Dusty

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

S T A R P I K E

Starpike’s southern wall featured a small postern door leading down a narrow flight of stone steps carved into the rocky hillside upon which the keep sat. A quay built from the shore stretched out into the halfmoat where cool water offered tempting solace on a warm day. A private place for the inhabitants of the castle to warm themselves on the sunning stones, to swim and for the children to play in the meager stretch of sandy shore. In Antonine’s opinion it would never be warm enough to swim in the moorland, where even in summer the winds blew down fierce and cold from the red mountains. The boys were of a different mind. Halys Swyft arrived not three days past alongside the promised loot and reinforcements sent from the west. Ser Gyman Peake who’d escorted the captive child departed a mere two days after his arrival for Dustonbury taking ninety archers and leaving a mere ten of his number for Starpike. For a brief moment it felt that the castle became full again before shrinking back into its skeleton garrison as before. How long would their ten new bows grant them if the Dornish or Leo Tyrell arrived? Ser Derrium Daring insisted the hundred sixty men in the garrison, now swelled to hundred and seventy, could hold these walls for years until the food ran out. Antonie was not so certain, though she did not argue against the knight’s experience.

Instead she tended to her duties as head of household, seeing to her ward and ensuring he felt as comfortable as possible in his new home. Halys was a boy of nine with a head of golden curls and weak chin. Despite his situation he put on a brave face with all the dignity and grace his noble name afforded. Antonie wasn't fooled by his act, for she had heard him weeping in his chambers on that first night when he thought nobody was near enough to hear. Antonie ached at the thought of how it would be to send her own children away to a far away castle, the implied threat hanging over their little heads. For a moment she thought to go and offer comfort, but her courage failed her and she left the child to cry alone. The Lord of Cornsfield would be safely out of the war while his heir resided here, that could be certain but, everything about this felt cruel to her. Halys found himself compelled to swear an oath that he would make no escape, nor allow any person to free him. He seemed forcibly cheerful while he promised upon the seven faces of god to be a good prisoner, like someone trying to make the best of a bad situation. Unfortunately it seemed her son Meryn was not making things easier.

There seemed to be a clash of personality between the two boys. They were perfectly courteous to each other to a point, both raised proper to mind their manners. However the sense of animosity between them could not be denied. Perhaps it was as simple that their fathers were enemies, and therein so were they. It started as simple challenges, as if the boys were testing each other’s courage and toughness. If they were walking the curtain wall around the castle and Meryn seemed to be staying too close to the center away from the edges Halys would suggest a game of walking along the merlons. When eating, if Meryn spotted something Halys did not favor the taste of, he would propose a challenge of eating as much of said culinary item in a short time as possible. Back and forth it went, each one rising to the challenge of the other without fail. They discovered Meryn was a better tree climber, and Halys the faster sprinter, and Meryn the greater swordsman and Halys the superior archer and on and on. The conflict culminated one morning when Meryn spotted Halys shivering ever so slightly when they were in the godswood and suggested immediately they ought to go swimming. After hesitantly giving her leave Antonie followed them out to the private space off the southern wall and observed them standing on a high rock over the water’s edge arguing who should be the first to leap into the chilled waters beneath.

“Guest rights, I should be second.” Halys presented his case logically. “I cannot be sure the water is safe, what if there’s lizardlions lurking beneath the surface?”

“Lizardlions!” Meryn scoffed at the absurd notion. “In the Marches? The water is too cold for snakes let alone lizardlions. Are you daft?”

“Lizardlions live in the Neck and in Dorne.” Halys argued in turn, giving Meryn a shove that nearly sent the younger boy spilling into the water. “Dorne is close to here, and the North is much colder than the Marches. One might have swam into the ocean from Sunspear up the Mander, and then followed the tributary and into your moat. Do not call me daft either, I am smarter than you.”

Meryn sputtered, unable to quickly compile a functional retort to the reasoning presented. “There’s no lizardlions in the moat.” He said at last. For the first time in their many interactions he glared at Halys, the mirage of his courteous demeanor wavering. “I assure you it is too cold for them. I have swam here many times. The only thing in that water is snails and little fishes.”

“If you’ve done it many times why do you not jump? Or is it too cold for lizardlions and for you too? I think you’re just craven.”

