblet offered to Tyanna, and drank deeply. The taste had been repulsive when she had first been learning the arts of her ruined homeland, but now the bitten, ashen, taste felt almost comforting, the violent retching she had once experienced replaced with a barely observable flinch. Still, it burned all the way down, the fire lighting its way down her as she returned to the chanting, the cloying tones of Valyrian rebounding off stone walls as the ritualists joined her, but a beat behind in the rhythm of her chant.

The shadows cloyed at her vision, as if they gathered around the room at its edges, narrowing and drawing closer to the form of the King before her. Her vision grew hazy, the shadows twisting into images of ancient gods, but she held the chant. Even as they threatened to overwhelm her, to steal back their power, to enact their vengeance and rip her apart, she held the chant. Their power beat heavily in the room, the temperature rising such that it would match the caverns beneath Dragonstone, indeed, it felt like they very well might be there, between the beating cant of the ritual. It was becoming too much, attendants began to waiver and faint at the edges of her vision, but she paid them no heed, she simply needed to draw more from the witch, the vitality and power she offered. She did so freely, even if the feel of her was so very different to the Valyrian origin of the others. She would question, at a more suitable time, why she had found her way to Westeros, but for now, she was simply thankful for the boon.

With a shuddering gasp the last of the ritualists collapsed, frothing at the mouth which seemed to bubble and steam in the cloying air. Visenya stood still, but her arms and legs felt like leaden weights, every part of her body was on the verge of collapse, and part of her knew that a piece of her she would give to this effort she might never recover.

With a snarl that was almost a yell of victory she finished the chant, the last tones of Valyrian rebounding from the stone walls and casting away the cloying shadows. The heat rushed out of the room as if routed by a breeze of frost. leaving Visenya panting, nearly slumped, before the form of her son.

His chest rose stronger than before, but he did not wake, still, she felt convinced their work would prove fruitful.

“Now…yes, I will aid you with the treatment.” She spoke, her voice hoarse with strain and age far greater than before they had started.

It had, she thought, been worth it. Though the magic left her shaking and shaken, a reverberation that echoed through her body and mind. There would be a price to pay, there always was. Only time would tell how great it would be or from whom it would be extracted. The musings kept her grounded and stopped her from spilling the contents of her stomach on the stone floor - just barely. Her dark eyes took in the form of Visenya Targaryen. It had not been easy on her either. Tyanna wanted to smirk, but even if she hadn’t known better, her body was in no mood to cooperate with that effort.

“A few things to keep his body calm and allow your magic to heal him.” The Pentoshi sorceress drew a delicate finger along the king’s body as she approached a long table that held her wares. She had not had the fortune to be born to a bloodline of magic, what she had had needed to be earned. But this? Potions and tonics, things that could soothe or inflame; the maesters at the Citadel only ever shared a fraction of the potential. Tyanna was not and had never been so limited.

She leaned against the structure, her back to Visenya, and allowed her shoulders to slump. “You are powerful, that could not be any more clear.” The witch didn’t wait for a response or even acknowledgement. “This is not the first time such magic touched your son.” Her head turned, harshly, a shadow over her pale face as she chose her next words with caution. “At least now I understand the obstacle to fulfilling my original purpose with the king.” Tyanna shook her head with a thin and strained laugh. “Time will tell if that can be overcome, or what will need to be given to secure your bloodline.” House Targaryen could carry on, with the soft king’s whelps, but not the branch that mattered. “But I am no stranger to difficulty, I will remain until it is done.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Ashford - The Reach

_{Collab with @Vanq@Ruby@Ezekiel}

The Baratheon host made good time, for all the veneer of arrogant indolence that Rogar easily portrayed, he kept himself and his men to a tight and well drilled schedule. More accurately, his Steward did, but the young Baratheon knew better than to dismiss the experience of a man who had been fighting wars since before Rogar's father had been born. He would joke and hunt with the men, but anything that endangered their haste or their relatively low profile was dealt with harsh but fair discipline, to the point that such infractions were rare not out of fear of reprisal, but fear of letting your lord and fellows down. Orys and his father had been tougher on their men certainly, for they bore the burden of being the first and the second, always something to prove for any slip could spell an end to all authority. Rogar was the first Baratheon to who such authority was a true birthright, a chance he was determined not to squander.

