Name

Bensen Tully
Age: 17 (24 AC)
Appearance:

At but 5’ tall, perhaps even a bit less, Bensen seems to lack the strong frame of a Tully in most regards. Curling, black hair parts down to his shoulders, a halo for his long nose and softer jaw, though his fair skin and bright bluebonnet eyes do mark him in his ancestry. The young Tully’s hands are worn enough from honest work, dirt forever underneath his fingernails, and he almost makes it a point to keep it so. As far as clothing, Bensen prefers to wear blacks and reds, though in a muted color. In most ways, it would be easy to mistake him for a common peasant anywhere else than the Riverlands.

Description & Biography:

Born from Lord Tully’s brother, Karkan Tully, and a Blackwood noblewoman, Olira, Bensen grew up split between Riverrun and Raventree Hall. As the eldest son of the couple, he bore the black hair of his mother’s house, endearing many of her cousins and earning the suspicion of some at Riverrun. They spoke of mistakes, for Olira was married further into her years, of unfound maidenheads and stableboy lovers, though Karkan was headstrong against the whole of it and his elder brother forbade such hated talk. Bensen would grow to be a tolerable hunter from that young age, preferring to tend to hawks and hunting hounds about Raventree Hall, and took up fishing often at his young age. The boy tended to falter at his knowledge of houses though, near and far, the colors and names and words seeming to blend together often.

His mother would become laden some few years after his sixth name-day, when he had finally gotten his first puppy to raise into a hound, and it was explained just three times to him on what precisely it meant. Bensen had a younger brother or sister, and they were coming soon. Seven months later though, his father off to Riverrun for family business, a dam broke with blood too, and both her and child were lost despite the Maester’s best efforts. The burial was held soon after, in Blackwood fashion, buried under the dead weirwood tree, and Bensen was as numb as could be to all of it. One day she was there, as vibrant as could be, and the next…the Maester didn’t let him see her, as still as she was. He’d only heard the screams, calls for help, the rush of servants here and there. Bensen had hid away with his pup during it, he had no idea really what had been.

The death broke Karkan, though. He grew to drink heavily, confess sins to holy brothers and Maesters, never to Septons, take long walks along the river with a bundle of stones in a pack. He didn’t speak to Bensen, long gone were his smiles and laughter. Eventually, the man did speak to the Maester at Raventree Hall, having Bensen sent to live with his brother. Karkan traveled north, though, far north to the wall to take on the Black.

Bensen still didn’t understand, though Lord Tully took pains to explain it. He would soon be distracted by the careful machinations of that new protector, hunting dogs, hawks, fishing supplied alike. The young boy would be embraced by his older cousin, Abigael, as she in some ways adopted him while shielding him against the fool rumors that had begun to surround Bensen. Some of the worst repute in Riverrun called him an ill-omen, marked as he was by his black hair, one who had driven a proud Tully to run off and a Blackwood to die, though Bensen rarely noticed such as the talk notably died-down whenever he and Abigael were about. Worried as they were for the actions of her father against such, and for the actions of the Lord Tully’s daughter, such fools were loath to risk their necks.

Bensen meanwhile would grow to continue to be an even better hunter than before, a good enough hawker, and well-beloved by his hunting hounds, even taking up riding in more than a cursory fashion by virtue of long-running competitions with Abigael. Young, still incapable at the strangeness of court life, still incapable at the cruelty of court politics, he remains delightfully oblivious to many of those issues which are sure to trouble him in the future. His singular connection to the probable entrance of court life would be a strong bond with his cousin, Abigael, which continues still as the pair do at times read together.

Age: 30 (born 12 AC)

Bio:
The son and heir that is expected of him. Prentys was raised from birth to be the sort of man who could control and rule over the fractious Riverlands. Born shortly after the conquest, his father knew the sort of challenges that Prentys would face. Lords who would think themselves better suited to control the Riverlands and old rivalries that would not be solved in the span of Aegon's Conquest for all that the lords of the Trident had come together to cast down Harren the Black. A large lad, brawny and tall. The young Prentys was sent to foster under the Lord of House Broome. It was a two-fold arrangement. As he learned the skills of a Lord and a knight the young man also found courtship with Lucinda Broome as she grew into a young woman, the daughter of the Lord. A match that was carefully arranged by their parents.

