@MrDidact Posted final section.
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From the Open Seas to the Stepstones, a recount of Ser Aerion and friend’s adventures
Ser Aerion breathed a sigh of relief. He fell back, letting the ship railing support his downward descent into a sitting position. Victory always tasted bittersweet. You were alive, but of course, others had gone to meet the Seven. Sweat beaded across Aerion’s brow, stinging as the occasional droplet fell into his eyes. The Last Rite had been taken after the heated battle, with Lady Visenya herself striking the final blow against the Grey Septon himself. The corrupted cleric had killed his fair share of royalist combatants, but when the final climactic battle came to a head, he was cut down, with his corpse falling overboard. Aerion nodded towards Lady Visenya, bowing his head towards her, before taking his hands to push the sweat back from his forehead.
From across the decks of the ships, another roar of victory came forth. Aerion looked to the noise, seeing that the Silver Serpent was also taken at last, with the King Slayer holding the dead captain’s hand aloft. Rolling his eyes, Aerion looked about for Lyvia and Oswell. He scanned the decks of all three ships, taking stock of the unfolding events. The dead were being collected, allies given the canvas shroud, the enemy being looted and stripped of valuables, the wounded being cared after, while in the corner, the pampered tosh Ser Ellion upchucked his stomach. ‘How in the world, the priss acts like he is a tough and arrogant man, but one battle is all it takes to make him puke’ Aerion thought to himself, before shouting aloud towards Ser Ellion, “Careful Ser Dandelion, wouldn’t want you slipping and falling into your own vomit.” Shaking his head, Aerion stood back up, and went looking for Ser Oswell.
After combing both the Last Rite and the Grey Ice for the better part of a half hour, Aerion came across the remains of Ser Oswell. He looked to have died quickly, in the heat of battle, that much was certain. Arrayed around the dead knight were the corpses of nine dead pirates, by the looks of it, it had taken the nine pirates together to finally defeat Oswell, with the last pirate and Ser Oswell striking the killing blows upon one another. Aerion knelt next to his fallen friend, quickly praying over his body, before closing Oswell’s eyes in a final solemn farewell. “May the Father always hold you in high regard my friend. Feast and revel with the fallen of your family in the afterlife. I will keep my promise to you, and ensure your sister gets your shield and sword. Light of the Seven guide you brother.” Aerion rose back up, taking the old shield and sword from fallen Ser Oswell, and made his way back above deck of the Last Rite.
Aerion slowly made his way over to Lady Lyvia, breaking the saddening news to her of their close friend’s demise. Lyvia made a half-choked noise, a mixture of anguish and anger as she turned away, to look outwards at the ocean blue. Aerion sighed, and put his arm about Lyvia, the two exchanging stories about their fallen friend as they allowed their grief to ebb away, storing it away to express at another time, a more proper venue as oppose to the blood-soaked decks of these ships far out at sea. Together, they turned to face the concluding moments of the battle’s aftermath. The enemy had lost far more than their own allies, but the dead were still dead. Crown Prince Aemon calls all allied forces to the Silver Serpent, wanting to take stock of the survivors, and how best to press on with the next leg of their journey. Aerion and Lyvia find themselves in the middle of the remaining loyalists, looking at faces both familiar and unfamiliar. But, it was the next decisions that brought both their faces towards the Crown Prince himself.
Crown Prince Aemon spoke aloud, issuing his orders to his subordinates, “We are taking the Silver Serpent as our vessel now. The Grey Ice has served its purpose, and we have not the crew to man the Last Rite. Both those ships will be scuttled and sent to the bottom of the Narrow Sea. We shall disguise ourselves as these rebels, as pirates, and continue with our mission.” As Crown Prince Aemon had finished speaking, voices called out from the loyalist crew, “What of the prisoners?” Lady Visenya spoke aloud, pointing to the surviving pirates bound together. Prince Viserys in a cruel tone spoke out, “Slit their throats and be done with it. They deserve a traitor’s death.” Ser Jaime Tarth spoke aloud as well, “Spare them, my Prince, have them sent to the wall.” Ser Aerion added his own voice to the din, “Prince Aemon, do what is best for the mission, but judge them by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Crown Prince Aemon held his right hand aloft, signaling for silence. He had made his decisions, and spoke the words firmly. "I find you all guilty of the crime of piracy and assault on agents of the crown. In the names of Jon, of House Stark, Second of His Name and Daenerys, of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, King and Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protectors of the Realm, I sentence you all to die. Visenya." With his final words, Lady Visenya and her cadre of Dragon’s Teeth carried out the execution. The pirate’s deaths were swift and without agony, arrows perfectly finding their blackened and evil hearts. Thus, the orders of the Crown Prince were set into motion, the Last Rite and Grey Ice set aflame, while the crew busied themselves with garbing themselves accordingly to look like pirates and sellsword rebels. The dead did not mind giving up their belongings, and after being stripped, they were tossed overboard to crew the sunken ships of the Drowned God, or at least what Ser Aerion had heard from adherents to that faith.
The Silver Serpent began to set underway, her sails being unfurled and filling with the gentle breeze of the Narrow Sea. Ser Aerion had hurried below deck, to send out two letters, destined for King’s Landing. Crown Prince Aemon was in his war room with his officers composing dispatches to relay back to the King, and implied that this may be the only chance for letters of any kind to be sent back home. Aerion wrote in a flowing script, tight, neat, yet in its own way, oddly elegant. He knew who he would have to write to, and while he had only met one in person, and the other in passing, he felt honor and duty bound to send these messages to the two individuals.
Ser Aerion sealed both letters with his family sigil, which he sealed in gold colored wax, to differentiate it from the similar seal of House Targaryen. With both letters complete, Aerion made his way above decks, attaching his letters to the feet of the awaiting ravens, along with others, and the dispatches from the Crown Prince, as they watched the birds fly away and west, towards home.
Several Days Later, the Port of Bloodstone
Aerion had kept mostly to himself and his friend Lady Lyvia. They ate apart from the others, the loss of their friend apparent to any who cared enough to see. Aerion did occasionally converse with Seran of Lys, the two even sharing a drink one night. Lyvia and Aerion rode out the rest of the voyage in a sort of uneasy calm, perhaps the way a cat swishes its tail as it prepares to pounce upon prey. At long last, the isle of Bloodstone came into view. As everyone came above deck, the sight was certainly an eerie one. The sky was tinged with the red and yellows of fire on the horizon, while ash fell from above like a dingy gray snow. Aerion brushed some from his left shoulder as he turned to look Lyvia and himself over. “Well, you certainly look the part of a vile pirate Lyvia. You look like when we first met. Battle of Muddy Brook, that little village. Damn, that was a long time ago. Well, enough about the past. You look the part of criminal scum. What about me?” Aerion stepped back, letting Lyvia look at him.