He had learned much from his grandsire though, some directly but most passed down via his father. The speed was there to prevent their finding, they had little reason to fear true reprisal but little was not none, and Orys Baratheon had always said that any information out of the hands of the enemy was always a boon, even in peacetime. Each morning with the changing of the guard, the camp was disassembled and what efforts could be made to conceal or confuse the passing of hundreds of men were made, and the march beneath the dawn sun began.

The ride and march this morning brought a welcome sight. Ashford was well known for being a town of fair appearance, white stone gleaming in the Sun beneath the triangle shape of their ancestral fortress. When many thought of the Reach they thought of such a picturesque sight. It certainly had a more pleasant smell than some parts of Oldtown, Rogar thought to himself as he watched the town from a hillock. He had been to Ashford once before, several years back. The beautiful market town was surrounded by rolling fields, an ideal location by both reasons for tournaments. One such field had been taken up by a sprawling camp, a gathering of men at arms many times the size of the Baratheon host, no doubt one of the armies marshaling to the call of the Reachlords with the recent unrest sweeping the Kingdom, as opposed to being raised simply to accept the exchange of hostages from one land to another.

Speaking of hostages, Rogar turned his head at the trot of hooves. Despite the official designation that Lady Dayne and all her followers had been under the custody of House Baratheon they had hardly experienced a trying couple of weeks. The Baratheon host did not trust them so much as to assign them watches, but otherwise they had mostly been allowed the run of the camp. When a few of their number had gone missing, scattering into the wilderness, Rogar had only had them followed for a short time, convinced they were scattering home rather than alerting a wider force his scouts had somehow missed. The majority had remained though, loyal to their cause and not mistreated by their captors, it was an easy decision.

The beat of hooves drew closer, both the Lady Dayne and his own accompanying Steward, the older man taking his duty seriously even if few by this point suspected the Dornish woman would attempt something such as an assassination on the Baratheon heir.

“Friends, come spy the fair visage of Ashford, as fine a quaint little town as any you may find across the Reach.” He beckoned to them both, so that the concealed archers that no doubt still watched over him would not feel the need to pepper either with arrows for approaching Rogar without summons. Away from the camp itself, his guardians were often less patient to establish such things.

“It seems Lord Ashford himself awaits our agreed exchange, so our little traipse across the countryside may be at an end.”

It had come to an end, at last. Though as the days had turned to weeks, the eagerness to be free of the Baratheon host had wavered. Not just among her people, who, if she was honest with herself, had been fed and slept better than since even before they left the Reach. But even Lady Dayne had found some semblance of peace in her situation. It rankled to admit it though, and so she would continue to not do so aloud or in earshot of the arrogant lord.

The same one who called to her now, and no matter her thoughts on it, she nudged the horse to pick up its pace and draw up next to the man. His steward never seemed to warm to her, few of his men had. But she had at least been left undisturbed by them as well. Whether it was the harshness of her stares or some word Rogar had put about, she did not know.

“Our Sun Shines Bright.” Ellyn muttered in annoyance. She’d been through Ashford on her way to the Stormlands months ago. “And so does the gold that lines the pockets of all the nobles who visit for the fair view, to spend it on little gifts to bring home, of woven yellow roses or,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial level, “even carved green hands.” The lady-knight could not entirely smother the hint of a grin but kept her eyes facing forward over the idyllic town and castle. There were far more men gathered than when she had first passed through. It should have been a welcome sight, but she shifted in her saddle to suddenly be so close to her freedom.

“Do I need to submit myself to be chained for this exchange?” Her steeliness broke with the whisper of a joke, and she glanced at the Baratheon man to her side before twisting her head more to see if his Steward would crack. The grin widened with a flash of white. “I will be sure that Lord Ashford knows we were treated with all due kindness and respect, of course.” She hoped there would be little of that required of her. Ellyn wanted only long enough to watch for the Baratheon host to depart. Surely with a force this large gathering, she’d be folded into some regiment or another and they’d carry on to King’s Landing, again. “I’ll even tell them of your repentance for waylaying one of the faithful, if you let me keep the horse.” She patted the creature’s neck, it had been nice to have such a luxury again.

