AtomicNut

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

Sept of Baelor(with @MrDidact)

One step after the other, the figure eyed the rich cobblestones of the sept. Draped in muted clothes, she continued to meander among the sea of people, in her lips a whisper of a prayer. The Great Sept of Baelor awaited before her subdued stare, as she joined the crowds of her peers. Septas entered and exited all the time, the hour having been chosen as the most bustling of the day.

Lysara reigned in her emotions and steeled her face. It was a bit worrisome, and scary. But she had faced worse. At least the people in the Sept werent all hungry for her maidenhead, like the mercenaries she had been used to deal in the past. She acted sheepishly, as she moved aside her now dirty brown hair, braided in a simple ugly braid.

Underneath her robes, she clutched the forgery of the letter of her transfer. She was now Mya, aa stowaway they had found in Gulltown, and that she had joined the Faith to escape a life out of the streets after a certain enlightened encounter. She also had made sure to study Gulltown and its places before being questioned, in order to make her claim credible should it be challenged.

One step after the other, she was in. She sheepishly made herself unconspicious and wandered about, always making sure that she followed the most of the Septas as well as the lowest ranked ones. She needed to find the Great Septa at any rate, and present the letter, hoping she would be fooled. But in the meantime, she could just try and listen if there were any gossip to be found...

The septas, septons, and clergymen of all ranks and orders mingled with Warrior's Sons and various pilgrims. Most of the talk was about spiritual matters, but there was a fair bit of gossip of the wars and goings on across the realm, and especially about the supposed bastard prince that Jonquil was carrying in her belly. Eventually, Lysara laid eyes on the Superior Septa, one of the Most Devout. She was a matronly woman, with long white robes and a silvery coronal. She was attended by a train of lesser septas and accompanying Sons. It was she who Lysara would report to.

"Most Holy Mother, I- " Lysara began to talk, trying to hide her accent to some extent, her letter outextended. And there come forth the art of subterfuge and misdirection. For lies to go through, they had to have a base of reality sometimes... and a healthy dose of distraction. So Lysara gritted her teeth mentally as she made it so she stepped in her own tunic in eagerness, going face first against the cobblestones as she tried to hand out the letter, letting a little yelp while doing so."-transfer." She mumbled, reeling from a bit of genuine pain.

The Warrior Sons stepped forward to shield the Septa, but then helped Lysara up to her feet. The Septa looked her over in concern, making sure was alright before taking the letter and reading it, "I see. It seems everything is in order. We do in fact have a recent opening. You can be settled in the communal quarters with the rest of your holy sisters. You can start with one of the Superiors for your assignment tomorrow. The Seven go with you, child." She nodded and they walked off once more. Lysara was in.

"Seven be praised." Lysara said weakly, as she rubbed her chest. Landing headfirst in her cleavage had hurt like hell, but it had been worth it. She betted that her fellow Septas had already flagged her as clumsy, and as such, somewhat harmless. She got to her feet, so far so good, and cleaned her clothes. The communal quarters were next, as she eyed her surroundings. Now where the quarters were? She begun to walk in the direction that seemed to be the most likely, always keeping an ear for her surroundings.

A gaggle of hooded Septas passed her, all seeming to head to rest for midday, and Lysara followed them. Soon they were in the more private wing of the Grand Sept, several septas were assigned to individual cots that were seperated by partitions. Lysara also had a room mate. A ginger haired stripling with freckles a plenty who greeted her with a smile, "Hello. I'm Eliza. Pleased to meet you."

Lysara eyed the girl. Well, she looked rather...plain. But it was to be expected. Slowly but surely, she would have to slip in her role. She shifted back and forth in her bed, answering in the best smile she could muster. "Hi, I am Mya! Nice to meet you too! These cots are comfy!" She added as a random afterthought. Probably for the best to downplay her own intelligence. The moment of truth awaited, as she pulled her hood back, trying to see if her ability to put makeup had made a convincing job of making her much less comely.

Eliza grinned, "Not particularly, but definitely better than my parent's home. From Flea Bottom to the Grand Sept is a great transformation. What about you, where are you from? You don't look like a Kingslander. Country girl? First time in the city?"

"I don't know where I am from. Me momma was not even from the city i was born, and me dad is a big unknown because me momma was one of these ladies of the night, which someone in Gulltown paid of a sum for." Lysara parroted, her expression feigning sadness. "But yes, Kings' Landing is big... betcha the King who landed had a big butt." Lysara added as a random afterthought.

Eliza laughed, "It's just an expression Mya. But wouldn't you know where you lived?" She pointed out with a smile. Obviously she thought Mya was something of a lackwit, "Well to be sure, King Tommen landed, but he was only a boy. So what brings you to our modest little sept?"

"Uuhh...I lived in Gulltown, trying to scrounge whatever i could in the docks. Until ser whatwashisface i cannot remember put me in the sept." Lysara said, her finger pointing at her chin as she moved her feet. "But, well, they told me i could be useful in here yes." She frowned, faking strain as if she was trying to remember. "They said I could make men feel better?"

