The rest of Westeros dismisses the Iron Islands as an insignificant backwater of the Seven Kingdoms. The islands are all rocky and barren, the soil is thin, and the weather is harsh to extremes rarely found elsewhere in Westeros. Damp, cold, and wind are ever present; only the interior of Great Wyk, largest of the islands, has places out of sound or sight of the sea. The thralls and common folk of the Iron Islands spend their lives in dismal toil, scraping a living from the poor soil, wrestling with the sea and the creatures in it, or tunnelling under the earth as they pull their fortune from its depths.

Aside from the sea’s bounty, which is little enough, the rocky crags of the Iron Islands are blessed with one other meagre source of wealth. Many of the isles, particularly Harlaw, boast deposits of metals, including lead, tin, and the iron that gives the isles their name. These ores are the only resource of note that the Iron Islands export to Westeros and the rest of the world. Trade, however, has never been a great concern to the Ironmen. They take to the seas, living as raiders and reavers. For thousands of years, the people of the Iron Islands have taken what they need to survive, letting the rest of the world thrive as best it may.

The origins of the Ironmen are lost to the mists of time. They claim descent from the Grey King, the mighty mariner of the Age of Heroes. The Grey King’s people have always been people of the sea, revering the Drowned God and plying the oceans on swift longships. They have no patience for farming, fishing, or mining (as the Greyjoy words say, “We Do Not Sow”) — such lesser work is left to the thralls taken in raids.

For the folk of the Iron Islands, the only true occupation is war. For countless centuries, all the coastlands of Westeros have lived in fear of the raiding longships of the Ironmen. At various times, bold High Kings of the Isles have conquered large sections of Westeros, while intrepid captains have sailed to Asshai and beyond. With the coming of Aegon Targaryen, the Iron Islands were brought under the sway of the Iron Throne. Septs, maesters, and other trappings of the green lands came to the isles, but the Ironmen still remembered the Old Way, and their hearts yearned for its return.

Cleverness, skill at arms, and persistence are all treasured traits to the Ironmen. They live in contempt of the weaklings of the “green lands” (their name for the mainland of Westeros), their gods, and their laws. Ship captains and warriors are revered among them; it is said that every captain is a king on his or her deck, and every king must be a captain. Captains are expected to raid, gaining wealth for their crews through plunder and pillage.

Indeed, true Ironmen only value things “bought with iron” (won by force of arms in combat), and have only scorn for those who clothe themselves in finery bought with gold. Among the Ironmen, women are usually relegated to secondary roles in society. There are, however, some women who have proven themselves in combat and become ship captains. Some say the salt and sea temper them, giving them the appetites and strength of men.

Life is short on the Iron Islands, and the harsh climate has brea harsh outlook in the Ironmen. Even their sports are brutal: most feasts see at least one “finger dance,” a game where one or more drunken warriors hurl short-hafted axes at each other. Players must either catch the axes or leap over them. The game draws its name from the fact that most dances end when one player loses some of his or her fingers. Death and pain are the expected results of a life spent reaving, and dying well in battle is seen as far better than a life of comfort.

The lands of Dorne are as diverse as its people: from the Red Mountains in the west and north, to the inland desert and river vales, to the coasts of the Sea of Dorne and the Summer Sea. All regions of Dorne are almost universally harsh, giving birth to a hardy, determined people who know how to survive. Lack of food and water, the threat of stinging scorpions and vipers, and the natural dangers of the land itself conspire against those who live in Dorne, but somehow they have always found a way to endure — and even thrive.

The vast majority of Dorne is a dusty land of small deserts and dry river valleys. This region is the southernmost part of Westeros, reaching out into the ocean from the mountains that separate it from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Water is scarce in this land, and most of its inhabitants live near the low-running rivers and canyons that cut into the dry terrain. The Brimstone runs south into the sea, while the Vaith and Scourge meet in the eastern mountains to form the Greenblood. This river runs to the sea in the east, just south of the stronghold of Sunspear.

The Sea of Dorne separates this dry land from the rainwood and Storm’s End, a long-time enemy of the princes of Dorne. The last outposts of Dorne include Starfall, a castle that guards the pass to the western arm of the Reach, and Yronwood, as a final defence against invaders coming down the Boneway.

North of the strongholds of Starfall and Yronwood are the mountains that both protect and isolate Dorne from their northern neighbours. These lands are populated by a tough and hearty breed of Dornishman, warriors who have led the vanguard in almost every Dornish assault on Storm’s End or the castles of the Reach. Since Dorne has become one of the Seven Kingdoms, the large battles of the past have largely been left behind, but the Dornish mountain folk have not been quiet. They still occasionally raid the lands of the Reach, ensuring that the old wounds between the two lands never heal.