Lyvia looked Aerion over, making sure to make the man looked unkempt and disheveled. She adjusted his belt and leather armor, took his sword and placed it across his back rather that at his hip. “You’ve gotten too used to being a knight silly. Loosen your armor, dishevel your hair and smudge some grime upon your face. Remember, we are dirty, ragged criminals, not well kept Westerosi. Better let that idiot flower boy know. He’s going to be a dead giveaway.” Lyvia stifled a laugh, while pointing out towards Ser Ellion. “He looks like he’s straight from a cheap romance novel about pirates. Aerion, you’d better say something to that pampered tosh, before he gets us all killed.” Aerion nodded to Lyvia, thanking he, before he looked over at Ellion. “Ser Dandelion, might want to dress down a bit. This isn’t a holiday pageant, this is war. Do everyone a favor, and dirty up, make yourself look like you’ve actually been fighting and killing, not kissing and tromping through flower garden.” Aerion nodded his head towards Ellion, before heading towards the command deck of the bridge, where everyone had been summoned for a final briefing.
Crown Prince Aemon had called everyone forth to be briefed on their orders for the upcoming operations upon the land. He was stern and clear in his words. They were here to gather intelligence first and foremost, looking high and low for any information which may help them weed out the rebel forces. They were to keep a low profile, do not draw undue attention to themselves if it could not be helped. Furthermore, do not engage in combat unless forced into a fight, in other words, keep your noses clean and do the Crown proud. Crown Prince Aemon then split the forces at hand in two, with him in charge of one party, and Prince Viserys in charge of the other. Before dispersing, Crown Prince Aemon ordered Lady Visenya to choose who would remain behind and guard the ship. Devil’s Rest was a dangerous place to anyone who was not prepared.
Aerion and Lyvia ended up being assigned to guard the ship alongside two Dothraki named Lash and Red Lamb. Lady Visenya assured Aerion and Lyvia that they were not being left behind because they were not competent, or that they were in trouble, but rather that the Silver Serpent needed to remain in friendly hands at all costs, and in ports like these, it was known that certain enterprising scum would steal ships and make a tidy profit. For only Ser Aerion and Lady Visenya to see, a look was shared, one that said, ‘Take the time you need, mourn your friend, and be ready when we return. Put the ghosts to rest, we need you in the times to come.’ Aerion nodded, and bowed before Lady Visenya. “As you command it, so shall it be Lady Visenya. We will ensure the ship stays in friendly hands, no matter what.”
And thus, the hours passed by, Lyvia and Aerion watching the shore parties go about their business, while they themselves and the two Dothraki guarded the ship. For the most part, it was quiet and uneventful… well, at least that is what they reported. In all honesty, a gaggle of whores strolled by, seeing if there was any need for their services, a dodgy looking cobbler tried to bribe his way aboard, saying that pirates always had need for a good pair of boots. A kid trying to sell oysters and cockles, while another pair of supposed port recorders tried to gain access to the ship, in order to inspect the hold. Aerion and Lyvia did as they were ordered, and kept any and all potential boarders firmly off the ship. Save for a little monkey that clambered on board, howling and hissing at the security detail, before it let loose a shriek, and leapt to another ship and disappeared from view. All in all, an easy day that gave them the time they needed to clear their minds and come to terms with their friend’s untimely passing.
At long last, near the end of the day, Crown Prince Aemon returned to the ship with his assigned party. Aerion searched for Lady Visenya’s party, but could not see them among the company present. Shrugging it off as they were perhaps on their way back still, or had other duties to attend to, Aerion went back below deck to continue cooking a small pot of clam chowder. The little girl had driven a hard bargain, and Aerion had walked away with a small armload of fresh clams. He had haggled with the girl to bring him fresh onions and potatoes, which she happily obliged for a fair fee. Aerion slowly stirred the soup, ladling out a small bowl for himself and Lady Lyvia, whilst they await the return of their friend Seran.
Ser Aerion breathed a sigh of relief. He fell back, letting the ship railing support his downward descent into a sitting position. Victory always tasted bittersweet. You were alive, but of course, others had gone to meet the Seven. Sweat beaded across Aerion’s brow, stinging as the occasional droplet fell into his eyes. The Last Rite had been taken after the heated battle, with Lady Visenya herself striking the final blow against the Grey Septon himself. The corrupted cleric had killed his fair share of royalist combatants, but when the final climactic battle came to a head, he was cut down, with his corpse falling overboard. Aerion nodded towards Lady Visenya, bowing his head towards her, before taking his hands to push the sweat back from his forehead.
From across the decks of the ships, another roar of victory came forth. Aerion looked to the noise, seeing that the Silver Serpent was also taken at last, with the King Slayer holding the dead captain’s hand aloft. Rolling his eyes, Aerion looked about for Lyvia and Oswell. He scanned the decks of all three ships, taking stock of the unfolding events. The dead were being collected, allies given the canvas shroud, the enemy being looted and stripped of valuables, the wounded being cared after, while in the corner, the pampered tosh Ser Ellion upchucked his stomach. ‘How in the world, the priss acts like he is a tough and arrogant man, but one battle is all it takes to make him puke’ Aerion thought to himself, before shouting aloud towards Ser Ellion, “Careful Ser Dandelion, wouldn’t want you slipping and falling into your own vomit.” Shaking his head, Aerion stood back up, and went looking for Ser Oswell.
After combing both the Last Rite and the Grey Ice for the better part of a half hour, Aerion came across the remains of Ser Oswell. He looked to have died quickly, in the heat of battle, that much was certain. Arrayed around the dead knight were the corpses of nine dead pirates, by the looks of it, it had taken the nine pirates together to finally defeat Oswell, with the last pirate and Ser Oswell striking the killing blows upon one another. Aerion knelt next to his fallen friend, quickly praying over his body, before closing Oswell’s eyes in a final solemn farewell. “May the Father always hold you in high regard my friend. Feast and revel with the fallen of your family in the afterlife. I will keep my promise to you, and ensure your sister gets your shield and sword. Light of the Seven guide you brother.” Aerion rose back up, taking the old shield and sword from fallen Ser Oswell, and made his way back above deck of the Last Rite.