Eliza arched an eyebrow, "You are in the right place right? You weren't meant to serve at Chataya's were you?" She laughed and said, "There are many ways to do that, salving the spirit is one of them. That's what we do here, in addition to tending their hurts. You'll probably start with the hospital in the morning, if you're a healer."

"Yes, that was it! I had some talent in healing, so they told me." Lysara said as she tilted her head. "They also told me i could sing well. But that doesn't help with hurts." She added, rocking back and forth. "...uh, whose cot was this?" she asked, trying to wiggle herself as if feeling uncomfortable.

Eliza shrugged her shoulder, "Singing can be helpful. They might have you work with children, or other patients that bandages wouldn't help." She looked at the cot with some sadness, "That was Jonquil's. She was a Septa here, one of our best, before she had to leave." Eliza didn't elaborate.

"Jonquil... uuh. Well, i felt like if there was something pointy in the cot. It must be my imagination...." Lysara. "Did I say something stupid again?" She prompted at eyeing the face of Eliza, picking up the sadness in her stare. "I'm sorry." She added, awkwardly shifting her stare, or pretending to.

Eliza smiled softly, "Like I said, these aren't royal cots. Most like some defect." She shook her head and said, "It was nothing you said, I was just thinking about her. Jonquil was my friend. We started here at the same time, though she was at the Dragonstone sept first. She was my best friend actually. But life happens, eh?"

"Best friend? Oh I get it." Lysara said, surprised. She was genuinely surprised, for once. Finding herself in the spot where Jonquil had slept before was a genuine success, for once, but she couldn't drop her guard down, after all the favorable winds of the investigation could change, and fast. "I wonder if she will be alright. Because she made a baby with a prince. If it was Florian it would be a dreamtale." Lysara rambled. This train of thought of this Mya persona was somewhat...really intoxicating, for once.

Eliza smiled again, "Florian the Fool and Jonquil eh? Well, I think it was some fool. Some boy, Jonquil had met. These last past months she was practically walking on the air, which was a change because she is usually so folorn. She was in love. Broke her vows, and now someone is using that to their advantage. That's what I think. If you ask me, someone high in court spread the story and pressured the High Septon to go along with it. Most like Jonquil's lover lies in bowls of brown now." Eliza's expression had soured and she lay back on her bed.

"So, she met a boy and stopped being grumpy?" Lysara questioned as she took notice of Eliza's expression before undoing her ugly braid, and grabbing a meagre comb, began combing her dyed hair. "Well, I suppose thats what it makes it a vow, if it wasnt that hard to keep. Boys are nice. Sometimes. When they are not trying to rob you of your food or kicking you in the gut cos you are weak." She sighed. "What makes you think it wasnt the dreamy prince? Cause that is mean, to fool people like that." She said, feigning a sulk.

Eliza sighed, "I suppose in a manner of speaking. She was always a mellow kind of girl, smiled very little," She rolled her eyes at Mya's story about boys, "Yes, sometimes. When they're not trying to push you to the ground. But it's hard for most septas, especially girls our age, to stick by it. I just didn't think Jonquil would be one of them."

"A prince? I doubt it. She may have been highborn, and sure she may have met the Prince at Dragonstone, but where would she have met a Prince when she was here? Aemon hardly could sneak in with his silver hair could he? Not outside of prayer and ceremonies. The royals stick out like sore thumbs whenever they come here. All it is is that sometimes Jonquil is part of the group that gives blessings to the royal family. Aemon may sound possible to most folks, but I sincerely doubt it."

"Mmm, you never know Eliza. I once thought old Renas would never get a bethroded, and she did! Three days before she died of old age, she met an old man! But I will try my best to be your best new friend!" Mya said, finishing combing her hair before laying down in her cot staring at the ceiling. Well, with some dyes like me, maybe you could sneak in.

Eliza laughed, "Well, I suppose we'll see as long as you don't meet your own fool. I better get going, I have duties to attend to. Rest up, Mya, you have a long day tomorrow. It was good to meet you." She smiled at her and left, leaving her among the rest of the idly relaxing septas.

Lysara eyed the girl as she waved her farewell with her hand, continuing to stare at the ceiling. Well, now that was interesting. Should I send a message to Arya and Jahaerys about this? On second thought, maybe it is too risky now. Aahh, if only I had some of the strange powers people run around these times. She said, as she fumbled around. Maybe there was some kind of hidden diary in the cot? It would be a likely place to have one.

There was nearly nothing in the cot or around it, Jonquil or someone else likely cleaning almost everything out. All that she could find were some spare clothes that had been left behind and a copy of the Seven Pointed Star, which on first glance seemed to be quite standard.

"Well at the least it won't hurt to read on the Faith." She mumbled to herself, and tried to use the Seven Pointed Star copy to refresh her notes about the Faith. A mind needed books to stay sharp, and someone pretending to be from the Faith needed to study the book at heart.