“I cannot imagine so, the Reach lords seem far more charitable to roaming bands of faintly murderous faithful folk than we are in the Stormlands.” Rogar caught the grin, and matched it with a less hidden one of his own. He knew a little of the almost conspiratorial nature of the Reachlords, how many still clung to the Hand of Green, but he suspected this minor treason was more to do with parting young and rebellious nobles with their coin than a true effort to fund a rebellion to the old ways. “My grandfather would have probably agreed with you, but he was in one of his moodier years at the time, so of course he would.”

The request for the horse brought a genuine laugh to his features “Bold, to ask a ransom of your captor.” He allowed the silence to hold for a moment, before he broke it with mercy. “We likely do not have enough riders to bring our spares home, consider it on loan, until perhaps you find yourself at Storm's End on your Crusade to rid this land of false piety.” It was a tease, but there was a hint of severity to it. “Although I'd recommend knocking, rather than trying to breach it, that hasn't seemed to go well for those who try.”

With no further words, Rogar began to trot his steed down the gentle slope towards the town, the gleaming buildings drawing closer, as well as the noise of a camp of many, many men. The banners of Ashford fluttered in the gentle reach breeze, and even from a distance he could note the generally well disciplined nature of the camp, set out a respectful distance from the town itself.

It was early morning, so Rogar didn't expect the hustle and bustle of the market day to have begun, but even that considered, as the small number of riders among his party began to move into the town he was surprised by the lack of activity. It wasn't quite abandoned, he could feel the sting of eyes upon him and the honest of the smallfolk still hummed with activity, but seemed to not wish to make themselves known yet.

“Perhaps the rumors about Reachmen indolence are t-” Rogar was speaking when the twang of a crossbow interrupted him. A gurgle of noise followed, as his Steward slumped from his steed and to the ground in clatter of armour and man. Rogar turned to him first, in shock, and grief, but then he was acting, commanding.

“Ambush! Back to the -” He was half way in to the act when the nearest homes burst open. Men in Ashford Arms and armour pouring out into the street on either side. The armour, however, was ill-fitting, and for as many who bore the bright colours of Ashford, among them were those with the stars and stripes of the Warrior Sons. It was not a fight they could win, even survive if they tried. But that was not the aim, the first blow had been to ensure Rogar took them seriously, but the follow up shots never came.

“...Let's hear the terms of your treason then.”

She’d had a quip ready to lob back at him, a sort of truce they’d formed between themselves, after the barbs against one another had eased. Ellyn turned when Rogar did, at the sound of bolt and the unceremonious death of a man, but she was slower to respond. Her horse’s unsteadiness brought her back to her senses.

Anger flared and her eyes narrowed. “What is the meaning of this?” How had they missed this? Did Rogar’s men think her complicit? It wasn’t a difficult theory to come to. Still, she spoke out to the Warrior Sons who pushed through the crowd, until a man she vaguely recognized stood before them with a twisted and toothy smile.

“My, my. It is Lady Ellyn Dayne, the prisoner. You look remarkably well given the ordeal we were told you endured.” Every word dripped with disdain and was spoken with a heavy sneer.

“Ser Darklyn.” She held tightly to the reins, knuckles white with the effort. She looked over to her captor in the long pause, an error.

“Quiet, bitch.” He spat and ran a hand over his jaw. “A woman of the Faith and ardent Star was captured while on holy mission to the capital. Yet here you are, riding beside your supposed captor, with your sword still allowed to you.” He eyed Dawn, sheathed and secured to her horse.

“We were not welcomed to Lord Baratheon’s lands, but why would he mistreat the Seven’s faithful servants? Of course he allowed us-” Another error, her defense of the young lord was not taken well by the crowd beyond Ayden Darklyn.

“I SAID QUIET!” The knight bellowed and Ellyn Dayne winced back. Memories of her encounters in Oldtown resurfaced, of the judgement and mockery endured. “If you have not forsaken the Seven then do your duty now.”

There was a darkness in his eyes that made Ellyn look away again and cringe, fearful of what would come next yet somehow expecting it as well. She dared not look at Rogar or any of his men behind them.