Aerion slowly made his way over to Lady Lyvia, breaking the saddening news to her of their close friend’s demise. Lyvia made a half-choked noise, a mixture of anguish and anger as she turned away, to look outwards at the ocean blue. Aerion sighed, and put his arm about Lyvia, the two exchanging stories about their fallen friend as they allowed their grief to ebb away, storing it away to express at another time, a more proper venue as oppose to the blood-soaked decks of these ships far out at sea. Together, they turned to face the concluding moments of the battle’s aftermath. The enemy had lost far more than their own allies, but the dead were still dead. Crown Prince Aemon calls all allied forces to the Silver Serpent, wanting to take stock of the survivors, and how best to press on with the next leg of their journey. Aerion and Lyvia find themselves in the middle of the remaining loyalists, looking at faces both familiar and unfamiliar. But, it was the next decisions that brought both their faces towards the Crown Prince himself.
Crown Prince Aemon spoke aloud, issuing his orders to his subordinates, “We are taking the Silver Serpent as our vessel now. The Grey Ice has served its purpose, and we have not the crew to man the Last Rite. Both those ships will be scuttled and sent to the bottom of the Narrow Sea. We shall disguise ourselves as these rebels, as pirates, and continue with our mission.” As Crown Prince Aemon had finished speaking, voices called out from the loyalist crew, “What of the prisoners?” Lady Visenya spoke aloud, pointing to the surviving pirates bound together. Prince Viserys in a cruel tone spoke out, “Slit their throats and be done with it. They deserve a traitor’s death.” Ser Jaime Tarth spoke aloud as well, “Spare them, my Prince, have them sent to the wall.” Ser Aerion added his own voice to the din, “Prince Aemon, do what is best for the mission, but judge them by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Crown Prince Aemon held his right hand aloft, signaling for silence. He had made his decisions, and spoke the words firmly. "I find you all guilty of the crime of piracy and assault on agents of the crown. In the names of Jon, of House Stark, Second of His Name and Daenerys, of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, King and Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protectors of the Realm, I sentence you all to die. Visenya." With his final words, Lady Visenya and her cadre of Dragon’s Teeth carried out the execution. The pirate’s deaths were swift and without agony, arrows perfectly finding their blackened and evil hearts. Thus, the orders of the Crown Prince were set into motion, the Last Rite and Grey Ice set aflame, while the crew busied themselves with garbing themselves accordingly to look like pirates and sellsword rebels. The dead did not mind giving up their belongings, and after being stripped, they were tossed overboard to crew the sunken ships of the Drowned God, or at least what Ser Aerion had heard from adherents to that faith.
The Silver Serpent began to set underway, her sails being unfurled and filling with the gentle breeze of the Narrow Sea. Ser Aerion had hurried below deck, to send out two letters, destined for King’s Landing. Crown Prince Aemon was in his war room with his officers composing dispatches to relay back to the King, and implied that this may be the only chance for letters of any kind to be sent back home. Aerion wrote in a flowing script, tight, neat, yet in its own way, oddly elegant. He knew who he would have to write to, and while he had only met one in person, and the other in passing, he felt honor and duty bound to send these messages to the two individuals.
Ser Aerion sealed both letters with his family sigil, which he sealed in gold colored wax, to differentiate it from the similar seal of House Targaryen. With both letters complete, Aerion made his way above decks, attaching his letters to the feet of the awaiting ravens, along with others, and the dispatches from the Crown Prince, as they watched the birds fly away and west, towards home.
Several Days Later, the Port of Bloodstone
Aerion had kept mostly to himself and his friend Lady Lyvia. They ate apart from the others, the loss of their friend apparent to any who cared enough to see. Aerion did occasionally converse with Seran of Lys, the two even sharing a drink one night. Lyvia and Aerion rode out the rest of the voyage in a sort of uneasy calm, perhaps the way a cat swishes its tail as it prepares to pounce upon prey. At long last, the isle of Bloodstone came into view. As everyone came above deck, the sight was certainly an eerie one. The sky was tinged with the red and yellows of fire on the horizon, while ash fell from above like a dingy gray snow. Aerion brushed some from his left shoulder as he turned to look Lyvia and himself over. “Well, you certainly look the part of a vile pirate Lyvia. You look like when we first met. Battle of Muddy Brook, that little village. Damn, that was a long time ago. Well, enough about the past. You look the part of criminal scum. What about me?” Aerion stepped back, letting Lyvia look at him.
Lyvia looked Aerion over, making sure to make the man looked unkempt and disheveled. She adjusted his belt and leather armor, took his sword and placed it across his back rather that at his hip. “You’ve gotten too used to being a knight silly. Loosen your armor, dishevel your hair and smudge some grime upon your face. Remember, we are dirty, ragged criminals, not well kept Westerosi. Better let that idiot flower boy know. He’s going to be a dead giveaway.” Lyvia stifled a laugh, while pointing out towards Ser Ellion. “He looks like he’s straight from a cheap romance novel about pirates. Aerion, you’d better say something to that pampered tosh, before he gets us all killed.” Aerion nodded to Lyvia, thanking he, before he looked over at Ellion. “Ser Dandelion, might want to dress down a bit. This isn’t a holiday pageant, this is war. Do everyone a favor, and dirty up, make yourself look like you’ve actually been fighting and killing, not kissing and tromping through flower garden.” Aerion nodded his head towards Ellion, before heading towards the command deck of the bridge, where everyone had been summoned for a final briefing.
Crown Prince Aemon had called everyone forth to be briefed on their orders for the upcoming operations upon the land. He was stern and clear in his words. They were here to gather intelligence first and foremost, looking high and low for any information which may help them weed out the rebel forces. They were to keep a low profile, do not draw undue attention to themselves if it could not be helped. Furthermore, do not engage in combat unless forced into a fight, in other words, keep your noses clean and do the Crown proud. Crown Prince Aemon then split the forces at hand in two, with him in charge of one party, and Prince Viserys in charge of the other. Before dispersing, Crown Prince Aemon ordered Lady Visenya to choose who would remain behind and guard the ship. Devil’s Rest was a dangerous place to anyone who was not prepared.