I will wait a couple of days more, and then I will try to smuggle a letter out. She added as an afterthought, as she kept reading.

For several pages the tome seemed just like an average holy book, but soon Lysara started to notice certain things. Jonquil was prone to scribbling notes in the margins, circling or underlining certain portions of the text, mostly all notes on her reading and commentary. It was clear that Jonquil was well-read, thoughtful, and more skeptical of literal readings of the text than one might think a Septa capable of. On some writings put down by septons and holy men, she challenged their findings and even outright disagreed. Several passages about maintaining faith and the prevelance of good over wickedness were circled, as well as musings on marriage and bastardy.

Finally, after skimming more than halfway through, Lysara came upon a thin, neatly folded note. Upon opening it, Lysara would find it read, "To my dear Jonquil. Whatever it takes, I will save you from your prison. Fool that I am. I swear it by all the gods. Have faith in me, and stay strong. Your Florian."

Lysara almost blanched, as she picked the letter. This clue... this could be really helpful to the conundrum. But she would need the help of King's landing. Handwriting could identify a person, or disprove their identity. This could help the Crown greatly. But first things were first. She neatly folded the note back in its place, as she closed the book. "At the very least, he was cultured and polytheistic." She mused to herself, as she thought hard, and made a mental note about the scribbles. She had to send the note to Arya, but she would need to do it with the utmost care. She would have to wait for now... She thought to herself as she hid the book once again.

The Dance of Dragons - (ASoI&F) (GoT) - [Openly Recruiting]

Hmm, so i suppose next post will prob will be a collab with well, that prince or whatever.

The Dance of Dragons - (ASoI&F) (GoT) - [Openly Recruiting]

Cregan

Snowfall, once again. It was happening more and more frequently, the white and ethereal droplets of an hourglass that only signaled the grim times. The ones that once held the Crown winter knew it the most, and as such, the motto of the Starks warned about the inexorability of Winter. Like an implacable foe that cut with a thousand swords of ice, and ten thousand arrows of cold winds. Who turned the living into stone with mere touches, and rob the very warmth of the soul. And according to the legends, capable of going even beyond that. Something that had gone beyond so far beyond comprehension of men, that the Wall had to have been built, in order for the icy miasmas called blizzards and frosts would not extinguish the titillating flames of life.

Outside the walls of Winterfell, a cadre of men were loading and unloading carts, drafted by hardy beasts who barely paid attention to the climate, content with eating whatever feed they had been offered. Among them, the Warden of the North was personally overseeing every bit of their industrious work, as they unloaded and loaded supplies from one cart to another. From quarry to quarry. The lord stood tall, strong and proud as he was. A young lord in the prime of life. Courageous and skilled. And yet, his face was devoid of joy, the ever perpetual grim shadow of a frown in his face. Even if it was autumn, it still felt like Winter already. His fingers were numb, and his lungs ached somewhat, possessed by a deep cold that permeated every fibre of his being. But it was not all due to the weather. In fact, it was because he was missing the flame of life of his wife. Only her comforting arms could shake the cold out of him. They said wolves mated for life, and Stark felt that maybe he had more in common with them that he found initially. But he had to shoulder on. He had to be strong. Winter was coming. He had to be there for Rickon, for his subjects, sometimes even friends, who looked up to him.

Cregan sighed, as he eyed the last of the carts being loaded. For the past weeks he had traded his sword with the quill, his mighty northern warriors by a cadre of scribes and maesters, dedicated to redistribute the stocks of all the harvests that were happening throughoutly his entire domain. Everything had to moved around, so the deaths by starvation would hopefully be few.

"See that Manderly shares some of the food surplus with Umber and Mormont." Stark said to his aide, a wiry scribe who jotted furiously. "In return, Manderly may draft some hands from Umber and Mormont to proceed with dock repairs and refurbishing of White Harbor." Cregan announced as he stroke his chin. "We're a bit behind schedule. There's not enough hands nor harvest as I'd like to." He said to the aide once more as he eyed the scenery once more.

"Sir, what about Skagos?" The clumsy aided dared to suggest, as he saw his lord's scowl be more exaggerated, as he mused.

"What indeed. Skagosi have never cared about Winterfell in these years, citing my ancestor time after time." He sighed, as he eyed the unforgiving sky. "But Winter makes all of us brethren, doesn't it? Send a raven to Skagos. Tell them we're swapping sea blubber and skins for vegetables and peat from the Neck. The blubber will be apprecited in the Neck, I am sure. But I won't have my hopes up, they will simply ignore it as they always do." Cregan gripped the pommel of his sword as he gritted his teeth.