North and east of these mountains stretch the vast Dornish Marches. The castles of Blackhaven and Nightsong stand outside these lands, marking the last stops before a traveller must pass through the Boneway or the Prince’s Pass to reach the desert lands of Dorne. Dornishmen heading north often take the Boneway up to the ruins of Summerhall, where they turn east and intersect with the kingsroad in order to bypass the lands of the Reach.

The people of Dorne are scattered all across its lands. King Daeron I once observed that there were three types of Dornishmen, and those divisions are still present in the region to this day. The salty Dornishmen live along the coasts, mainly along the Broken Arm region where the red mountains stretch out into the Sea of Dorne. These Dornishmen are litheand dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair. They are fishermen and sailors, hard men who sail the ships of the Dornish fleet. They wait eagerly for the next opportunity to test their mettle against the steel and stone of Storm’s End or the harrowing waves of Shipbreaker Bay.

The salty Dornishmen have the most Rhoynish blood — a fact that gives them a sense of pride and a connection to their rulers in Sunspear. Sandy Dornishmen live in the deserts and long river valleys of the Dornish inland. Their skin is even darker than that of their salty brethren, burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. Even in the heat of the desert, these Dornishmen prefer to wear armour inlaid with copper. They often wear one or more copper discs about their body in tribute to the desert sun.

The stony Dornishmen live along the Boneway and in the Red Mountains that separate the region from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. They are the largest and fairest of the region’s people, and have the least amount of Rhoynish blood. They keep the look and many of the customs and traditions of the Andals and First Men from whom they are descended. Of all the Dornishmen, the stony sort hold the least allegiance to the princes of Sunspear. They are still loyal, however, and appreciate the protection given them by the Rhoynish princes against their hated enemies to the north.

The lands of the North are mostly cold and empty, with civilisation rare, scattered far and wide about the freezing land. The various houses that hold sway here are almost all descended from the blood of the First Men, for few others have the strength to live in such a place, much less grow fond of it. Settlements can be found in even the remotest of places, from the heart of the wolfswood to the broad, flat plains that stretch between the Dreadfort and White Harbor. As one moves north toward the Wall, though, the settlements become fewer and farther between. These lands are harsh, even during summer, and the woods along the Last River are cold and grey.

Perhaps because it is so sparsely settled, the North holds some of the greatest fortresses and castles in the Seven Kingdoms. Moat Cailin guards the southern boundary, nigh-impregnable even after enduring years of neglect and the ravages of the humid swamp on which it sits. Winterfell stands north of Moat Cailin along the kingsroad. This fortress stands like an impregnable granite monument to the hardiness of the First Men, whose blood flows through the veins of the Starks who inhabit it. The Mormonts sit on Bear Island in the Bay of Ice, while House Umber rules from the Last Hearth, east of the kingsroad on the edge of a small, cold forest by the border of
the Gift.

The Gift is an area of land ceded to the Night’s Watch by the North’s rulers. It stands as an unmarked barrier between the lands of the North and the Wall, sparsely populated by a hearty people who eke out an existence despite mounting raids from wildlings and the harsh, wintry environment. Beyond the Gift lies the Wall, and the remaining fortresses of the Night’s Watch. The men along the Wall have given up their old lives to guard the Seven Kingdoms against the horrors of the frozen wastelands.

The southernmost portions of the region are known as the Barrowlands. This is a wide, hilly region in which many of the barrows of the First Men can be found. Its plains stretch from the Stony Shore on the Sunset Sea in the west to the Bite and the fortress of Widow’s Watch to the the east. Where the kingsroad cuts this region down the middle, it is a featureless grassland that stretches for days and days in every direction.

The people of the North are a tough and hardy lot, working hard during the summer to plan for leaner times. One will not find any dreams of the Great Summer among these people and already the maesters and stargazers are accounting for the shorter days that lead them to the inevitable realisation that winter is coming. Those who come from the settlements of the North are practical and direct, not favouring the political games and guarded communication of the cities of the south.

Transactions are made above the table, and those who would do otherwise are looked upon with a suspicion reserved for scoundrels. This attitude toward dealing with one’s fellows translates into a relatively safe region — at least from the depredations of one’s fellow man. It is said of the North that “a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day gown and still go unmolested, and travellers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast.”

The people of the North are practical in their dress, their attitudes, and their outlook. They tend toward simple clothing that will keep them warm, rather than the impractical fashions one might find in King’s Landing or Highgarden. Even the nobility prefers simple dress, although they wear their house colours proudly and travel with bannermen on many occasions.

The majority of the North’s population lives on farms owned by the family or families that live within them. During the long summers these farms prosper. As winter approaches, the farmers move in toward the towns and castles of the North. These “winter towns” lie abandoned during the summers, but become bustling trade centres when the people of the North huddle together to endure the long, wintry nights.