Aerion and Lyvia ended up being assigned to guard the ship alongside two Dothraki named Lash and Red Lamb. Lady Visenya assured Aerion and Lyvia that they were not being left behind because they were not competent, or that they were in trouble, but rather that the Silver Serpent needed to remain in friendly hands at all costs, and in ports like these, it was known that certain enterprising scum would steal ships and make a tidy profit. For only Ser Aerion and Lady Visenya to see, a look was shared, one that said, ‘Take the time you need, mourn your friend, and be ready when we return. Put the ghosts to rest, we need you in the times to come.’ Aerion nodded, and bowed before Lady Visenya. “As you command it, so shall it be Lady Visenya. We will ensure the ship stays in friendly hands, no matter what.”
And thus, the hours passed by, Lyvia and Aerion watching the shore parties go about their business, while they themselves and the two Dothraki guarded the ship. For the most part, it was quiet and uneventful… well, at least that is what they reported. In all honesty, a gaggle of whores strolled by, seeing if there was any need for their services, a dodgy looking cobbler tried to bribe his way aboard, saying that pirates always had need for a good pair of boots. A kid trying to sell oysters and cockles, while another pair of supposed port recorders tried to gain access to the ship, in order to inspect the hold. Aerion and Lyvia did as they were ordered, and kept any and all potential boarders firmly off the ship. Save for a little monkey that clambered on board, howling and hissing at the security detail, before it let loose a shriek, and leapt to another ship and disappeared from view. All in all, an easy day that gave them the time they needed to clear their minds and come to terms with their friend’s untimely passing.
At long last, near the end of the day, Crown Prince Aemon returned to the ship with his assigned party. Aerion searched for Lady Visenya’s party, but could not see them among the company present. Shrugging it off as they were perhaps on their way back still, or had other duties to attend to, Aerion went back below deck to continue cooking a small pot of clam chowder. The little girl had driven a hard bargain, and Aerion had walked away with a small armload of fresh clams. He had haggled with the girl to bring him fresh onions and potatoes, which she happily obliged for a fair fee. Aerion slowly stirred the soup, ladling out a small bowl for himself and Lady Lyvia, whilst they await the return of their friend Seran.
@kingkonrad Also, Alerie gets mad that Amber had dinner with someone, while she drops her knickers for a gold necklace. *cough* Hypocrite *cough*
My post is about eighty five percent done. I'll post tomorrow hopefully.
@MrDidact I didn't have any particular plans for it as of this moment. If you rather have it scuttled alongside the Grey Ice, fair enough. I took all the posts from folks, and made an abridged version for myself, to help me write my post. I think it'd make the most sense if I was just along for the ride with everyone else. I'll write myself in, as though I was always there. If that is alright with you of course.
@MrDidact What ever happened to the enemy ship Last Rite, the one with the Grey Septon. I don't find mention of it being scuttled or sailing away. Would it be alright for my post to have it still afloat?
@MrDidact Part Two is posted. I am working on Pt 3 now. Which happens to be the biggest and longest. Yey.
A ridge overlooking the Vulture's Roost, Ser Uther and the query of Ser Andrew
Ser Uther leaned against a rocky outcrop, breathing softly as he surveyed the scene below. He could see the telltale signs of inhabitation and humanity. Half rebuilt fortifications, latrine pits, trenches, struggling gardens, horses, hogs, and goats. He even spied a few banners, a Vulture was most prominent, a rearing goat, desert hawks, snakes, and even a brown trout, probably little houses loyal to the Vulture King, or bastards who created their own. After a while, Uther slid down the ridge a little, so he could relax his knees and back for a little. The ground was ever dry and that trademark brownish red, seeming to stick to everything. Uther shook his head, and turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings.
He looked at his boots, the supple leather soft and a mahogany brown color, fit well and were far more comfortable than his old pair. He had taken them from a dead Vulture rebel, among other things looted from the dead over the course of the last few engagements. New pauldrons, a lightly used leather jerkin with only a small cut, a decent belt, a few rings, and the nicest thing, a sword with an emerald pommel, no doubt from some dead minor lord loyal to the Vulture King, or it had been taken from someone else during battle. No matter, due to the sword now being in Uther’s possession now. Plus, a new cloak, which he kept stored away, less he be confused for a Vulture himself. But, the present came calling back, Uther turning his head towards the noise of someone coming to join him from allied lines. It was Ser Andrew, and by the look on the man’s face, he had some questions that needed answering.
Together the two men moved up to the ridge, kneeling as they looked down upon Vulture’s Roost. The rest of their allies were still resting, recuperating from their largest engagement. Uther spoke first, quietly and with concern playing across his voice. “The girl… the blood mage, the one who… did Seven knows what, she doesn’t look too good. She has yet to recover, and I don’t think it’d be wise to press the attack… at least before night falls. We will need all the help we can get, cause just by the movements down there, we are heavily outnumbered.” Uther brushed some dust from his mustache, before laying prone upon the ground, motioning Ser Andrew to follow suit. A smaller silhouette would make them harder to spot for the passing sentries and observers of the enemy castle. Uther looked towards Ser Andrew as he now spoke up, listening to the commander’s thoughts.
Ser Andrew agreed that their “Water” mage was too weak to fight and be an effective counter against the rebel forces. That would mean their main secondary offensive power would be from the Alchemist that was with them, along with the Marcher bowmen. While for a small engagement, they would certainly help, this was different, Uther thought. He nodded his head, seeing the fire in Ser Andrew Selmy’s eyes. He was set on attacking, tonight at the very latest. This was certainly going to complicate things, but, what was Uther to do, he was not in command, and could only offer his honest advice on the matter. The sun hung low in the sky, as Ser Andrew probed Uther’s knowledge of this derelict castle. Uther thought he heard some doubt in Ser Andrew’s voice, but he could not be sure, the sounds of the world around the two men adding to the unsettling nature of things to come.
Ser Andrew queried Uther, taking care to keep his movements to a minimum, as he pointed towards the castle. "What can you tell us about the layout? Any weaknesses we can take advantage of? Any advice you can give us? You seem familiar with this place; your insight could help us win the day. We can't turn this into a siege. We need to take the castle quick and fast, under cover of night. Grapple over the walls and take them in their sleep. Thoughts?"