That seemed the final straw for Meryn who pinched his nose and without another word leapt from the rock into the waiting water below. Halys let out an audible groan before he too jumped. The boys emerged from the water and waded ashore to the thin patch of sand that separated the wall and moat. They were glowering at each other still and noticeably shivering.

“See any lizardlions?” Meryn spat wrapping his thin arms around himself.

“No, but they would have made better company I think.”

“You must not think much at all.”

“Says the craven.”

“Your father surrendered you, who's the real craven?”

That it seemed proved to much. In heartbeat the boys were on each other, tussling in the sand. Antonie twitched from her seat on the stone steps, worried she may have to intervene. To her relief they were not throwing punches, biting nor kicking, merely wrestling. Antonie had seen much the same from her brothers, and her own sons. Able and Meryn were fiercely competitive, and wrestling remained one of their conflict resolutions. In fact, Able might have been the key to Meryn’s chances here. He never showed mercy to his younger brother, and more often than not would pin Meryn within moments. Halys was a fair inch taller than Meryn, and broader in the shoulder and fast, but he was no Able. Meryn kept pace, and proved skillful and eventually pinned Halys securing the older boy in a proper hold from which there proved no hope for escape. After a brief struggle Halys relented.

“I yield.” He said in the same rueful voice he’d used to swear his vow to not escape.

Meryn relented and let him up and they both sat still for a moment brushing sand from their faces. Halys looked sour and disappointed in himself, but a thoughtful look passed Meryn’s features “You’re faster than my elder brother Able.” Meryn said at last, and though Halys might not know it, Antoine recognized a genuine compliment from her youngest son. “I am sorry I named your father a craven. That was wrong of me. Ser Gyman said he fought bravely, and yielded only when the cause was hopeless.”

For the first time since his arrival at Starpike a real smile spread on Halys’ face. “You're the strongest boy I’ve ever fought, and not a craven at all.” He said his tone lacked any of the false optimism it had carried before, replaced by something real. “You must show me how you did that chokehold, I could not break free.”

“Sure.” Meryn showed him, and then they were playing like they had known each other all their lives. Wrestling and swimming and building sand castles and trying to snatch fish out of the water using only their bare hands. The coldness of water and opinion forgotten. Antonie could only shake her head and marvel at what strange creatures boys were. Bitter and fighting one moment, and then friends in the next. They played for hours before Meryn suggested he show Halys the castle town and all its inhabitants. Even offering to let the other boy ride Able’s old gelding grey. They raced past Antonie up the steps, begging to be let out to ride amongst the town.

“Very well,” Antonie gave her permission and they charged past towards the postern door laughing and jesting all the way.

______

That evening when Atonie checked on her slumbering children she passed Halys door once again, and heard the muffled homesick crying from within. Taking a deep breath she eased the door open and walked in, finding the boy crouching by the window looking longingly to the northwest. he swiftly wiped the tears from his face, bearing a look of terrified embarrassment. She shushed him, and offered what comfort and solace she could to the little boy, so far from home and surrounded by strangers and foes.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

@Emma I don’t think anyone would mind smaller posts, I’d encourage you to try making a character or house and see how it goes.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

T H E S T O R M L A N D S

Ninety men galloped through the Stormlands from the west, taking the lesser known route through the mountain woodlands guided by Selmy scouts. The small company were mostly mounted yeomen though Unwin did not count himself the only knight. Four others were present, mostly to keep the eager lowborns in check. For their mission required the heavy hand of a brigand, and the careful restraint of a seasoned knight. At daybreak Ser Samuel took thirty riders and split off towards the northeast while Ser Patryk took a score and rode hard for the southeast. Unwin and his two score would ride due east at a hard gallop and strike before the morning ended. Before the people of Summerhall’s lands knew what had befallen them. They were practically in the shadow of Maekor’s castle, a mere six leagues from the keep.