The farther north one goes, the more grim the people, like the land, become. They have resigned themselves to the bitter cold of their homes and the dangers of the wildling attacks that they endure. At one time the Wall made these people feel secure from the dangers of the Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs, but in recent years more and more threats have been spotted south of the great bulwark. The Wall’s defences have grown weak and scattered over time, and the First Ranger’s calls for more men have fallen on deaf ears. No one is certain what the ultimate consequence of such neglect will be, but the people of the North are determined to be as prepared as possible for the day when winter comes.

The Reach is home to the most beautiful landscapes in all the Seven Kingdoms. Wide fields of flowers and lush grasses cover the plains of the north, while the roseroad travels southwest toward the wineries and fields near Honeyholt and Brightwater Keep. The Roseroad meanders through the land, at several points crossing the Mander River, which forks and winds across the entire region.

In the west, the Honeywine River creates a temperate lowland environment, much different from that of the mountains and deserts east of Starfall. The area is the agricultural capital of the Reach, growing everything from fireplums to honey to grapes. The Arbor, an island off the cape of Whispering Sound, produces some of the finest wines in the Seven Kingdoms. The city of Oldtown sits at the southern end of the roseroad, acting as the Reach’s primary port as well as the home of the Citadel, wherein young men are trained in the maesters’ arts.

Although the upper waters of the Mander are muddy and difficult, it becomes clear and calm as it nears Highgarden. Great green willows and plants grow along the shore, making any trip down the river pleasing to the eyes. The lords of Highgarden have pleasure barges that routinely travel up and down the river as their highborn passengers feast on melons and sweet wines from the Arbor. It is not uncommon for the ladies of Highgarden to have marriage ceremonies on the largest of these barges, with the river fi lled with rose petals and scented with mint and lemon.

The plains to the north and west bound the goldroad and the searoad. They are not nearly as fertile or beautiful as those to the east and south. These plains begin to show characteristics of the rocky flatlands of the Westerlands. One area in the region is particularly notable, the Field of Fire; it is here that Aegon Targaryen ended the final major threat to his rulership over Westeros.

The Tyrells of Highgarden are a proud house that demands respect from all who owe them their allegiance. They believe themselves to be the very definition of chivalry. Their sworn houses take their cue from Highgarden, acting in only the most gallant and courtly manner and maintaining a strict relationship with the smallfolk and fellow nobles of the region. Most every boy in the Reach dreams of one day serving as a squire to one of the great Tyrell or Florent knights, and perhaps even becoming knights in their own right. Girls grow up dreaming of marrying a handsome knight who will sweep them off their feet and carry them off on a grand destrier bearing the noble colours of a great house.

Even though the chivalric code followed by the lords of the Reach ensures that the smallfolk know their place in society and know it well, many still feel a sense of pride at being ruled by such beautiful and brave lords — or so their lords would like to believe. The smallfolk of the Reach are much like those everywhere between the North and Dorne, giving traditional tributes and paying taxes as their station demands. Celebrations and festivals are common, and knights on their way to a tournament often make many stops along the way to parade their sharply dressed horses and attendants and to receive the favours due them from the smallfolk. Many a bastard has been sired as a direct result of these pageant trains, though for the most part the mothers of such children feel blessed rather than forgotten.

The people of Horn Hill and other locations near the Dornish Marches are less interested in the honour of their lords and more concerned with how many swords they can send against the raids from the stony Dornishmen of the nearby mountains. They tend to be a harder people than the farmers and merchants in other areas of the Reach, although not nearly so much as the Dornishmen they fight or the hardy Northmen.

The people of the Reach have greater access to dyes than most because of the preponderance of fl owers. Because of this, they dress much more richly and extravagantly than smallfolk elsewhere, and more so than even some nobility. The greens and golds of Highgarden are popular colours, as are the reds and purples made in the Southwest from grapes that cannot be used for wine. The Reach has become a place of almost dream-like beauty in the time since Aegon Dragonlord immolated its lords on the Field of Fire.

The riverlands are a vibrant region, full of bustling riverside towns and farmers transporting goods to market. Settlements are common and it is hard to travel for a day by road or river without encountering other travellers or passing through a village. Some farmers and merchants have shops upon the great rivers of the region, floating from town to town and selling to travellers whom they happen upon. Even mummers use the rivers to their advantage, floating downstream on brightly coloured barges from which they can give performances.

The Trident is the heart of the region, being the confl uence of the Blue Fork, the Red Fork, and the Green Fork rivers. It was at the ruby ford of the Trident that Robert Baratheon slew Rhaegar Targaryen. The lands that surround this great river are green and fertile, home to several towns and farms as far as the eye can see. Most of the lords of the region have built their castles and holdfasts along the banks of the Trident, including Riverrun, the seat of House Tully.

Riverrun stands where the Tumblestone falls into the Red Fork before continuing towards the Trident. Its walls rise sheer from the water of the two rivers, and in times of war a moat can be formed to prevent an army from attacking from the west. It is here at Riverrun that Robb Stark wins a great victory against the Lannisters, and inspires his sworn lords to proclaim him King in the North.