Goodness, my Love. What kind of mad world I must raise our son in. Every single person will find a petty reason to start trouble... He became sunken in thought. The familiar beckoning of a female voice and the panting and heavy pounding on the snow awake him of his thoughts. The only other two members of his inner circle, besides Rickon, were there. Arsa Snow, the half-sister of his, her factions obscured by a warm cloak and grey clothes, yet the mischievous locks of hers poked from underneath. She was gripping a finely carved bow as she moved sharply, like the Stoat she was often called. To her side, much to his chagrin, was the Direwolf whom he had shared many moments with. The huge, black savage beast that was Marrow was following her rather playfully, his tail wagging and his tongue drooping like if he were just a young puppy not yet weaned from its bitch.

Damn you Marrow, I always knew you were a womanizer at heart. How come you two are so bloody close this fast? He mentally grumbled, a small cynical pang of jealousy assailing his heart.

"Brotheeer" She called in public. Well, this was the north. All hands were helping hands, and the taint of bastardry meant nothing if you could help against the winter. Cregan didn't mind either, after all she was constantly bringing him out of his foul moods."There's a problem."

"...okay. What is it." Lord Stark turned his back to the procedure, just as Marrow came back to his side, brushing against his left flank.

"Ravens, from the Targayens." Arsa said, nonchalantly as she eyed the rookery.

"Well, don't stay there. Bring me the message." He added, sternly.

"Which one?" She asked, confused.

It was then when Cregans' frown smashed in a hundred of pieces, before quickly recomposing. "What do you mean...Arsa?" He asked, the confusion of her sister being apparently contagious.

"There's two of them." The Snow replied, putting a hand to her well shaped but short frame. Cregan's hand moved swiftly and mercilessly.

The facepalm was heard even by the men who were by the carts. Cregan, without skipping a beat, commanded again. "What are you looking at! Get those carts sorted out!"

Old Gods of the Stream, Forest and Stone... I am surrounded by idiots. He muttered as he begun to pace back inside the walls of Winterfell.

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

@MrDidact

That RP is missing a House, if you get my drift....dammit, I need to play characters in the GoT world that aren't fucking Tyrells! :P (though I think I'd probably be okay with doing a different house, not too sure where though)

@kingkonrad

Play Manderly. Men from the Reach who can play with the Northmen bros.

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

I want Ellion to volunteer, but I feel that makes it way too many. I want him to go do some other badass shit somewhere. :)

@kingkonrad

Plunder the booty...of the whorehouses.

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

Reasons for Seran as Volunteer: That Arak twerph is going to ruin it. Pretty heroic, innit?

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

The Roseroad.(with @MrDidact)

Alester's eyes widened for a split second, before letting out a curse under his breath. The lull of the travel had almost made him forget what was the reason for this mission: These so called Gardenerers had waited to lay the ambush in the worst possible moment. The caravan was swollen with smallfolk and civilians. And damn him, he had told them to accompany him. He knew they would be in danger for the sake of luring the Gardeners.

He gripped his reins as he heard the screams of men and women surrounding him. Such was the price of lordship. After a first volley of archers, they sent their troops in a pincer movement when his own retinue was in disarray. A fast hit and run strike, but one that belied an effort of planning. He would have dwelled more on the subject, had he not been in the sights of one of the Greenhand pretenders bent on goring his horse. Given his position he couldn't counterattack, and he would most likely kill his mount if he followed course. He gritted his teeth, spurring his horse to stand on his hind legs, therefore avoiding the tip of the spear that was aiming at him, and then crashing the hooves on the head of the other knight as he passed by.

"Get your bearings! Use the carts to shield yourselves from the charge. Raise spears! Watch out for their archers!" He yelled at the top of his lungs.

The knight fell out of the saddle, his helm dented by the hooves of the horse and he fell to the ground in a heap. The soldiers and knights ran to proceed with Alester's orders. The peasants hid behind the defensive spear and shield lines that quickly but professionally sprouted, the warriors using the wagons as additional cover. They managed to get into position right before the Gardener knights charged them.

There was a great clash of steel and a few Gardener's had their mounts speared from under them or were pushed from their seats. Some men-at-arms had Gardner lances in their necks or were split open by longswords. The line buckled but it held, and the arrows commenced in earnest once more, landing among the wagons and the defensive line.

Behind the knights came even more men on foot, charging with swords and axes and mauls. Six men all charged at Alester, shouting at the top of their lungs and lunging at the Florent lord, intending to knock him from his seat.

Alester cursed under his breath"Arthur, get your ass here". As he eyed the new wave of invaders, he stirred his horse. "Lance!" He yelled to one of the carts, which yielded him his battlefield lance. He briefly pondered wether to fight back with his full skill or allow himself to be captured, so the civilians would be spared. But even if he was, the attack would probably not cease. He stirred his horse once more, making it spin on its own, and then spurred it into action, trying to start a charge alongside the line of carts. "Cavalry, regroup and attack them while they are swamped. Use melee weapons and bows to repel the infantry if need be!" He yelled as he gripped his reins tightly.