Silent and swift they went, skirting the open areas that would betray their approach. A cattleman stumbled upon them to his great misfortune, and a yeoman skewered him with a spear, his warning cry dying on his lips. Onward they went, the faint curl of smoke drifted from cookfires, the scent of roasting chicken and barley porridge could be tasted in the air. Voices were heard, morning greetings between smallfolk who were attending their daily routines. A group of children ran down the muddy lane that ran between the settlement’s homes. There stood at a quick count twenty cottages, ramshackle and covered by thatched roofs that would burn easily. All around Unwin were eager grins as the company assembled just inside the treeline. This is why smallfolk went so willingly to war, Unwin reflected as he regarded the cruel expressions around him. The chance to feel a taste of power. An opportunity for self enrichment and to satisfy brutal cravings. So far they’d been kept under tight control, Lord Gormon did not wish to burn the Reach nor anger its lords. These were Summerhall lands however, and these people paid their taxes to the red dragon, and fought in its armies. They were no better than foreigners in the eyes of Reachmen.

A young woman, carrying water from the town well, wandered too close to the treeline. Her sharp ears caught the sound of a horse’s hooves scraping over root and rock. For a moment she smiled, expecting scouts from Summerhall, but the men slinking through the trees wore no emblem. Their surcoats and gambesons were covered by black cloth, their faces concealed behind fire darkened steel. The girl screamed, dropping her bucket and running for her life. A warning shout sounded, men scrambled to find whatever lay close at hand to use as a weapon. It was too late, far too late.

“Let some women flee, kill the men and boys. Take everything you can carry or herd and burn the rest.” Unwin ordered, hardening his heart against what was about to happen. Wild shouts rose from the throats of his reavers and they surged forward in a terrible lust and fury.

____


The day enacted a heavy toll on Summerhall’s lands and people. Unwin and his men savaged three villages, and nearly a dozen farmsteads. Fields were put to the torch, women assaulted, the men were outright slain while the children were brutalized by those who could stomach such acts. Animals were rounded up, and those that couldn’t were killed and left to rot. The losses for Unwin were minimal, a few scrapes and bruises and one man dead. The man in question had gotten far too distracted in his pursuits on top of a woman that he hadn’t noticed her son sneak up behind wielding a wood axe to cleave his skull in two. The boy and woman were both dead now hanging from a tree. The fallen reaver remained behind in a pool of his own blood. A bitter warning to his compatriots to take greater care in their clearing of the houses. Satisfied they had made their presence known, and a great deal of woeful refugees would soon be crowding Summerhall’s gates Ser Unwin turned his men west. Heavily ladened by loot and animals, their hands stained red from a grisly work well done.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

T H E R E A C H

The procession of exhausted men limped its way through the lower hill country tracing their rapid steps back from whence they came. They were slower this time, far from the hectic pursuit before that had brought them into battle. Weighed down by battle loot, leading captured horses, and carrying fallen comrades they were in no rush. Every one of them had been pushed to their limit, hard pressed to crush the Dornishmen who had invaded the Reach. Lord Gormon had not permitted a proper pursuit of the routing foe, rightfully concerned they may be led into yet another company of Martell riders.They brought back a mere three prisoners, two knights and a squire of noble blood who were deemed valuable enough to keep in irons. The rest were put to the sword. He allowed only a short rest so that man and horse could drink from a nearby stream and scrounge any valuables from the dead. Once they’d recovered their own fallen the Marcher company set off, leaving the sandblooded corpses to rot under the late day sun. Of the hundred knights Gormon led out from their encampment in pursuit of a handle of scouts, only four score and a half returned, and nearly every man bore a wound of some kind, whether serious or benign. Only Ser Samuel seemed wholly unharmed, though even his broad shoulders were slumped by weariness.

Gormon’s own muscles ached, and dried blood caked his lower thigh where Willem’s sword found a weakness in the ringmail. Not once during the slow ride back to the encampment did he let the twinges of pain from his throbbing skull or lacerated leg show on his face. Instead he set his jaw in grim resolve and bore it without complaint. He rode a captured horse, some bay Dornish courser which allowed his enfeebled destrier a much needed rest. The big red horse limped noticeably, its arrow injury clearly causing the animal considerable distress. He ought to name the beast, Gormon mused glancing back. River mud had been slathered around where the arrow had been extracted to help staunch the bleeding. The red had survived multiple battles so far and no doubt when the wound healed they would ride together again. The beast was proven, sturdy, and most importantly fortunate. In the business where warhorses regularly perished alongside their riders, being lucky could not be understated. Gormon turned a few suitable names over in his head, murmuring them under his breath to test them, but none seemed right. He pondered for a moment more before shaking his head, as if trying to rid himself of a persistent gnat. He would ask his son Able, the boy could be far more sentimental and clever when it came to naming conventions. He probably already had a name for the red stallion and would only need to be prompted to share it.