Harrenhal is the greatest castle of the region, however, dwarfi ng Riverrun and boasting the highest castle walls in the Seven Kingdoms. It is held by Lady Whent until Lord Tywin drives her and her lords bannermen from it. The castle is rumoured to be cursed, however, since the time Aegon Targaryen unleashed his dragons upon it and turned it into a pyre, burning everyone inside.

The Gods Eye, a lake that stands south of Harrenhal, feeds a river into the Blackwater Rush, where it then travels on to King’s Landing and spills out into Blackwater Bay. This area is also fertile farmland where wheat and other grains are grown in abundance. The kingsroad runs through this region, to the east of the Gods Eye from the north after it crosses the Trident.

The people of the riverlands are happy and well fed. For the most part they lead quiet lives, although the spectre of war always looms large over the green fi elds and hills. The people know when war comes they will be at the heart of it, but they do not despair at this. Instead they strive to find joy in their everyday lives. Fairs and celebrations are common in the region, especially around harvest time when the crops come in. The river people dress in bright colours and enjoy playing music gathered from all the settlements and communities along the great rivers. Their lords — the Tullys, Freys, Blackwoods, Brackens, and Mallisters — treat them well.

The people are not strangers to historical rivalries, however. The neighbouring Houses of Blackwood and Bracken have long been ancient enemies, and are always at each other’s throats. Their feud dates back to the Age of Heroes, when both houses ruled the riverlands at various times, and also splintered on religious lines — the Brackens went over to the new gods, while the Blackwoods remain steadfast with the old. Their liege lords spend a good deal of time and effort making peace between them, but it seldom lasts.

The folks of the riverlands have adopted the worship of the Seven, although there are a few lords who still follow the old gods. The blood of the Andals runs deep within their veins, and worship of the old gods has almost been completely eradicated from the region. Religion plays a large part in everything the folks from the riverlands do, and even smaller villages have septs dedicated to the Seven (like much of the south). To grow up to take the vows of the godsworn is almost as glorious a dream as becoming a knight for children of the riverlands.

The Stormlands stretch from the waters of Blackwater Bay in the north to the Sea of Dorne in the south. They include the lands surrounding Shipbreaker Bay, and the far southern region of the Dornish marches, which forms a troubled border with Dorne. Most of the inland regions of the Stormlands are covered in two great forests, the kingswood and the rainwood, while the coastlines consist of ragged snarls of rocks or sheer cliffs. Ships sailing to King’s Landing from Storm’s End travel through Massey’s Hook, which shields them from gales coming out of the narrow sea. From the end of Massey’s Hook, known as Sharp Point (and controlled by the Bar Emmons of Dragonstone), ships travel through the Gullet and into Blackwater Bay.

A few villages and holdfasts are nestled in the depths of the woods, while castles and fortresses cling to the coastal cliffs. The larger islands like Tarth host fiefs as well. None of these settlements has grown to the size of a full-fledged city, and in many ways the Stormlands stand in the shadow of King’s Landing. The lands along Cape Wrath and in the kingswood and the rainwood are fertile, but low populations and historic strife have kept the Stormlands fairly rural. The Stormlands have little to offer in trade with the surrounding regions — the coastal fiefs cannot hope to compete with the bounty of the Reach and riverlands, or the mineral wealth of the Westerlands.

Though it lacks any major cities, the Stormlands are home to one of the most famous castles in Westeros. Storm’s End, ancient home of the Storm Kings, crouches atop the chalky cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay facing the angry sea. According to legend, Storm’s End was the seventh castle built by Durran, the first Storm King. Legends say Durran raised seven castles during his feud with the gods of sea and sky, and only this last held strong. Some say Durran was aided by the children of the forest, or by Brandon the Builder in his youth. Potent spells are said to have been woven into the stout keep’s walls, magics that make the castle impervious to storm or siege. Since Aegon Targaryen awarded Orys Baratheon the titles of Argilac the Storm King, Storm’s End has been held by House Baratheon.

The Stormlands contain several other notable holdings, such as the castle of Bronzegate; Harvest Hall, home of the Selmys; and Evenfall Hall on the island of Tarth, which is also known as the Sapphire Isle.

The people of the Stormlands are primarily of Andal extraction, although some ancient houses trace their origins to Durran the Storm King in the Age of Heroes. At one time, the Storm Kings ruled all of the surrounding lands up to the Neck. They then lost their empire to the Iron Men. The last Storm King, Argilac the Arrogant, died during the Wars of Conquest at the hand of Orys Baratheon. Favoured by the Targaryens, the Baratheons have ruled the Stormlands ever since.

As in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, most of the people of the Stormlands live in small villages clustered around keeps, crossroads, or holdfasts. Most lowborn folk till the soil or fish in the sea, pledging their labours to the nobles of lesser houses, who in turn serve House Baratheon. Fishing is a common profession among the island and coastal fiefs, and many of the lesser houses have turned to shipping (and even smuggling) as a means of making their fortune. Though the fiefs of the Stormlands produce few trade goods, their position between the markets of King’s Landing and the prosperous Free Cities draws many foreign merchants to the towns and islands of the Stormlands.