Uther breathed softly through his teeth, surveying the castle with great care, taking in every sight in the setting sun’s failing light. Darkness would be descending much sooner than Uther would have liked, but the hammer would fall tonight, or not at all. With a quick flick of his wrist and hand, Uther motioned for Ser Andrew to slide down a bit with him, so the two would be out of view of any within the castle walls and towers. Closing his eyes, he dug into his brain, pulling long catalogued memories and stories he had heard as a child from his family members of old. He juggled the different options in his mind, before settling on what he felt was both the safest, and the surest way to take the castle. He spoke in a low hushed tone, with urgency emphasized in it.
“Attacking the walls is foolish and a folly. You’ll get nowhere but dead with that ploy. It may seem like they enemy is diminished, and that their sentries are but few, but that is a common ploy with these… holdovers from another time. The men of the Spine, of the high deserts, they hide their numbers and true might with deception and sleight of hand. The walls are damaged, the towers not perfect, nor the gates as strong as they should be, but what we want is a silent way in, a way to the heart of this castle. The walls are but brightly colored feathers on this bird, the towers its talons. How do you think this place has stayed alive, eeked out an existence if the waters of the River Wyl are guarded and watched?” Uther rolled onto his side, using his right hand and fingers to begin drawing a crude picture in the dirt and sand.
“This valley floods, like the sun rises and sets each day. Now, all that water, given time, cuts paths through the rock on either side of the main river bed. It creates these hidden and forgotten underground rivers, caverns large enough for a small ship to pass.” Uther paused, then in a soft sing-song voice, he recited an old poem of sorts, “Silent water flows underfoot, the sacred river Wyl, mysterious and magical, flows through caverns measureless to man, down a sunless sea that glitters and shimmers with the lights not of this world. Only the faithful may travel these gaping maws, less the foolhardy become lost and swallowed whole by the river Wyl.” Uther finished, and pointed back to his crude drawing. “Our loyalist forces have the water ways guarded, but only what they can see, and only where they can build their castles and forts. The Vultures are no doubt using a system of the caverns to get around patrols and the blockades. If you want to take this castle, we need to use their means of resupply to strike at the beating heart of this beast. It’s not glorious, it’s not going to be some heroic venture, but it will get the job done, and ensure victory. That’s what matters.” Uther then rolled back to his back, and pointed back down the small valley the royal forces occupied.
“The dead Vultures, we take their uniforms, cut back to the river, and ambush the next supply ferry. We take that into the castle, and cut the head of this chicken. Watch it run around and die without its leaders. They rank and file Vultures will either fly the coop, or surrender. The final decision is yours, Ser Andrew… but that is my thoughts on the matter. I await your command.” Uther bowed his head, and turned back to steal a last glances at the setting sun and at the Vulture’s Roost.
Ser Uther leaned against a rocky outcrop, breathing softly as he surveyed the scene below. He could see the telltale signs of inhabitation and humanity. Half rebuilt fortifications, latrine pits, trenches, struggling gardens, horses, hogs, and goats. He even spied a few banners, a Vulture was most prominent, a rearing goat, desert hawks, snakes, and even a brown trout, probably little houses loyal to the Vulture King, or bastards who created their own. After a while, Uther slid down the ridge a little, so he could relax his knees and back for a little. The ground was ever dry and that trademark brownish red, seeming to stick to everything. Uther shook his head, and turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings.
He looked at his boots, the supple leather soft and a mahogany brown color, fit well and were far more comfortable than his old pair. He had taken them from a dead Vulture rebel, among other things looted from the dead over the course of the last few engagements. New pauldrons, a lightly used leather jerkin with only a small cut, a decent belt, a few rings, and the nicest thing, a sword with an emerald pommel, no doubt from some dead minor lord loyal to the Vulture King, or it had been taken from someone else during battle. No matter, due to the sword now being in Uther’s possession now. Plus, a new cloak, which he kept stored away, less he be confused for a Vulture himself. But, the present came calling back, Uther turning his head towards the noise of someone coming to join him from allied lines. It was Ser Andrew, and by the look on the man’s face, he had some questions that needed answering.
Together the two men moved up to the ridge, kneeling as they looked down upon Vulture’s Roost. The rest of their allies were still resting, recuperating from their largest engagement. Uther spoke first, quietly and with concern playing across his voice. “The girl… the blood mage, the one who… did Seven knows what, she doesn’t look too good. She has yet to recover, and I don’t think it’d be wise to press the attack… at least before night falls. We will need all the help we can get, cause just by the movements down there, we are heavily outnumbered.” Uther brushed some dust from his mustache, before laying prone upon the ground, motioning Ser Andrew to follow suit. A smaller silhouette would make them harder to spot for the passing sentries and observers of the enemy castle. Uther looked towards Ser Andrew as he now spoke up, listening to the commander’s thoughts.
Ser Andrew agreed that their “Water” mage was too weak to fight and be an effective counter against the rebel forces. That would mean their main secondary offensive power would be from the Alchemist that was with them, along with the Marcher bowmen. While for a small engagement, they would certainly help, this was different, Uther thought. He nodded his head, seeing the fire in Ser Andrew Selmy’s eyes. He was set on attacking, tonight at the very latest. This was certainly going to complicate things, but, what was Uther to do, he was not in command, and could only offer his honest advice on the matter. The sun hung low in the sky, as Ser Andrew probed Uther’s knowledge of this derelict castle. Uther thought he heard some doubt in Ser Andrew’s voice, but he could not be sure, the sounds of the world around the two men adding to the unsettling nature of things to come.
Ser Andrew queried Uther, taking care to keep his movements to a minimum, as he pointed towards the castle. "What can you tell us about the layout? Any weaknesses we can take advantage of? Any advice you can give us? You seem familiar with this place; your insight could help us win the day. We can't turn this into a siege. We need to take the castle quick and fast, under cover of night. Grapple over the walls and take them in their sleep. Thoughts?"
Uther breathed softly through his teeth, surveying the castle with great care, taking in every sight in the setting sun’s failing light. Darkness would be descending much sooner than Uther would have liked, but the hammer would fall tonight, or not at all. With a quick flick of his wrist and hand, Uther motioned for Ser Andrew to slide down a bit with him, so the two would be out of view of any within the castle walls and towers. Closing his eyes, he dug into his brain, pulling long catalogued memories and stories he had heard as a child from his family members of old. He juggled the different options in his mind, before settling on what he felt was both the safest, and the surest way to take the castle. He spoke in a low hushed tone, with urgency emphasized in it.