Ser Darklyn turned to men at either side of him. “Strip them of their arms.” He ordered. “And you, Lady Dayne, you will escort Rogar Baratheon to the keep where he will be held until brought forth for judgement.”

Not for trial. A pit in her stomach grew, she couldn’t disregard the order, for many reasons. More surprisingly, she found she wanted to. Under the hateful gaze and suspicion all around her, she warred within. Why did she care what happened to these men? But what good was it to the Faith to manipulate the exchange this way? Her hand spasmed for the tight grip she maintained on the reins. She let go with a sigh, she was out of time, she had to act.

“Of course, ser.” It was not unambiguous in her desire to follow orders, but she kept her face as flat and devoid of emotion as she could manage.

The man cursed. Then he spat. Then he turned this way, that way, and then he cursed again. Kicked a little dirt. He was in agony when he walked to her, and shook his head, hard, “It’s not good. I can’t tell if it’s Ashford or someone else, but they got him.”

“And her?”

He just stared at her. His eyes saying what his mouth would not: The Seven hells did that woman matter? Instead, his heart seemed to slow, and he seemed to calm in the face of her wild grey-green eyes, “Her too, Mari.”

Mariel Wylde sighed, deeply, as she faced away from him and towards the hills they had been hiding behind for most the morning. That the Baratheon party never saw them was no miracle from the Seven. They were no gods. There was no afterlife. There was just alive, and dead, and dealing with where things fell along that line.

She’d known that since the love of her life died. “We have friends out here, yes?”

“…a few.” The older man said it, face red with sun and harder living in earlier years, the look of a hedge septon to him. “Not enough. No one close.”

Her eyes rolled, “That sounds about right at the moment.” She looked at the dozen men assembled around her, her mind running through it like her fingertips ran through the feather fletching of an arrow. “We have to get close enough to make every arrow count. Fucking Reach and its lack of rainwood…Sep, go back, get the wagon.”

The first scout stared, “What you thinking?’

“Load four men into the wagon, robed. Sing the songs of the Seven, approach. Get close. We sneak up in the tall grass. With any luck they’re too focused on your merry band approaching to notice us.”

“We’re saving the Baratheon?” Another man asked, confused.

It wasn’t their style to save high nobles. Today seemed like a twisted, queer, jape of a day. “We save them all. And we hurry up before real Reachmen arrive and they ride every last one of us down. Go get that wagon.”

From where they had been ambushed to the keep was no great distance, though it felt an eternity with Ser Ayden at her left and Rogar pulled off his horse to march at her right. It was obvious, now, how many Warrior Sons and Poor Fellows made up the crowds of the markets. Ellyn tried and failed twice to ask a question of the knight and was rebuffed. She resigned herself instead to silently trying to find a way to be at peace with what was happening. By all accounts, she should have been content with the way their fortunes had changed.

She dismounted with the rest of them when they reached the castle and unstrapped her bag and sword from the horse. It was worth far too much to have been so freely gifted, or at least, her empty coin purse would never have afforded such a beast.

“Come on, you’re not done yet.” One of Ser Darklyn’s men shoved into her. Ellyn’s brow furrowed at it, no matter that her head ducked in surprising deference. The leather bag held little of importance to her except for the tattered rainbow cloak her people had made her. Dawn felt even heavier in hands as she secured it to herself again. To be worthy, to feel worthy of it, seemed even harder now.

She followed behind the Warrior Sons’ leader through the courtyard and into the castle and continued to be surprised at how many fellow faithful filled the corridors. “We’ve been warmly welcomed here. House Ashford did not seem nearly so welcoming when I first passed through.”

Ayden snarled a laughter with no mirth or warmth. “We were persuasive.”

It took time for Ellyn to understand what exactly he meant as he led them through to a wing of private chambers with an increasing number of guards. “And Lord Ashford -” She nearly walked into Ser Darklyn at his sudden stop.

“It does not concern you.” His attention turned to his prized hostage. “Here, Rogar Baratheon. I do hope the room suits a man of your stature and lineage.” One of the other Sons opened the door to chambers that had clearly been sifted through for anything of value.