Perhaps the old enmity of the sea and storm gods has infused itself into the people of this ancient land. Kings and houses may come and go, but the fury of sea and storm always remains, and the people of the Stormlands have long since learned to trust to their strength and swords for survival. The kingswood and rainwood are notorious for the bandits and brigands who hide in them from the King’s Law, and the Marcher Lords have fought with the Dornishmen to the south for more than a thousand years. Some of the greatest warriors in Westeros, including Ser Barristan Selmy (Lord Commander of the Kingsguard), the Marcher Lord Beric Dondarrion, and King Robert Baratheon were all nurtured in the lands of the Storm Kings.

The Vale of Arryn encompasses all the lands encircled by the Mountains of the Moon, from the twin watchtowers known as the Bloody Gate in the west, to Gulltown and the barren lands of the Fingers in the east. Near the Bloody Gate, the Vale is only a few leagues across, while the broken coasts to the east are a seemingly endless labyrinth of bays and cliffs.

The heartland of the Vale is a beautiful land, with stunning vistas of green fi elds, blue skies, and snowy summits. The wide valleys between sheer peaks of the Mountains of the Moon are blessed with slow rivers and black soil, dotted with hundreds of small lakes. The air is clear and chill in the Vale, and ice and snow are common sights in the mountain trails, even in summer.

The heartlands are blessed with prosperity to match their breathtaking beauty. The rich soil is admirably suited for wheat, corn, and barley, and it is said that the pumpkins and other produce of the Vale are as large and fine as any in the orchards of Highgarden. The Giant’s Lance, tallest of the Mountains of the Moon, dominates the skyline of the Vale.

The Eyrie, one of the strongest castles in Westeros and ancient home of the Arryns, is perched atop the mountain. Though the Eyrie is far smaller than Winterfell and the other great castles, its granaries are ample, allowing it to withstand a long siege if need be. The difficult approach is guarded by a castle called the Gates of the Moon, along with three watchforts named Stone, Snow, and Sky. In places, the path up the sheer mountainside is only wide enough for a single man to pass. The watchforts are ideally positioned to rain arrows and stones upon it.

The outlands of the Vale are far less pleasant. The Fingers are bleak, empty lands, home to stones and sheep and little else. Most of the Vale’s commerce with the rest of Westeros comes through the bustling port city of Gulltown, for even the uncertain seas are safer than the mountain roads, plagued by clansmen and shadowcats.

The people of the Vale are mostly of Andal extraction and live as the rest of the peoples of Westeros do. The lowborn, mostly farmers or fishermen, dwell in small villages gathered around the holdfasts or mansions of the highborn. Every highborn family swears its allegiance to the Arryns. The Arryns have ruled the Vale from time out of mind and have served the Iron Throne as Wardens of the East since the Targaryen conquest.

Peace and prosperity have lingered in the Vale for centuries, and with them have flowered generosity, hospitality, and courtesy. The people of the Vale are friendly and generous even to outsiders, save at the western end near the Bloody Gate, where the continual raiding of the mountain clans has given rise to constant wariness.

The Vale was one of the first places that the Andals invaded during the Age of Heroes, landing at the Fingers and wresting the Vale from the First Men. The Kings of Mountain and Vale, legends say, were one of the purest lines of Andal nobility.

The people of the Vale have little tolerance for injustice, though their geographic isolation makes it all too easy for them to keep out of the intrigues of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

The long neutrality of the Vale may soon be put to the test.

The Westerlands stretch from Lannisport in the south to Ironman’s Bay in the north, with the goldroad and the Red Fork marking convenient southern and eastern boundaries. The lands here are rocky and mountainous, a far cry from the rolling wheat fields and pig farms of the nearby riverlands. The region’s farmers concentrate on blooming crops such as nuts and berries as well as root crops, such as turnips, which are staples of the Westerlands’ agriculture.

Fishermen from Faircastle and Lannisport supply much of the coastal region’s food, while those farther inland rely on the aforementioned fruits, herds of sheep and cattle, as well as deer and goats from the mountains. The region has few inland towns that are not directly tied to the many gold mines or the handful of silver mines found in the mountains. Some of the mines have dried up, leaving ghost towns whose inhabitants try to scrape by as best they can while newer generations move to other cities to find work and life.

The mines at the Golden Tooth are some of Casterly Rock’s most prolific, and the area around it has become hotly contested for this reason, as well as its strategic importance as a pass between Riverrun and Casterly Rock. Other gold minesdot the mountainous regions of the Westerlands, and people flock from the fields and cities to participate in the mining of the precious ore. These towns often present a sharp dichotomy for those who live there. The mines themselves are tightly regulated to discourage attempts to smuggle out any gold. The towns that spring up around them, however, are often lawless affairs, ruled by itinerant landlords and their personal guard. Some of these towns are run by sellswords in the pay of nobles who live in Lannisport and elsewhere. Living conditions in these towns are harsh, and violence can break out at any time without cause or justice.