Yet for the softness between the betrothed pair, Prentys found that the Broome were too pious for his character. Yes, there was a place for the Seven and it was proper that their ways be followed. Yet, the young man kept to his own council for all his devotion to the gods of Westeros. For there was also might to follow. A man can speak loudly of religion and be proper and true, yet it would not stop the blow of a sword or axe. Miracles were rare things, and the gods' anger was fickle in most cases. So when the realm hummed with hushed whispers about the marriage of Aeny's two children. Prentys held his peace. The Targaryen, despite this flaw, had brought peace to the realm and they had a weapon no army could match, for they rode dragons.

The man busied himself with the words of House Tully- Family, Duty, and Honor. By the vows his forefather swore, he was to serve the Targaryens as Lord Paramount in his time. His duty was to uphold the rights and expectations of both the law of the land and of the Seven for his own lords and smallfolk. If his own lords overlooked their due? He was not going to tempt the fate of Harren the Black or act on impulse while a vast flame coild about the Iron Throne. A skilled swordsman and his father’s right hand? He had read his history and though his family’s station was fairly new? Risking upsetting the balance was a walk across the God’s Eye without getting one’s feet wet. Impossible. Sides would have to be taken, yet he wished to see the full picture before making up his mind.

As for family? He was quickly realizing to his dismay that Lucinda was not as quick to bear a child as he would hope. The woman was only five years younger than him, and for the fact they had been wed young and were oft together in Riverrun, no child had blessed their union though the Maester had confirmed that Lucinda had conceived several times. It drew a hardship upon the pair and Lucinda questioned if perhaps the Seven had their reasons, asking why did Prentys as the heir to the Lord Paramount did not speak against the act of wedding brother to sister. She did not care for his answer and found it impossible that he would go against the teachings of the Seven to support demons where they sat above men and, according to her as she saw the minds of the Targaryens, above gods.

Prentys found the notion foolish and more to the point dangerous. Lucinda was pregnant once more and for all her words were spoken to her husband and in private? They were not wise ones to speak in a shout. The couple though still caring and dutiful to each other found a fracture. Another of the rivers that divided their realm this time wedging between them.

Lyrra Stark, The Lady of Winterfell

Age: 25

Appearance: With delicate pale skin and faded well groomed grey-white hair lithe and tall Lyrra is the lady of the house. She carries herself with grace and elegance of any great house lady, yet behind her storm blue eyes is a cunning and understanding that while she cannot fight like her brother her battles are just as vital to the house.



Description & biography: The Lady of Winterfell, normally the wife of the Lord Paramount would carry this title yet while he mother prefers to spend her days with her husband, Lyrra sits in court. Alongside her brother Marwyle they have become the day to day caretakers of North as their father at his age cannot handle everything himself anymore. While Marwyle has learned logistics, battle, and dealing with the lords of the land. Lyrra uses her own position to host and defuse tensions before they mount, as well as learn about trouble in enough advance Marwyle can bring it to heel.

Marwyle, The Great Wolf

Age: 25

Appearance: While not as tall or as well muscled as his brothers, Marwyle has taken a serious and dour attitude seen in Starks. His face rarely finds a reason to smile yet it not out of malevolence but sheer determination, with gray-white hair and steel ice blue eyes. His determined set face as if he might take a fist and bury it through a wall. His determination and just mindset contribute to his demeanor, yet among his family he take a soft almost kindly posture careful and cautious in how they might think of him in his own way very loving.



Description & biography: The Great Wolf, a title Marwyle would not have give himself yet bestowed upon him by his father and the bannerlords. From dealing with Wildling raids, to broking peace between his bannermen, and even helping plan harvests and new storage methods when needed. Marwyle is not great for anything other than being willing to sit and learn when he does not know enough and to apply that information quickly and swiftly to the task at hand. Like his sister he has been helping to manage Winterfell and later the North as a whole since his teenage years. His father believes he has only two sons fit for the seat of Winterfell... One he doubts will ever inherit it another who has not spoken to in over a decade. Marwyle keeps a small pack of tame dire wolves as pets and companions, the beasts are often seen moving with him during his travels.

Magna, The Pup

Age: 21

Appearance: Dressing boyishly with with long wild grey-white hair Magna is a cheerful and care free girl. Whether practicing archery or sword play under her brother's tutelage. She is short though well proportioned girl with more strength in her than her sister. Blue ice crystal eyes and strong arms she is regarded as a tomboy and bit out of sorts with the Starks at the castle, yet she is still beloved by them all.