The guardsmen strung bows and began firing at the advancing infantry, downing several as the pikemen lashed out at the knights, who began running up and down the line to try and find weakspots while others kept trading blows with the spearmen. The loyalist knights regrouped and they charged out from the spear lines, clashing with the other knights or running down men-at-arms. Suddenly there was horn and the Gardener arrow barrage started to lighten. Now more arrows rained down, but on the Gardener infantry. Each arrow expertly found its mark and Arthur Glenmore charged onto the field with a squad of knights, running over dozens of men and joining the fray. The battle had now become equal and became a pitched fight and not a one-sided ambush.

Dozens on both sides were dead, and many more civillians were killed with countless wounded. The half dozen infantrymen who charged at Alester lashed out at the lord with their weapons, one man going for his horse while the other tried to hack at his sword arm. They obviously intended to take him alive.

Alester muttered under his breath. "Sorry." He muttered an apology, as he purposefully made a priority to keep his sword arm over his horse. He jumped out of the mount to avoid being crushed by the wounded animal, and he broke his lance on the head of one of the assailants.

"You want my sword arm. So you shall have it."He muttered, his voice trembling on barely contained anger. Why so many civilians had to die...He cursed at them and at himself... and let his swordsmanship loose. He danced, parried, and flung, a swathe of cuts in every direction, sparing no one of his fine swordsmanship. His fierce blows not allowing any Gardener infantry to even come close, lest they were cut into ribbons by his slashes.

They were taken aback by the skill of their quarry and four more men had died before the last surviving infantryman backed away in fright. Suddenly a knight came into view. He had a sword and shield, and a dented helm. Obviously the knight that Alester had thrown from his horse. The man roared and charged at Lord Florent with his metal buckler, intending to smash the Fox Lord in the face with the rim and cut at his leg with the sword.

Alester grinned under his helmet, his carefully crafted fox visor splattered in the blood of the fallen, as the new challenger arrived. He jumped sideways, as if his legs were springs, allowing the knight to pass through.... his bladed levelled at the neck height. He was gripping his blade with both arms, and given the speed of the other knight was charging...The fountain of blood that sprouted was a sight to behave as he sliced the neck of the knight clean, Alester's own helmet now becoming a bright red.

There was a crash of impact as the last man at arms jumped on Alester and tried to wrestle his sword away from him, angling him towards another knight who quickly loaded a crossbow and aimed right at his knee, taking a moment to center the shot. Behind him several pikemen advanced with spears leveled, trying to circle around.

"You want me that badly, sers?" Alester gritted his teeth... and he let his blade go. They probably weren't expecting that. Nor the glint of valyrian steel that followed. In such close quarters, Knightslayer sung, digging itself deep in the flesh of men with a flurry of stabs in the joints and chinks of the armor of his opponents, allowing Alester a reprieve. He took one of his strugglers by the decorations of his armor and used him as improptu crossbow shield, as he kept stabbing and struggling.

The man grappling with Alester sagged limply after being stabbed and made no reaction as the crossbow thumped into him. The knight cursed and holstered the weapon, taking out his sword and telling the spearmen to advance. The men surrounded Alester and lowered spears, attempting to prod the man and harass him, wound him. There was a clack of hooves and Arthur rode by, his sword flashing against the Gardener knight and sending the man reeling after parrying a blow while his horse kicked one spearman's head in, a dagger flying from Arthur's free hand to bury itself in the neck of another spearman.

Alester's breath quickened. He had been taken away by the fury of the battle, as his eyes went wide under his helmet. But somewhere, somehow, he still reigned himself in, and allowed him to reassert the situation. A spear circle. Normally this would spell his end, but his sight caught Arthur appearing from nowhere and starting to slay spearmean. He muttered mentally a heartfelt thanking to the knight, as he redoubled his effort. Seizing still the corpse of the Gardener infantryman, he charged the spear line with it thus rendering several spears ineffective, as he used the lump of flesh to blunt their tips and break through, taking some wounds in the process.

He still needed a sword, though, muttering as he held the woefully short but deadly Knightslayer in hand.

As he pushed through, there was a stab of pain as one of the spearmen managed to jab Alester in the shoulder, scoring a minor wound before Arthur lopped off his head with his longsword. The Knight Inquisitor jumped off of his horse and slammed into another man, stabbing the soldier next to him before planting another dagger in the eye of the man beneath him.

"Catch!"

Arthur picked up one of the fallen swords and tossed it at Alester as the other spearmen either stood off with Arthur or began rushing for the Fox Lord, trying to jab at his shoulders and legs.

Alester nodded sternly, as he grabbed the sword with a flourish and got ready for the spearmen charge. His shoulder was aching, but he held together. Sheathing Knightslayer, he he examined the situation. Grouped spears had every advantadge against a sword, no matter the approach. This was truly a test of skill. He could fall back, though, but he probably wouldn't be able to find a better matching weapon. He gritted his teeth, both his arms firmly gripping the weapon.

As the tips of the spear poked, Alester swung with all of his might and his fury, a flurry of blows aimed to divert or shatter the spearpoints, putting all his might into the swings. He hoped the weapon weighed enough to shatter the shafts.