The towns along the western coast of Westeros are rich from the plentiful gold. Nobles live good lives and are spared much of the fighting that has taken place. Fisheries and imports from across the sea keep trade bustling in Lannisport, and the city’s population reflects the diversity one often finds in port cities with access to the riches of the world.

There are fewer castles and holdfasts in the region than in the fertile regions to the east or in the North. The mountains provide a strong defensive position for local lords, and Casterly Rock is a nearly impenetrable stronghold whose presence protects those around it.

The best thing the people of the Westerlands have to say about their lot in life is that they are well defended. House Lannister holds more political power than any of the other houses, and this alone grants their lands some measure of security. Unfortunately, they give little else for their smallfolk to cheer about. The riches of the area’s gold mines have done little or nothing to help the region’s poor, who struggle daily to sell fish in the cities and bring gold out of the mines in the mountains. This gold goes to enrich the coffers of Lannister nobles and their bannermen, while life remains rugged and short for those without access to the wealth.

Lannisport and Casterly Rock are the two greatest hubs in the region; the world’s eyes are on the Lannisters upon their perch at the Rock, while the local population centres upon the prosperous city of Lannisport. Merchants and middlemen are somewhat scarcer in the cities of the west than in other regions, as the majority of the local wealth is controlled by the region’s nobles. Control over the money is given to lords and sworn men, leaving very little room for advancement in Westerland society. Yet undoubtedly those who prove outstanding ability can find powerful local patrons and great rewards.

Most labourers and beggars have little time for the intrigues and games played by nobles throughout the realm, of course. The smallfolk of the Westerlands are mostly loyal to House Lannister and its banner houses. Aside from the mining towns, law and order is kept throughout the region. Casterly Rock does not tolerate outlaw bands that seek to steal from the mines and coffers of its noble houses. Taxation remains relatively low, and there is always work to be had.

Bearing long black hair starting to be tinted the slightest of streaks a soft grey, Athangeld has a quite stately appearance. A constant shave each morning somehow fails to prevent his face from being gently dotted with stubble that his wife insists gives him a look of authority. He has an unfortunate case of cauliflower ear born of some youthful duels, but people rarely look past the inquisitive amber eyes. He has started to lose just a few hairs to balding, but the length and thickness of his hair makes this difficult to note to most who have not met him. He is of average height, and is slowly growing a slight paunch from inactivity as his legs are lame after his last battles.

Lord Athangeld Dayne was not born as such, for he was the younger brother of Sofian Dayne. An inquisitive mind, he was always more content to eavesdrop on the meetings of his father than play with wooden swords or pull the pigtails of girls. He did not mind this path, his white haired and purple eyed brother the natural face and leader of House Dayne.

But though an intellectual in contrast to his sibling, Athangeld was of one goal with his brother. The very brief Targaryen rule of Dorne following its insecure conquest ensured far greater honours to House Dayne, and the exit of the influence of the rest of Westeros signalled another setback to the rise of the Daynes. There was no need for Athangeld to whisper into his brother’s ear, for he was already set on avenging the insults the Martells gave by ignoring their requests and paiges, and Sofian was already incensed by ever more common Rhoynish heathenry in the mountains.

What what Athangeld was not prepared for was not just the death of his brother, but also of both of his sons in battle following their pseudo-rebellion. The shift of power in the Dayne family was quite sudden, and to some of its younger members barely understood, for it was Athangeld that had managed Starfall and even much of High Hermitage. Yet it was nonetheless shocking to make this adjustment. Indeed, already his son Anastasius was making a name for himself already prepared to take the position of his uncle, and some suspected that jealousy at a mirror of his sibling was what made Athangeld reluctant to make the boy get all he wished for.

But as far as he was personally concerned, Athangeld did not want his son to become Sword of the Morning simply because he didn’t want his heir to perish as his brother did for this would risk a chaos which he himself narrowly avoided.

Though Anastasius was a prodigy with the art of war, he saw much of himself in the youth. He had a knack for numbers and history and all the other little things that were the real deciders of the future. But his son so thoroughly insisted on this.

It was thus that the duel was arranged, and perhaps in a lapse of judgement Athangeld arranged a meeting with all those he trusted, demanding one simple thing: Julian ought to win the duel with Anastasius.

He expected Julian to be drilled, perhaps his training sword was to be sharpened such that even grazes would be more devastating, or any other such small action. But he saw what happened, he saw it all too well.

Athangeld tried to salvage it, but his son was emotive as ever, and so it was he. After one of the boy’s disappearances from which he returned covered in blood of himself and others, Athangeld finally had enough of Anastasius. It was difficult, and perhaps in a moment of rage, but he sent the boy off to King’s Landing with an unsubtle threat preceding this.