Ayden’s men jostled Rogar and his men until they were all in the room and pressed back away from the door. Ellyn backed away only to be halted with a rough hand on her shoulder, a grip that dug into her flesh and scraped against bone. She sucked in a sharp breath, at the pain, and at the fear of what would come next. “You too, bitch. Let’s see how friendly you are now with your captor.” He ripped the bag from her shoulder and yanked at the straps that secured Dawn to her.

Lady Dayne’s vision went white with rage. “Don’t.” Was all she could manage even as she felt the weight of the sword fall away from her, felt herself pushed further into the room where she stumbled and fell to her knee. She heard the door slam shut and barred, she knew there were still a dozen men outside the door. Still, she stood and turned and flung herself back at it, her fists beating against it. “No!” Her legacy, her family’s legacy, her only hope, the only remnant of her father, was gone. Because of her.

For the forced walk Rogar hadn’t spoken, his features seemed a mask of cold fury, but his mind raced. His own men were still camped beyond the town, there were certain expectations of what they would do should the Baratheon riding party not return without signal but you could never be sure how quickly that would occur. He hoped they would follow through, to retreat and regroup where they might get a message to the nearest lords but he couldn’t entirely write off that they might attempt something foolish out of loyalty.

He didn’t look at Ellyn as he walked, he believed she had been tricked as much as he, but that didn’t make her blameless. She was associated with these men, in some way, that had already done such substantial damage to the realm. He knew they hated him for his family name and what they represented, he was more than willing to pay them back in full. He had even less time and attention for Ser Darklyn, responding only so much as was needed of him to prevent further violence from falling on his surviving riders. His greatest reaction came when they stripped Ellyn of Dawn, an act that surprised him, and further surprised him with his own unthinking action. He tried to turn to resist alongside her, but shortly found a crushing elbow to his ribs as those handingly him restrained him, and he tumbled back into the humble room that was now their quarters.

“Seven, what a bunch of cunts.” He cursed, as the door was shut, wincing as his breath returned to him, standing straight and holding his hands to the back of his head as he willed more air into his already bruising diaphragm. “This is what comes of treason, a ravening horde that will strip this land of everything worth a damn.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Volantis

_{Collab @LadyRunic and Vanq}

A drunkard and a fool. That was how the former pirate thought of Artys Arryn. He had deposited the despot into his rooms, thankfully not the gutter as he deserved. For all that his own manner was rather roguish, he had the wherewithal not to act like some common born plebian in front of those who could offer him some alliance to a great House. The Arryns could still have something great, if only he could get this brainless boy to see it. The lad, Aster, had taken to the maid and she to him. A better match would be hard put to find. That this fool had instead of looking within had found a marriage without. This could be fixed however, it had to be. For his advantage as well as the Arryn’s and Rahl’s.

His black boots clicked across the tiled floor, his clothing light and airy if still in the Westrosi style. A handsome look even if he thought it himself. The sidelong looks from the woman confirmed it. Reaching the tightly closed door, he adjusted the pitcher of water to his other hand and burst through them without care as to how he caught the lad. The heavy door closing behind him as he studied the room and leaned against the barricade to the world outside. His dark eyes considering if he needed to drench the lad to get his attention. If the man was still asleep, he would be awakened to the sudden fall of a great deal of water across him and his bedding. “You have had enough time to draw your head from the wine and pull it from your arse. That being said, I did bring something to help if you have not reached that point quite yet. Or do you wish to make yourself more of a fool to such a powerful and well-connected family as those of your hosts?” It seemed this boy was dense, so Damon took a while to underline the extent of this young idiot’s foolishness.

Time was difficult to gauge or understand. One moment it was songs in a language he didn’t recognize, and then cool marble floors and angry faces, and now some man in his face making his head pound and ache. “I don’t feel good.”

He tried to focus but the room shifted. When had the drink overcome him? Damn the Seven, that cursed cup of wine they’d given him in the room with the water. Why wouldn’t everything just stop moving?

He leaned forward, put his head in his hands and took several deep breaths. Damon, Damon Harroway, thought he could berate him? His fingers dug into his skull, or he wished they did. Artys groaned, in annoyance, in anger, in agony. “Water, please.” The thought both seemed his salvation and completely revolted him.

Fuck this city. He’d do anything to end this agony, they weren’t even supposed to be here. “Fuck, give me whatever you have.”