“Attacking the walls is foolish and a folly. You’ll get nowhere but dead with that ploy. It may seem like they enemy is diminished, and that their sentries are but few, but that is a common ploy with these… holdovers from another time. The men of the Spine, of the high deserts, they hide their numbers and true might with deception and sleight of hand. The walls are damaged, the towers not perfect, nor the gates as strong as they should be, but what we want is a silent way in, a way to the heart of this castle. The walls are but brightly colored feathers on this bird, the towers its talons. How do you think this place has stayed alive, eeked out an existence if the waters of the River Wyl are guarded and watched?” Uther rolled onto his side, using his right hand and fingers to begin drawing a crude picture in the dirt and sand.
“This valley floods, like the sun rises and sets each day. Now, all that water, given time, cuts paths through the rock on either side of the main river bed. It creates these hidden and forgotten underground rivers, caverns large enough for a small ship to pass.” Uther paused, then in a soft sing-song voice, he recited an old poem of sorts, “Silent water flows underfoot, the sacred river Wyl, mysterious and magical, flows through caverns measureless to man, down a sunless sea that glitters and shimmers with the lights not of this world. Only the faithful may travel these gaping maws, less the foolhardy become lost and swallowed whole by the river Wyl.” Uther finished, and pointed back to his crude drawing. “Our loyalist forces have the water ways guarded, but only what they can see, and only where they can build their castles and forts. The Vultures are no doubt using a system of the caverns to get around patrols and the blockades. If you want to take this castle, we need to use their means of resupply to strike at the beating heart of this beast. It’s not glorious, it’s not going to be some heroic venture, but it will get the job done, and ensure victory. That’s what matters.” Uther then rolled back to his back, and pointed back down the small valley the royal forces occupied.
“The dead Vultures, we take their uniforms, cut back to the river, and ambush the next supply ferry. We take that into the castle, and cut the head of this chicken. Watch it run around and die without its leaders. They rank and file Vultures will either fly the coop, or surrender. The final decision is yours, Ser Andrew… but that is my thoughts on the matter. I await your command.” Uther bowed his head, and turned back to steal a last glances at the setting sun and at the Vulture’s Roost.
I am going to post my posts in a three post section of sorts. I've got the first part up, two to go.
Western Westeros, Lord Lorimer, Lady Cerenna, Lady Myrielle. Taking place in the Golden Tooth, official change of command from House Lannister, Ser Martyn Lannister, to Lord Lorimer Lefford.
Lord Lorimer couldn’t believe it, as he stood at the gates of the Golden Tooth. Even after two decades of weather, repairs, and whatever else the garrison had done to the castle, the telltale signs of fire and war remained upon the walls and fortifications. He had heard the half-remembered stories of the castle’s last stand, his mother remaining loyal to Queen Cersei, her and half the garrison falling to the Targaryen forces, it was even said a dragon helped subdue the loyalist remnants, before an uncle, Lancel, or Lorne, wounded, finally surrendered. Probably saved the castle from fully being destroyed. That man, bought time for Lorimer and his sister Cerenna to escape, their Aunt Janei, ferrying them to the Lannisport, before fleeing to the Stepstones later on, after war’s end. Lorimer smiled, touching a soot covered emblem of his house, running his fingers across it, before turning away from the past, and towards the present.
His attention was directed back towards his sister and lady wife. He smiled at both of them, before rejoining his retinue as they crossed the threshold of his new holding. Or rather, his family’s ancestral seat of power. He could see the lack of care, or rather, to be correct, the lack of pride in the castle. Sure, the Lannister Lions had ensured their banners were clean and bright, their armor clean and spotless, but beyond that, the castle and its former glory was rather in disregarded disdain. It was more military fortification than a home, more strengthened fortress than a warm place to raise your children. The old sigil of House Lefford, the Golden inverted pile and sun, were dingy and dirty, covered in cobwebs, some chipped and shattered, the once proud stone sculptures now lying in the dirt, the usual that happens after a siege, and when a house falls from power. Lorimer heard that there were once several metallic sigils, with real gold, and other precious metals, mounted about the castle, but from a cursory glance, they were missing. No doubt stolen and melted down. He sighed, calling for the retinue to hold up and begin dismounting. He removed his gloves from his hands, and placed them in his belt, turning to meet the current garrison commander.
The man stood in the finery of House Lannister, his golden hair mixed with light browns, golden armor shining brightly in the mid-morning sun. They had ridden together into the castle, Lord Lorimer and his simple mount, the only adornment its antiquated House Lefford sigil, shined brightly to a proud sheen, while Ser Martyn of House Lannister, and his comrades, all rode atop dazzling golden armored horses, their own armor golden and gaudy as well. Lorimer thought to himself, ‘A bit over the top… they look ridiculous.’ Lorimer waited for Ser Martyn to dismount, the man taking care to dismount only after Lorimer did, perhaps in a display of indifference. Now on foot, they all took a tour of castle grounds, Ser Martyn leading Lorimer, Cerenna, and Myrielle about. Lorimer was quick to pick up on both Martyn’s tone and demeanor that he was not particularly thrilled to be having his command be taken away from him and given to Lorimer.
Lorimer allowed himself to be lead about the castle and its immediate grounds. He took note to himself to get a ground keeping crew together to clean up the flora that had overgrown the gardens, courtyards, and other communal areas. Only the drill yard and garrison yard were clear and well maintained. The fountains had been left in ruined disrepair, perhaps seen as too costly to rebuild, or serving no military purpose. What wasn’t in short supply nor disrepair, was the level of military readiness and projectable power of the castle. The Lannister’s had rebuilt the settlement into more of a military depot and stronghold, than what it used to be. Extra towers were identifiable, along with blockhouses that held vast stores of weapons and gear for the soldiers, and for the local levies as well. Ser Martyn explained to Lorimer that the Golden Tooth had become one of the strongest fortresses in the West, serving as the principal mustering grounds for the Gold Knights.
Lord Lorimer listened intently, even as Ser Martyn continued to talk down to him. ‘Perhaps it’s because my family fled during the downfall, or perhaps it’s because I married one of the Lannister bastards… don’t blame the man. He is salty that his command has been taken from him. Lannister’s have always been proud. When he is done, I’ll build his ego, let him know that his experience is needed.’ Lorimer thought to himself. Ser Martyn finished the tour of the grounds, puffing his own chest out in a sort stating that they were well situated to deal with any sort of rebels and outlaws that prowled the area. After a short tour of the interior, and his wife and sister dismissing themselves to their respective rooms, a kiss on the cheek, Lorimer was lead to the war room of the castle, very well cared for and maintained, aside from the ruined family mural upon the wall, carved out of solid marble. Lorimer sighed, shaking his head, and looked to the table as Ser Martyn spoke at length once more.