Description & biography: Magna is carefree spirit with an upbeat attitude contributing to her lack of responsibilities in comparison to her siblings. Riding horses, hunting in the Wolfswood, exploring Winterfell, and reading of old legends occupy most of her time unlike her two older siblings Magna did not have to grow up or face harsh truth of their siblings choices. As such she became darling of the family spoiled and loved by all with personality that shows it.

Karlen Snow, The Mystic

Age: 24

Appearance: Dark brown with a mop of black hair and darker skin than many of the north due to excessive travels and regularly sun burns on his more fair skin having darkened it over the years. Tall with broad shoulders, normally with plate covered over his chest and shoulders atop that furs and more. Underneath it mail, his years of travel have made him not only well read but experienced in the ways of combat. Strong muscles and sharp features combined with his wild eyes make look like a predator and move like one too.



Description & biography: Karlen has spent his life studying under a father who supposedly could perform magic, traveling the world over to find books and information his father was interested in. Yet with no talent of his own and his father's refusal to teach him or explain the purpose of it, he eventually abandoned his father and brother's to find a life his own. To pursue magic of his own according studying under tutelage of maesters at The Wall for awhile before coming to believe it was not his fate. With recommendation from his cousins he has been staying out at Bear Island while weighing his options on what to do with himself.

Gynn Tully
Age: 38

Appearance: Long red hair and a short kept stubble of a beard across his face, he is fit well muscled sporting a bit of a pudge that he has tried to keep off by eating less. His hard set look hides a man who adores his family, with emerald green eyes and a handsome features he strikes the look of a younger man than he is.



Description & biography: The youngest nephew of the former lord Tully, he was sent to study to become a Maester in Oldtown from the age of seven. Building resentment against his parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and the more over how he was sent away and made to study with the Maesters without anyone speaking up for him desire to remain. He would eventually leave his service to the Maesters after forging ten links with three iron links, two copper, one of yellow gold, one of red gold, two of silver, and one of black iron. He keeps his chain using it to bind a bracelet to his sword to his hand so might never lose the weapon.

When not helping to train the Poor Fellows or Warrior Sons, Gynn would spend time at home teaching his nieces and nephews. Presents and near a constant push to be a part of their life and a force of positive energy. Whether sword, reading to them or more over the past eighteen years he has pushed to be there, even without formal invitations to return home he would bring gifts and take his nieces and nephews under his wing whenever possible. While loyal to the faith for giving him somewhere else to go after his family sent him to the Maesters, he is more so loyal to the members of the faith in Oldtown than a deeply pious warrior.

House Dayne is one of the most ancient houses in the Seven Kingdoms, claiming First Men ancestry dating back ten thousand years to the dawn of days. The first Dayne is said to have raised Starfall on an island at the mouth of the Torrentine, having tracked a falling star there and found a stone of magical powers. His descendants became Kings of the Torrentine and Lords of Starfall. Along with the Fowlers and Yronwoods, the Daynes were among the most powerful and prestigious houses of ancient Dorne. The Daynes are also famed for Dawn, their ancestral sword made from the fallen star, and the men who wield it, the Swords of the Morning.

The Daynes have taken part in many conflicts between Dorne and the Reach, including battles against House Oakheart. King Samwell Dayne, called the Starfire, once burned Oldtown.

The last Dayne King, Vorian, known as the Sword of the Evening, was defeated in Nymeria's War and sent to the Wall. Afterwards the Daynes supported Nymeria against King Yorick V Yronwood. Nymeria's third husband was Ser Davos Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Nymeria, Princess of Dorne, was later succeeded by her eldest daughter by her first husband, Mors Martell, not her son by Davos.

In 10 AC during the First Dornish War, Ser Joffrey Dayne led a Dornish army to the walls of Oldtown, razing the fields and villages outside it. Queen Visenya Targaryen retaliated by burning Starfall with Vhagar.

Lady Clarisse Dayne

Age: 16

Ser Ryon Dayne

Age: 37

Kian cannot remember his parents very well. He recalls the smiling face of a woman, the deep voice of a man and a moving picture in his mind of what must have been his father walking past him, asking about the night's dinner. Somehow, the word Riverlands sticks in his mind. Verdant green and blue skies outside a wooden cottage, smoke lazily pouring forth from the chimney. The first smoke. His next memories fade, and suddenly he finds himself in flea bottom. The sun baking the sandstone hovels as men and women scrape for a living. He remembers walking the docks, fascinated with the men hauling ropes and carrying wooden crates of the unknown on and off ships as waves lap against the quay, dancing with coruscating, shimmering white light. It's all in a haze, as if he dreamed the entire affair. He remembers looking up, into the first clear image he can see in his mind.