Damon glared at the man and considered, before pouring some of the water from a pitcher, that he hadn’t thrown over the man, into a goblet and thrusting it into Artys’s hands. “Good, then I’ll give you a piece of my mind then.” His voice was not a roar but a icy chill. “Starting with how you insulted your hosts and infected yourself with the Scratch, to potentially tossing the best damn marriage alliance which would give you access to a House that has good ties with the Baelrys and a happy bride.” He resumed leaning against the pillar of the bed and glared at the man. “Which would you like to start with? Yourself, your aunt, your hosts or your gems- or potential lack thereof?”

He gulped the water, so quickly and so deeply that it took a few seconds to realize the water was gone and he was only gulping air. It had done nothing to end the agony. Instead, it had indeed worsened. Why did he have to yell? Artys had only been trying to finally get something, anything, done on this stupid thing his father had demanded of him. But…his face blanched and his hand unconsciously traveled from kneading at his head to his crotch. “No, I can’t, that’s…” So what if he had five brothers, and at least one uncle who’d probably be married soon enough. The Arryn line was secure but…”I can’t lose my fuckin’ bits!”

He bit his tongue in the exclamation and cursed more under his breath. The rest of what Damon said jostled him even as he despaired that he’d be nineteen and had the last fuck of his life. His family’s piety seemed to laugh at him and his situation. “How was I supposed to know? How?” He managed to stand, unsteadily, and poured himself another cup of water from the pitcher. He was sloppy but at least managed to fill the cup even if the same amount was cast to the floor.Artys gulped it down just as greedily. It vaguely cleared his head. “I need to fix this.” Yes, he did not need anyone back in the Vale learning of anything but of how successful he had been.

“Luckily if it’s just the bugs? You won’t lose them, just the respect of any woman you sleep with and no wife will share your bed willingly. You’ll be a laughing stock. That you scratched your… in front of Lady Rahl?” Damon smiled cruelly. “Though in answer as to how? You should have used your head and not the one you’re too fond of. If you had taken one look you could have seen the two dote upon one another, but you were too busy getting drunk and diseased. Your father will sneer forever more about that fact. Plus, you’ve insulted your hosts by selling your aunt to their rivals. Talk about starting a war in Volantis.” He wondered absently, deciding to beat it into Artys’s head that he was a useless fool.

This time, when he went to fill the cup again, the frustration instead erupted and he threw it - drunkenly ill-aimed - towards Damon. His voice rose, but worse, it cracked as he screamed back. “You’ve been perfectly clear that you think I’m a fucking idiot. Be. Useful. If you’re so sevens’ damned brilliant.”

The cup missed, no where near Damon or where Artys had aimed. But the young man trembled, his fist clenched and unclenched, and the outburst was quickly swallowed up by regret. “Help me.” No matter that he tried to phrase it as a demand, as a future lord paramount ordering about a lesser lord, it could only be heard for what it was. A plea, a cry for aid, at any cost.

Damon sneered and scoffed at the little fool. Thought him a idiot? That was being polite. “First, break the betroval you made with that other house and have your aunt wed to Aster Rahl. Apologize to your hosts and your aunt for it.” Pausing he amended his words. “First? Go see a healer for the Scratch. Then get that taken care of. Your sheets and bed will probably be burned.” He remarked. “After that… Well, you will owe me lest your father learn of how disasteredly you nearly screwed your fortunes.” He wanted to strangle the lad to make his point, but to touch him… Well, Damon did not want the Scratch himself. “Throw another thing at me, Arryn, and you’ll be seeing how nice it is to fly.”

Artys took a few pacing steps in a circle before sinking back into the chair Damon had originally dropped him in. Why was everything so difficult? “Help me end the match peacefully and get the Rahls’…forgiveness.” He stuttered over the word. Why had none of this been his own idea? “And I will owe you whatever you want.” He groaned again, a new wave of nausea upon him. “Go, I'll burn the bed tomorrow.” He wanted to retch and then pass out and maybe when he woke up this would all have been a dream.

“Today, and if you man up enough to end the match and beg forgiveness? I'll make sure no one sticks a knife in your back and your gems stay…. Attatched.” Damon ordered ruthlessly. “Time to learn you are not a Lord Paramount's heir here and I hold far more sway.”