The Lannister knight pointed out the marked locations upon the map, as though he were speaking to a child or teenager, rather than an experience man in his mid-twenties. Tarbeck Hall, Castamere, along with a few other possible outlaw dens and strongpoints. Lorimer digested what Ser Martyn spoke, a quick retelling of current affairs, enemy disposition, and current allied operations. The information was not particularly unsettling, but if the situation was left unattended, it could grow to a much larger problem that could threaten to destabilize the region. Whoever these rebels were, the most likely endgame was to either gain legitimacy, or to just see the world burn. Lorimer, well, anyone who had two brain cells to rub together, heard what the Lannister’s had done to both the Tarbecks and Reyenes. This all was brought to the present, when with a certain amount of smugness and disdain, Ser Martyn asked what his orders were, topped off with a smirk, as though asking such from anyone other than a Lannister or the Royal family was distasteful.
Lorimer smiled politely at Ser Martyn, turning upon his heels to stand at attention before the former commander of the Golden Tooth. He spoke in a formal, respectful tone usually reserved for formal function regarding those of high stature and rank. “Ser Martyn Lannister, while you have been relieved of commander of the Golden Tooth, and I assume that command, you and your experience is still greatly needed by myself and the crown. You have direct experience with the current situation, have served honorably as this location’s commander, and you are a proven member of the Gold Knights. If anyone should be giving orders, it should be you. Ser Martyn, I defer to you in this matter. What would you do, how would you handle the current situation, and help me to better understand what I can do to be as good of a commander as you are. The crown has great faith in your abilities, as does your great family, so I trust you as I trust my own kin. Please, Ser Martyn, you are the field commander here, I am but a bureaucrat to sign documents and ensure you have what you need to accomplish your mission.” Lorimer bowed politely before Ser Martyn, and eagerly awaited the man’s response.
Lady Cerenna’s Room
Cerenna paced about the room impatiently. She ran her fingers across the fabric of her dress, playing with the fine material. At long last, she sat down into an old and musty chair, the dust roiling of in a small cloud. She coughed, sputtering for a moment, as she waved the dust away. “Well, it could be worse I suppose. At least the fireplace works and the bed looks to be vermin free.” She sighs and smiles. “Nothing a bit of elbow grease and some spring cleaning can’t fix.” Standing, Cerenna stripped out of her fine gown and garments, rummaging through her trunks of clothing while standing in her under clothes, she let out a small peel of laughter. It was a small charm wrought in gold, emeralds, and rubies, given to her by a very special someone to her. She held it close to her breasts, pressing it gently into herself, before hiding it away once more. The glitter of the precious metal and gems sent a dazzling display across the room, before being extinguished as it entered the chest.
She picked out a simple gown, a nice subdued auburn color with highlights of green. She quickly slipped into the gown, covering her under garments and feminine features. “Well, the room won’t clean itself, and I certainly won’t hear Lorimer’s griping about me having a dirty room. No doubt he and Aerion wouldn’t ever shut up, once Aerion gets back.” A small sigh followed some happy signing, as Cerenna set to her task, cleaning her room, removing cobwebs, dust, dirt, and other remains of a room left unused for a bit too long. Her hair was held back and out of her face, while her gown was tied close, which did add to her form. ‘Perhaps if I get done, with some time to spare, I can write a letter or two to my friends, and see how they are doing.’ She thought to herself, as Cerenna continued to clean her quarters.
Lady Myrielle and Lord Lorimer’s Rooms
Myrielle sat at the edge of her bed, comfortably relaxing as she read through a series of documents detailing the food stores of the castle, income and tithes, the status of the wells, and so on. To her, it was rather interesting, having at one time been a lowly working woman, to now being a fully recognized lady, with a real name as well. She drank from a small cup of wine, smiling to herself as she studiously looked over all these documents. Smoked hog, mutton, sides of beef, vegetables, and on and on. She smiled, thinking of last night, how her and Lorimer had rolled about in their tent. She’d certainly have to treat him again later tonight. “I am a real lady… me… a legitimized Lannister, now a Lefford. Lorimer, you are my gallant knight and savior.” She said aloud to herself, as she now rolled to her stomach onto the bed, and continued reading.
Lord Lorimer couldn’t believe it, as he stood at the gates of the Golden Tooth. Even after two decades of weather, repairs, and whatever else the garrison had done to the castle, the telltale signs of fire and war remained upon the walls and fortifications. He had heard the half-remembered stories of the castle’s last stand, his mother remaining loyal to Queen Cersei, her and half the garrison falling to the Targaryen forces, it was even said a dragon helped subdue the loyalist remnants, before an uncle, Lancel, or Lorne, wounded, finally surrendered. Probably saved the castle from fully being destroyed. That man, bought time for Lorimer and his sister Cerenna to escape, their Aunt Janei, ferrying them to the Lannisport, before fleeing to the Stepstones later on, after war’s end. Lorimer smiled, touching a soot covered emblem of his house, running his fingers across it, before turning away from the past, and towards the present.
His attention was directed back towards his sister and lady wife. He smiled at both of them, before rejoining his retinue as they crossed the threshold of his new holding. Or rather, his family’s ancestral seat of power. He could see the lack of care, or rather, to be correct, the lack of pride in the castle. Sure, the Lannister Lions had ensured their banners were clean and bright, their armor clean and spotless, but beyond that, the castle and its former glory was rather in disregarded disdain. It was more military fortification than a home, more strengthened fortress than a warm place to raise your children. The old sigil of House Lefford, the Golden inverted pile and sun, were dingy and dirty, covered in cobwebs, some chipped and shattered, the once proud stone sculptures now lying in the dirt, the usual that happens after a siege, and when a house falls from power. Lorimer heard that there were once several metallic sigils, with real gold, and other precious metals, mounted about the castle, but from a cursory glance, they were missing. No doubt stolen and melted down. He sighed, calling for the retinue to hold up and begin dismounting. He removed his gloves from his hands, and placed them in his belt, turning to meet the current garrison commander.