The Lord regretted this almost as soon as he spoke it, but he could not take it back, not yet. Perhaps he could undo his actions, but not until he got reason to. Unfortunately, his son seems to have ideas entirely distinct to redemption. But either way, he must merely hope for the best in King’s landing as once more raiders from the lowlands show their face not far from Starfall and High Hermitage.

Shorter than well-fed noblemen yet taller than peasantry, Julian Daynish zebra-stripe hair is largely invisible for he very carefully braids it to instead leave each black strand woven with a white one, making it (if not closely examined) appear as if his hair is broadly gray. While he has blue eyes, his skin tone is more in line with the Rhoynish majority of Dorne in its bronze colouration; this has brought rumours of his bastardhood when both of his parents are Stony Dornishmen, and though to his family his unique colouration of hair is sufficient to disprove this the contrast between him and his parents is jarring enough for outsiders to believe this rumour. His voice is soft and warm, like sunlight spilling through a window yet not bearing

Julian was to a large degree raised in a similar manner to his cousin Anastasius. They faced similar accusations of bastardry, they both loved their fathers and aspired to do great things for their houses. Indeed, being so similar the cousins were great friends, swearing great oaths to one another and often seeking out time to spend with the other branch of the Dayne line just to be with this favoured kinsman rather than immediate family.

But perhaps in being born of a cadet branch of the Daynes and hence of more humble origin in turn instilled a certain greater humility in the lad. While on the surface level he had a certain suaveness more stereotypical to the Sandy and Salty Dornishmen that the Daynes of High Hermitage were closer to, as opposed to the Daynes of Starfall that were the quintessential Stony Dornishmen.

Many an adventure was had by the lad before he even hit puberty, and far more after, many Sands being born from his actions in just the few years he had opportunity to do so.

He was almost oblivious to the world outside the small realm allowed into his mind by wanderlust, an ever shifting little town of people he met and would never see again as he disappeared from home on almost monthly bases suddenly replaced by a grim and constant conflict. The Daynes of High Hermitage answered the call of their cousins, and so went to battle. They lost as many if not more than the parent branch of their House, indeed Julian being raised to the state of heir after his elder brother died in a duel.

What was more shocking yet was when Lord Athangeld came to him with Septons by his side, offering him the Sword of the Morning. He was shocked, yet honoured to accept. He had never sought it out, but it felt nothing less than natural for him to be such.

Quickly though, he understood why part of him was reluctant to accept it when his beloved cousin Anastasius’s rage was apparent. They had spent so much time together, each learning from the other and declaring they were closer than siblings could ever be. But it made sense in retrospect, and truth be told Julian was more than ready to hand over the blade and title to his cousin.

Yet… he won. He was shocked more than anyone, and it was only as frostbite’s first stages began to creep in on that mountain peak after the duel was over that he realized that he surmounted Anastasius. That terrifying warrior that never faltered before has conceded defeat.

Some seemed wholly unsurprised at this result many betted against, and in some small order it hurt the ego of Julian to see the disgruntled faces of all those that bet against him, to know so few believed.

But a far greater part of him was proud, eager at the sudden prominence of his branch of the family won solely by his hand.

However as time passes and he sees the bitter change in the dynamic of his family, Julian comes to regret his victory, especially as the expectations of him shift wholly with his new status, an aching for the freedom he once had arising in mind and soul.

Anastasius seems in many ways an aesthetic mirror of his father in his youth. Bearing a youthful boyishness, the shape of his face is unmistakably paternal and is paired with similarly long hair, but the similarities end at that point.

His skin is far paler, and his hair is a pale platinum-blond whilst his eyes bear that distinctive Daynish purple giving him an aesthetic profile many might mistake for Valyrian. These aesthetics combine to create a man that many call outright beautiful as if a statue, rather than merely handsome.

He is however also a far taller man than his father. While being just somewhat short of being legendarily tall and bearing a moniker to make note of it, he is nonetheless sufficiently towering over most people to be intimidating by merely standing at rest. Perhaps oddest about his outwards appearance is that which result of his Mithraditic experiments. His voice is either hoarse or hissed with no in-between, as if suffering from an intense cold. Few and rare are movements of his face, yet when brought to emotion they usually bring it to an exaggerated rictus. Sometimes his face or whole body will be stuck in little twitches — a fact all the more noticeable as an assortment of scars dot his body including his face.

Anastasius was born precisely in time that some of his first memories were or observing the souring relations between the Daynes and the rest of Dorne. Anger about trade deals or marriages not going their way, or revulsion to the incursion of Rhoynish heathenry into the mountains all coloured his childhood.

Still, what he remembers most is looking up to and adoring his uncle Roger, the Sword of the Morning. Some would have said Anastasius looked more like Roger than his own father, factoring into his affinity for the man that bore platinum hair and violet eyes akin to his own, a fact that brought even more grave insinuation of bastardhood than his cousin faces.