Thrandos the Fateful looked upon him, his goatee more golden than grey, those years ago. A dimple on his left cheek, pock marks gently kissing the right of his head, just beside his mane of light hair, almost angelic as the sun beams upon him. Thrandos was kindly, Kian recalls. He offered Kian something to eat; a sweet he had never tasted before. The youth followed the man to a ship. The vessel gently rolls away from the sprawling urban center of the Westerosi. Waves and one particularly bad storm staying in his mind, even now. Hiding under the bed, fear gripping his throat.

Volantis awaited. A city that awed him, even beyond the scope of King's Landing. Perhaps so because he could not recall approaching the Westerosi capital from the sea. Only leaving it, and he was occupied with other things. But Volatnis was immense, a place of wonders. It was said the hundred isles of Braavos could be dropped into the harbor and disappear, he recalled one sailor claiming. The nameless ship had docked, and from there Thrandos the Faithful led the young one to a vast structure, almost a plaza of sorts, and yet its varying minarets seemed each as large as the Red Keep from across the narrow sea.

The Great Temple of the Lord of Light.

Kian's memories grow far more pellucid and unclouded. And yet, this is the chapter in his life that must remain shrouded in secrecy. R'hllor is the God of light, but also the God of shadow. His rituals are secret; surreptitious, and even if they were made know, the dimensions would be paradoxical, incomprehensible, and would undoubtedly prove ephemeral in one's limited mind.

What Kian is permitted to recall aloud, however, is the women. Alonta of Braavos, Serana from Lys, Princess Philandrae of Sarnor, and many more. One needs to appreciate the finer things in life when traveling in service to the Lord of Light. Thrantos had told him that, though granted the old priest had meant the occasional glass of wine, not bedding royalty and whispering into the ears of other men's wives. But the Lord had blessed Kian with the looks of a sculpture and the voice of a singer, who was he to question it?

His devil-may-care attitude however, was somewhat tempered when his next pilgrimage was not to one of the Free Cities, but to the land of his birth. The council of flame had given it to him with their full blessing, but he could tell from their eyes it was a penal assignment; a punishment for his extracurricular activities. He was granted no audience with the crown, or any representation with any of the seven kingdoms. He was there to spread the faith, and provide light where there was darkness.

Well, he supposed he would have to make do, now wouldn't he?

Age: 23 born in 12 AC

Appearance:

Description & biography:

Irenya had the same lustrous hair and beautiful eyes of her kin. But what truly distinguished her was that she was always possessed of an especially large stature, even from an early age. Standing over six feet in height, in her sock feet and broad of shoulder, she would have been an imposing figure, even for a man. But she moved with a skill and careful grace that would have been the envy of nearly any dancer. While she was a decent enough seamstress, she also possessed a lovely voice and proved to be an adept player of the lute. So when the women of the household or from some other family sought to make their whispered japes, Irenya was always more than happy to demonstrate her skills and agility.

Though she knew such things would only garner more jealousy and spite, she was more than happy to silence those who would mock her. But these things of the noble court were never truly her chief passion. While she spent many hours with the Maesters and in the library, she was always more to keen to learn of the great deeds done by mighty knights in days gone by. As her childhood waned, she spent more time evading her Septa and watching the young squires and lords train to be warriors.

While she had neither Prentys' lordly skills or Raulf's clever tongue or Abigael's skills as a lady, she had a heart for those who could not help themselves and a strong sense of duty and right.

Her singing and instrument playing turned more towards songs of war and as she read about tales of mystery knights. One year, she was gifted a small pony for her birthday and as time passed, she rode farther afield. As Irenya grew older and learned something more of the world, she quickly realized that some men were so foolish as to be intimidated by her strength and size. Others were nothing like the knightly heroes she'd read about. Some even seemed to be little different than the brigands they hunted, aside from having better armor.

One evening, as she rode back home, she recalled a line from a song about a mystery and asked herself a question; why not her? Such things were hardly considered the proper lot of a lady born from a great house. But then, no one would have to know would they? Besides, the crowd at any tourney always lived a mystery knight.

So it was that young Irenya began carefully hoarding whatever funds she could come by, any way she could obstain them. She watched the knights and squires train and then carefully mimicked their movements late at night in her chambers. She would ride out and practice jousting on the spirited mare she'd been gifted for her 13th birthday. But she knew that such things were still no substitute for real training and sparring. So, she wrote a letter to an armsmaster from King's Landing and promised to pay him for her training, provided that she could wear her helm the entire time.