Amazingly, one or two of the spear shafts were shattered by the strength and accuracy behind Alester's swings. The rest of the spears were expertly parried away from the Fox Lord. The two men who had their spears shattered, drew swords and tried to flank Alester on either side as the remaining two spearmen kept jabbing at Alester, trying to force him to give ground.

Alester gritted his teeth, liberating one of his hands from the grip of his sword. Deftly sidestepped, he purposefully entered the space of one of the swordsmen, to provoke him into a swing, and then, with his off hand, pushed him into the two spearmean with a swift move once more. Without wasting time, he squired to the remaining foot soldier, expertly clashing against his blade with one hand. "You guys are rather inept at fox hunting." He muttered in annoyance.

The man at arms cursed as they traded blows, getting backed up as his friends untangled themselves. Suddenly the man lit up with a broken smile, "Half of hunting is trickery innit?" There was the thundering of hooves and if Alester turned he would see another knight. Unlike the others, the Green Hand was displayed prominently on his breastplate, over his heart. His helm was immacutely wrought silvery plate, and his white cloak flowed in the breeze behind him. He had a shield in one hand, holding a spear in the other and he was bearing down on Alester.

Alester gritted his teeth. This was really a pitched battle. At least it was himself. That boy Merlin had suggested... wouldn't probably last this long. He thought. One of his arms was shot. He was covered in blood. He was starting to bear the exhaustion of wounds and harassing. But he eyed the knight defiantly. "Archers. Concentrate fire on my position!" He yelled to the troops, unsure if they'd answer, but it would be an equally powerful bluff, as he readied his sword for the knights' charge. His footwork shifted as he stopped swinging, separating himself from the footmen and aiming to cut the the rider on the spear's side. It was a do or die blow. He knew they would want him alive, so they'd refrain from using a killing wound. So he could sidestep that lance, and he executed his move without hesitation.

Several nearby archers strung their bows, and the knight twisted his shield to cover him as arrows embedded into the wood. Alester managed to knock the spear out of the man's hand in the confusion, and the knight wheeled around, retrieving his own sword and trading blows with Alester from his mounted position, all the while deflecting the odd arrow with his shield. The other infantrymen were now engaged with either Arthur or Alester's troops and the fight became a duel between the two knights. The Gardener was quick, precise, strong, and tried to cut Alester's sword from his hands as they clashed.

Alester smirked underneath. Finally someone on his level, and not the rabble he had fought up until now. Despite the wounds and the heated battle, he felt invigorated, his mind and body cranking up the pace as mentally, his restraints, the very thing that separated him from his most violent impulses eroded. Set me free. It rang with each of the parries, blows and exchanges, as the toll increased. Set me free. Be liberated. Lay waste to your enemies. His inner self said. It was then when revelation struck.

One of the blows, the sword flung away from Alester hands. But it had not been fully the knight's imput. It was a well calculated feint. One that Alester exploited to bring his prized Valyrian dagger in an arc. The metallic snap of steel cutting steel was heard, as the Knightslayer lived to its namesake, cutting both sword and sword's arm of the knight in a single stroke, before a second flourish dug deep into the knight's warbeast, sending the horse in pain and hopefully throwing his rider.

With no time to waste, he unembed the dagger, and rolling on the floor, captured his sword once more. "I'd rather capture you alive. Quit while you are ahead."

The Gardener crashed to the ground as his mount bled, as he fell he managed to kick out at Alester with his boot, denting his chestplate, but still he fell. He crashed into a heap at Alester's feet and looked up at the Fox Lord. He looked around as his men fought with the Florent and Tyrell men, with the Inqusitor's men and the freeriders. They hadn't expected Arthur to ambush them.

"Give me your word of honor that you will spare myself and my surviving men, tend to our wounds and treat us as befitting a prisoner. Your word, ser."

"Smallfolk have died." Alester gravely said, gripping his blade. "But you have my word. I shall spare you and your men from further violence and see to your wounded. Now. Give me your name and order your men to surrender." The young lord added, still wary of his surroundings.

The Gardener dropped his sword and said, "I am Ser Owen Gardener, brother to the true Lord of the Reach. Stand down!" Suddenly his knights stopped in the saddle, his men-at-arms ceasing their melee, looking to him. By now scores of men and women had died, smallfolk and soldier both, and the fires had taken a few wagons before the frantic peasants finally stopped them. Ser Owen nodded again and the men began dropping their weapons, dismounting from their horses and holding up their hands in surrender.

"I kept my word. Will you keep yours?"

"A little gaudy, ser Owen." Alester narrowed his eyes. "All troops! Stand down! Ser Arthur! The enemy has surrendered! Cease the fight, and start tending to the wounded of both sides!". Alester commanded, as he eyed the Inquisitor. Surely he would not mind giving the same orders, as hard-pressed for clues as he was. He sheathed his sword, and offered a hand to the Gardener pretender.