The man stood in the finery of House Lannister, his golden hair mixed with light browns, golden armor shining brightly in the mid-morning sun. They had ridden together into the castle, Lord Lorimer and his simple mount, the only adornment its antiquated House Lefford sigil, shined brightly to a proud sheen, while Ser Martyn of House Lannister, and his comrades, all rode atop dazzling golden armored horses, their own armor golden and gaudy as well. Lorimer thought to himself, ‘A bit over the top… they look ridiculous.’ Lorimer waited for Ser Martyn to dismount, the man taking care to dismount only after Lorimer did, perhaps in a display of indifference. Now on foot, they all took a tour of castle grounds, Ser Martyn leading Lorimer, Cerenna, and Myrielle about. Lorimer was quick to pick up on both Martyn’s tone and demeanor that he was not particularly thrilled to be having his command be taken away from him and given to Lorimer.
Lorimer allowed himself to be lead about the castle and its immediate grounds. He took note to himself to get a ground keeping crew together to clean up the flora that had overgrown the gardens, courtyards, and other communal areas. Only the drill yard and garrison yard were clear and well maintained. The fountains had been left in ruined disrepair, perhaps seen as too costly to rebuild, or serving no military purpose. What wasn’t in short supply nor disrepair, was the level of military readiness and projectable power of the castle. The Lannister’s had rebuilt the settlement into more of a military depot and stronghold, than what it used to be. Extra towers were identifiable, along with blockhouses that held vast stores of weapons and gear for the soldiers, and for the local levies as well. Ser Martyn explained to Lorimer that the Golden Tooth had become one of the strongest fortresses in the West, serving as the principal mustering grounds for the Gold Knights.
Lord Lorimer listened intently, even as Ser Martyn continued to talk down to him. ‘Perhaps it’s because my family fled during the downfall, or perhaps it’s because I married one of the Lannister bastards… don’t blame the man. He is salty that his command has been taken from him. Lannister’s have always been proud. When he is done, I’ll build his ego, let him know that his experience is needed.’ Lorimer thought to himself. Ser Martyn finished the tour of the grounds, puffing his own chest out in a sort stating that they were well situated to deal with any sort of rebels and outlaws that prowled the area. After a short tour of the interior, and his wife and sister dismissing themselves to their respective rooms, a kiss on the cheek, Lorimer was lead to the war room of the castle, very well cared for and maintained, aside from the ruined family mural upon the wall, carved out of solid marble. Lorimer sighed, shaking his head, and looked to the table as Ser Martyn spoke at length once more.
The Lannister knight pointed out the marked locations upon the map, as though he were speaking to a child or teenager, rather than an experience man in his mid-twenties. Tarbeck Hall, Castamere, along with a few other possible outlaw dens and strongpoints. Lorimer digested what Ser Martyn spoke, a quick retelling of current affairs, enemy disposition, and current allied operations. The information was not particularly unsettling, but if the situation was left unattended, it could grow to a much larger problem that could threaten to destabilize the region. Whoever these rebels were, the most likely endgame was to either gain legitimacy, or to just see the world burn. Lorimer, well, anyone who had two brain cells to rub together, heard what the Lannister’s had done to both the Tarbecks and Reyenes. This all was brought to the present, when with a certain amount of smugness and disdain, Ser Martyn asked what his orders were, topped off with a smirk, as though asking such from anyone other than a Lannister or the Royal family was distasteful.
Lorimer smiled politely at Ser Martyn, turning upon his heels to stand at attention before the former commander of the Golden Tooth. He spoke in a formal, respectful tone usually reserved for formal function regarding those of high stature and rank. “Ser Martyn Lannister, while you have been relieved of commander of the Golden Tooth, and I assume that command, you and your experience is still greatly needed by myself and the crown. You have direct experience with the current situation, have served honorably as this location’s commander, and you are a proven member of the Gold Knights. If anyone should be giving orders, it should be you. Ser Martyn, I defer to you in this matter. What would you do, how would you handle the current situation, and help me to better understand what I can do to be as good of a commander as you are. The crown has great faith in your abilities, as does your great family, so I trust you as I trust my own kin. Please, Ser Martyn, you are the field commander here, I am but a bureaucrat to sign documents and ensure you have what you need to accomplish your mission.” Lorimer bowed politely before Ser Martyn, and eagerly awaited the man’s response.
Lady Cerenna’s Room
Cerenna paced about the room impatiently. She ran her fingers across the fabric of her dress, playing with the fine material. At long last, she sat down into an old and musty chair, the dust roiling of in a small cloud. She coughed, sputtering for a moment, as she waved the dust away. “Well, it could be worse I suppose. At least the fireplace works and the bed looks to be vermin free.” She sighs and smiles. “Nothing a bit of elbow grease and some spring cleaning can’t fix.” Standing, Cerenna stripped out of her fine gown and garments, rummaging through her trunks of clothing while standing in her under clothes, she let out a small peel of laughter. It was a small charm wrought in gold, emeralds, and rubies, given to her by a very special someone to her. She held it close to her breasts, pressing it gently into herself, before hiding it away once more. The glitter of the precious metal and gems sent a dazzling display across the room, before being extinguished as it entered the chest.
She picked out a simple gown, a nice subdued auburn color with highlights of green. She quickly slipped into the gown, covering her under garments and feminine features. “Well, the room won’t clean itself, and I certainly won’t hear Lorimer’s griping about me having a dirty room. No doubt he and Aerion wouldn’t ever shut up, once Aerion gets back.” A small sigh followed some happy signing, as Cerenna set to her task, cleaning her room, removing cobwebs, dust, dirt, and other remains of a room left unused for a bit too long. Her hair was held back and out of her face, while her gown was tied close, which did add to her form. ‘Perhaps if I get done, with some time to spare, I can write a letter or two to my friends, and see how they are doing.’ She thought to herself, as Cerenna continued to clean her quarters.
Lady Myrielle and Lord Lorimer’s Rooms
Myrielle sat at the edge of her bed, comfortably relaxing as she read through a series of documents detailing the food stores of the castle, income and tithes, the status of the wells, and so on. To her, it was rather interesting, having at one time been a lowly working woman, to now being a fully recognized lady, with a real name as well. She drank from a small cup of wine, smiling to herself as she studiously looked over all these documents. Smoked hog, mutton, sides of beef, vegetables, and on and on. She smiled, thinking of last night, how her and Lorimer had rolled about in their tent. She’d certainly have to treat him again later tonight. “I am a real lady… me… a legitimized Lannister, now a Lefford. Lorimer, you are my gallant knight and savior.” She said aloud to herself, as she now rolled to her stomach onto the bed, and continued reading.
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