The old armsmaster, a crusty old codger by the name of Hollam, had trained his share of strange young nobles and found their coin all spent the same. So by night, in the ruins of an old chapel, Hollam trained and sparred with what he believed to some foolish young nobleman seeking to preserve his mystery knight identity. So over the years, Irenya trained in the evenings and practiced in the privacy of her chambers. As time passed, she was able to scrape together funds for a warhorse and the armor of a knight.

Finally, at the age of sixteen, Irenya faked illness to avoid going with her family and entered a tourney as a mystery knight. Though she took her fair share of hits, she did well enough for herself and left before she found an opponent that could unhorse her. As she hide her armor and changed back into the garments of a noble lady, she had to admit that she felt . . . more disappointed than anything else. There had been no real thrill. She didn't feel any glory in it. And she couldn't say why.

During one of the last times she trained with Hollam, the old warrior mentioned riding out against some former hedge knights turned bandit. It was then Irenya realized her problem. All the pomp and pageantry did nothing to ease the plight of those that a knight was sworn to protect. A tourney could be a place for a knight to hone his skills but what of those who needed their aid the most but never received it? So it was that Irenya practied all she'd learned with renewed vigor and began to ride the roads late at night. Or if her household traveled to visit another lord or to a neighboring hold, she would venture out at night and quietly listen at taverns or in markets. Irenya also learned a great deal as to what the smallfolk thought and their many struggles.

So by day, Irenya danced, sang and sowed with the women of her household. If she spent a great deal of time out on her horse or with her hounds and falcons, that was just reckoned to be her way. After all, the lady Irenya still conducted herself as a proper lady. As far as anyone in House Tully believed, she would no doubt go on to be a great Septa someday. After all, Abigeal was a fine lady and would no doubt make some suitor a fine match. Though it still stung, Irenya was happen enough to let that silent perception stand. After all, it sustained the illusion. By night she would practice all she had learned with weighted blades and lances. She would lift looped iron bells and practice climbing and vaulting into the saddle in full harness. If she wasn't training her falcon or her dogs, she would hunt with bow and spear. But at last the day came when she finally had to put those skills into practice.

At nineteen, Irenya was riding home, thinking of which sally port might be the best one to sneak back in by, when she stumbled across the bodies of a merchant family in a ditch. The muddy rode bore the clear signs of cart and horse and the footprints of a half-dozen men bearing the weight of armor.

Unsure of how much her skills would avail her against multiple armed men, Irenya instead snuck through the woods and found the bandits back at their camp. As the moon rose and the night winds wailed, Irenya waited for the drunken bandits to fall into a slumber and then she quietly dispatched them with her dagger.

But their chief was not drunk as that and bandits are not a trusting lot. The man, a burly warrior with a bristling beard, had slept in his armor. As soon he realized what was happening, he rose with a shout like to wake the dead and despite his drunkenness, still had some skill with a blade. Irenya, having shed most of her armor to sneak through the woods, was forced to use every one of her deadly skills in a desperate fight by the flickering flames. At last, having kicked a burning log towards the bandit and gaining a handful of precious seconds, Irenya cut the murderous rogue down and sagged to the ground.

If anyone noticed her exhaustion the next morning, they simply attributed it to the ways of a woman who was known to be quiet bookish and perhaps stayed up a little later than she should have. But Irenya was nearly beside herself with fierce joy. She'd proven to a deadly foe and to herself that she was worthy of knighthood, if only in her own eyes. So it went, over the years, that Irenya would continue to maintain the facade she'd carefully cultivated. A young noblewoman of good breeding and courtesy, possessing all the skills a lady of a great house should. A handsome and well-spoken woman, though most likely destined for spinsterhood.

But by night, Irenya would ride out, bearing a device of two entwined roses, each mode of rusted iron. Over the next five years, robber knights and brigands would learn to fear the Knight of the Iron Rose. The roads throughout the Riverlands became much safer and it was said that a lone woman might very well be able to walk the streets alone at night. Though of course were so reckless as to try and put that to the test.

When she found time, Irenya would enter the tourneys as a mystery knight and take a certain spiteful joy in unhorsing those who had no idea of her true identity. Between her bandit hunting and the tourney, she was able to mass enough funds to gain a fine suit of armor, a great black mace, two good destriers and plenty of fodder. Though it was said that the Iron Rose never took more than a small ransom from any knight "he" had unhorsed, and would never leave a man bereft of armor and warhorse.