Ser Arthur called for the men to stop fighting, and medics rushed to tend to the wounded, while others sorted the Gardener men into ranks of captives. Owen looked at Alester for a moment before taking his hand and rising. He removed his helm to reveal a man who looked quite like a Tyrell. He was young, possibly even younger than Alester though still a man grown, with rich brown curly hair and bright gold-brown eyes, as handsome and fair as any maiden's dream of a Reachman Knight.

"Will you take us to Highgarden or King's Landing?"

Alester sighed, removing his helmet, caked with blood and grime, his squinty face and big ears also splattered in blood clots, as he eyed the knight. "You're skilled for your age, it seems." He added as a compliment, surprised that he was this young. His sight rested on Arthur. "I say King's Landing. What do you think, Ser Arthur?" He eyed the Inquisitor awaiting for input.

Ser Owen nodded in polite thanks and said no more. Arthur rode up and said, "I need to return to Highgarden with my men. But this shipment of material needs to reach the capital anyway. I'll call on more bannermen to help escort this shipment and the prisoners, and the Gold Cloaks can help once we enter the Crownlands. I say the shipment rides on to King's Landing. The Small Council will want to quesiton these prisoners. Do you wish to go on to the capital, my lord?"

Alester looked at the ground as he pondered, his gauntlet firmly planted on his mouth. "So be it, ser. I would rather have you and your men as escort, such a formidable lot they are, but I understand the sake of your mission. I shall take these prisoners to King's landing, thus preventing retaliation from either side. We won't spill more blood in the Reach if we can help it." He then motioned for him, to whisper in his ear. "I am wary we might suffer a second ambush, this time in full force. See to it." He added, before raising his voice again. "Crows! I need crows! I need messages to be sent to Highgarden, Brightwall and King's Landing." He concluded, and then paused.

"When was the last time you had a meal, ser Owen?" He asked.

Men rushed to apply his orders, a Half-Maester going to the crow cages to send the messages. Arthur quietly nodded, "We will accompany you until the reinforcements arrive." Then he rode off to see to his men. Owen composed himself well, even for a man who had been defeated, "Not since this morning. I would be honored to lunch with you, Lord Alester. The tales of your skill were not exagerrated."

He eyed the battlefield, as he sighed. "I hope your men would not mind some horse meat. We have come to have a surplus of it right now." He shook his head as he invited his prisoner to follow him. "I am concerned that such tales exist. I believe I told people to keep their lips sealed." He added as a comment.

Owen nodded grimly, "My men have been used to worse. As for the tales, well, people like to talk. And there are many ways to loosen lips."

"I should probably not push my luck and count your blessings. Let's get those wounds seen, Ser Owen. I shall do the same with mine and we'll share some wine and a meal." Alester added, eyeing the rest of the troops, as he indicated for Owen to follow him to a healer.

The Gardener knight followed, men being seen too and prisoners collected as the raid ended.
--------
The Stepstones.

Seran sighed, as he eyed the conversation take part. A very risky maneuver that called for volunteers. Seran had half a mind, his thoughts torn between his worries about the mission finally going awry and the fact that his last stunt had been less than stealthy. Still, he emitted a soft groan when the eager half-blood pup of Lord Bolton jumped at the chance of glory and riches. Less so when the Greyjoy did. She had been a little green back in King's landing with the whole fighting thing, but she had a good head upon her shoulders. She could pull that off. The little Meerenese? He was also a bit surprised. Perhaps she had encouraged her a bit too much. Yet, she seemed somewhat resourceful. Still, he sighed, obscuring his build with rags and cloaks, and using his bruised state to disguise his wholed visage with bandages.

"I'll go aswell. I'll try to be disguised. Worst case, i'll be bait, like last time." Seran added nonchalantly, his eyes drifting to that of Lord Bolton and Arak Snow. You may be a paranoid lordling, but I'll help you keep that eager pup in check for the sake of the mission. Just this once. He thought as he lingered for a bit, before breaking the stare.

The Dance of Dragons - (ASoI&F) (GoT) - [Openly Recruiting]

House Stark

Seat: Winterfell
The North
History:

The Starks. There's hardly a house more mentioned in the tales of the North than the Starks. Brandon the Builder,founder of the House, built the Wall. Brandon the Breaker, lord commander of the Night's Watch defeated the Night's King. For millenia, the Kings of Winter have ruled the harsh unforgiving lands with an equally unforgiving resolve, conquering fellow northmen Kingdoms and repelling the invasions of Free Folk from beyond the Wall, Ironborn from the Iron Islands, and the Andal invaders from the south. However, they weren't as lucky with the Targayens. Torrhen Stark, the last King in the North, surrendered before the House of the Dragon, sparing his army of the annihilation that the dragonfires brought upon the land. For his actions, he was much resented by some, but House Stark became the Wardens of the North under the Targayen reign.