But even though he spent much time and love upon his uncle, Anastasius nevertheless had more than enough filial piety for his father. While he wanted the position of his uncle, he pre-emptively credited the success he expected to attain in becoming the next Sword of the Morning to Athangeld.

As he became a young man, Anastasius certainly seemed fitting for the position. He was a large man, towering over most including even the already tall uncle he looked up to. He had a voracious intake of whatever information his father brought upon him.

But as it was, every boy matured into a man, and for Anastasius this was just in time for the failed invasion of Dorne by the Targaryens.

The Daynes went forth to fight the rest of their neighbours in Dorne, too many lives to count slain in their incursion into Dorne. But with the failure of the Targaryen’s re-invasion, the Daynes knew a retribution far more harsh than what violence they had incurred was coming and they had to be ready to fight.

Their mountains were tall and cold, and using them as natural defences the piles of foemen slain that came for vengeance grew tall. But they could not sustain it, and the men-at-arms of House Dayne became ever more reluctant to go into this ceaseless violence.

There was only one way they saw to get out of this, and it was to remove the leaders of the assault on Starfall. So it was that every man and boy of the Daynes swore that he would fight the invader until they were gone. But they would not fight in battle, for that would be a losing prospect.

With harsh insults to the character of the leaders of the foe, they were baited into duels. Most males of the Daynes died in the ensuing fights, but their sacrifice was well worth it in the eyes of the survivors, Anastasius himself proud to have a collection of heads and other trophies taken. It was on this merit - and the death of his uncle, the Sword of the Morning - that he felt he was owed the position.

Anastasius represented what everyone in their head envisioned the sword of the morning to be. Hale of body, bearing the unnatural beauty of the Dayne family in the colour of his eyes and hair, and successful in just about everything he came to partake of. A golden boy, if ever there was one.

But though his father was clearly proud of him, Anastasius did not get the sword. His father gave many reasons as to why, but it all seemed like… excuses.

He was frustrated, and thus eager to prove himself. Anastasius went o wild raids of his own accord, once more bringing hateful attention from Dorne to Starfall. Yet every time he returned home with more heads to show off his martial talent his father seemed the opposite of pleased.

This frustrated the youth ever more, all the more he showed he was worthy of the title, and yet suddenly it was announced that his beloved cousin Julian was to be Sword of the Morning.

A roar said to cross the mountains emanated from Anastasius, and he demanded to duel his cousin for the blade and the title bequeathed upon its wielder.

So it was arranged, two cousins once loving each other as much as family can in the cold snow with naught but a small undergarment and a training sword in hands.

Anastasius was confident, for he always won these. His arms and lungs were longer, his endurance was far greater. Mere minutes passed of careful parries and ripostes, Julian covered in small bleeding marks and his skin turning red between exhaustion and cold. Confident was the heir to House Dayne, only for a single nick to come upon him from just a small moment of judgement. Though it was little more than a papercut from the training blade of his cousin, somehow the tide turned from there.

Suddenly Anastasius felt exhaustion and the cold hit him all at once, he found himself falling for the feints and not catching the ripostes in time. He was in moments covered in wounds himself, and finally he fell to his knees with his pale skin and hair melding with the shade of snow. It was only as his chin was raised by the tip of his cousin’s blade that the victor was declared.

Anastasius was shocked, in the days he spent recovering afterwards playing through every moment of the battle and failing to understand how he could let himself be bested. It was only as he looked at the failure of his wounds to heal in a timely manner that he came to a simple conclusion: poison.

It had to be something very potent yet diluted to affect him so quickly yet not kill him. They wanted him to leave, but fail, and be content with the result.

He accused his father, he accused Julian, he accused the Maester and everyone in between them of being complicit in this, and all denied this to his face. He sought records of such things being purchased, he looked through the finances of the family to find any unexplained use of coin from the treasury.

Nothing, nothing could prove it, but he knew nonetheless as he watched the odd scars form on every breach in his skin. Somebody had done something to bring him low.

Regardless of what the full truth was, Anastasius could never let himself be so vulnerable again. Whatever training he had, he doubled. His sleep halved to instead be replaced with time reading more books on how martial arts were conducted in history, but most importantly he had to account for poisoning, something he had never considered before. He began to experiment with taking small doses of poison to strengthen himself against them, and as he ever increased the doses he knew rumours spread of his oddities. He did not care, and perhaps that was his downfall as he behaviour changed even more with impulsiveness becoming a daily occurrence rather than a rare failing.

One night, his father took him to a balcony, and sold him a simple truth. He would go forth and join the King’s Guard, relinquishing his inheritance as a consequence or his father would find other ways to be rid of him.

Reluctantly and with no intention of doing as his father intended, Anastasius headed to King’s landing at the head of a column of his sisters and cousins.