The actions the House Stark had to perform were at times like a bitter cup of medicine. Targayens have commanded the Starks in marriages of convenience with the Eyrie, as well as giving away the New Gift to the Night's Watch. And yet, the House Stark has rarely if ever been found at fault in their duty towards the Iron Throne. Starks are a pragmatic, somber lot, true to their motto. Winter is coming. And we had better be prepared for it. In recent times, the leadership under Lord Cregan Stark has allowed to enjoy a respite and fairly smooth transition between the previous Lord and Cregan himself, yet the prospect of a new Winter weighs heavily on the Warden of the North, more than perhaps the petty plots and intrigues at court...

Lord Cregan Stark

Bio:
Cregan, the only son of the previous Lord Rickon Stark, was born in a household whose time perhaps was not its best. Burdened by the decisions of his recent ancestors, who gave up the crown of Winter to serve the Targayens, the rule of Rickon, whom he passed unto his son, was fraught by internal policing and trying to maintain the brittle links that held the north together under the Stark banner, still corroded by the assumed cowardice of King Torrhen back during Aegon's Conquest. Befitting his future as the Warden of the North, Cregan grew up under a strict education, and always strived the very best to be the lord everyone needed in the North.

It was found soon enough however, that he was not without quirks. For once, his swordsmanship was such that his father entrusted the Valyrian sword, Ice, at an earlier age than expected, and it is said that few northmen are as skilled in combat as he is. However, the young lad did not fall in the trap of trying using his personal might to impress his subjects and foes alike, and instead dedicated himself into being ponderous. The North was a dangerous place, and if one was let astray by the heart, they could easily be killed. It is said that Cregan rarely, if ever smiled outside his loved ones, and only paid attention to the minimal courtesy and etiquette, leading to the rumours that he somehow has ice for blood, specially south of the Neck, which he rarely visited. He also weaned a black direwolf pup, whom he named Marrow, by himself, and raised it to be his companion.

He did not engage in the pleasures of socializing very often, and it was such as that when he was engaged with Arra Norrey, young Cregan was rumoured to have never seen the woman before his wedding. However, the rumours were soon dispelled when somehow, Arra Norrey made his husband smile and beam. Even though it was a convenience marriage, Cregan treated his wife kindly, and love seemed to flourish. She bore him a heir, whom he named after his late father.

Tragedy struck soon, however, as in the span of two years, he lost both of his parents, and then his wife died victim to an strange fever. The young lord of Winterfell was young only on the outside, as his mind became grim and melancholic. Furthermore, with the signs of a new, hard winter approaching and the rumours of struggle in the Iron Throne they have not helped his situation. He spends the days wishing that his enemies and problems were of flesh, so he could hack them to pieces and be done with it. But one cannot fight winter with a sword. His only highlight is perhaps, that his own father confirmed in his deathbed the existence of bastard half-sibling of his, a fact he had known for a while, and urged him to take her to Winterfell. Arsa, as she was named, has so far proven the only person to be able to lift the spirits of the ailing lord besides his son, Rickon.

Arsa Snow/Stoat

Arsa was the result of a rather lustful craving of the late Lord Rickon Stark after a very frustrating visit to the swamp and Marshes of the Neck. After an unsuccessful hunt of several criminals who later were found out devoured by the lizard-lions, Rickon Stark got so inebriated that he took the maidenhead of one of the Lord Reed's daughters. After the incident, and full of regret, Rickon had no choice but to acknowledge her as bastard, and spared no funds in her education and welfaring. Lord Reed allowed Arsa to live and grow up alongside his family and the crannogmen, while at the same time, employed the stipend that Lord Stark gave into giving her a proper education. Arsa Snow, or Stoat, as she was known to the crannogmen, grew as an exotic beauty among the swamps, someone who could look good in a dress and at the same time, catch her prey even in the most confusing swamp or snowfield.

Yet, the taint of bastardry was there. Arsa was thought to be two-faced and treacherous, and it did not certainly helped that sometimes, rumours of her carrying the strange powers and being able to see through the eyes of beasts. However, the rumours were cut short, when she was called to live with Winterfell. Here she found a father she had barely known dead, and a sulking half-brother as Lord. It is said that Marrow, the direwolf of Lord Stark greeted Arsa immediately, as if she had always been part of the family. True or not, the teenager Snow bonded with her brother almost immediately, helping him in her own ways. Either using her skill as ranger, tending to his half-nephew or being a cup-bearer in feasts, she tries to paint the walls of Winterfell with the optimism that is sorely needed.

Kin and Servants

• His son, Rickon Stark.
• His Uncle Bennad Stark
  
  • His wife Margaret Karstark
  • Benjen, Brandon and Elric Stark, cousins of Lord Cregan
• Marrow, companion Direwolf of Lord Cregan.

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

@kingkonrad

She has a ton of armor, ye

He wants to see her taking a bath afterwards thoooooooo

@Monochromatic Rainbow

Come to think I never decided if Merrell was married or not. Hmmm.

Game of Thrones : The Pact of Ice and Fire (Always Open)

@Monochromatic Rainbow

Can I join in? Garlan can suggest it indirectly :P

@kingkonrad

Mirren's milkshake brings all boys to the yard.