Gormon thought back to thirteen years ago when Able had been born to him. He would have named him Titus for the infant’s grandfather and left it at that, but Antonie insisted he be called Able after some story or hero past. It seemed a dreadfully common name to Gormon, nor could it be found in his lineage. In truth his protests against his wife’s preferred name were half hearted, for he bore little love for his lord father. Lord Titus Peake in his day proved cold and distant, caring little for his four sons even unto the day he died sick and alone in his chambers. Instead Gormon’s first born son would be anointed in the seven oils and named Able of House Peake. Heir to nothing, not even a towerhouse in the mountains, but the cruel hand of fate turned and now Gormon ruled Starpike and commanded its armies. His elder brothers and their children were naught but memories, stolen from the world by disease. Every time Gormon thought of them, guilt turned his stomach. How could he have been rewarded so generously from the deaths of his nephews and brothers? It seemed wrong to be pleased but Gormon could not deny that sense of rightfulness when he’d received the raven flown letter which had given him equal parts grief and pleasure. His son would rule at Starpike, and if they won this war greater honors and rewards awaited.

Engrossed in his thoughts Gormon heard a satisfied snort from Ser Samuel and glanced up to see their journey at an end. The Peake host had made its camp in the shelter of a triple hill not far from the road. A half ring of wagons secured the vulnerable flanks of the tentline, while sharped stakes hammered into the dirt protected the fore. Soldiers hustled about fetching water, digging latine ditches, and cooking the evening meal not wasting a single moment of the dwindling daylight. The scents of roasted beef and chicken drew the hungry knights in and they rode through the makeship threshold where guards saluted their returning lord and his chivalry. Immediately they were surrounded by squires, dozens of them who set about attending their charges. More than a few were grief stricken, as they searched in vain for a knight who did not return alongside the others. Gormon’s squire and good-brother Antill Amborse approached gifting him a wineskin from which he drank greedily.

“You took a wound my lord?” The young man said examining the rushed patchjob of mud and cloak tearings that stymied the bleeding. He paled at the sight and looked as if he might be ill. Antill was a dutiful squire, intelligent and diligent yet he possessed a hopelessly weak stomach and little talent for battle. Lord Ambrose must have thought Gormon would toughen up the boy and fashion him into a proper warrior. A forlorn prospect to be sure.

“My skull is worse.” Gormon grunted once he’d drunk his fill, throwing away the wineskin. “The knight I fought, one of Sandstone’s spawn I think. The whoreson rang my helm more than once but I saw to him in the end. One less scorpion to worry us. Give me your arm and do not let me stumble damn you. I must not fall in front of the men.”

“I have you my lord.” At least Antill possessed a good strength of arm Gormon thought when he slid out of the saddle and put his full weight on his legs. Even a man like he could not keep the hiss of pain from escaping. Antill held tight to his arm practically holding him upright. For a moment Gormon felt light headed and his knees shook but he threw off the temporary weakness and shoved Antill away.

“That’s enough, I can stand on my own. Others take you, I only needed steadying, not carrying.”

“Of course my lord.” Antill brushed at his yellow tunic patterned in scurrying ants. Gormon’s arms were stained by the gore of his enemies, and he’d left considerable amounts smeared on Antill’s own pristine clothing. He looked sickened again. “Ser Unwin awaits you in your pavilion my lord. Uh- shall tend to your horses?”

“Aye, do that. See that the horsemaster heals my destrier’s hurts. The beast took an arrow and I’d rather not see it fester.” Leaving Antill to his duties Gormon stomped his irritable way towards the unmistakable orange pavilion that held a commanding position at the encampment’s center, atop a small rise. He did everything in his power to not limp, but he was glad of the lengthening shadows to help cloak his pain. Pushing his way through the entrance flap he found Unwin and Able within awaiting his presence, a spread of warm food and wine already laid at the small table. The tent’s interior was a spartan affair lacking the usual luxury of a high lord’s campaign quarters. At least it had a proper bed and a table and chairs, comforts most of the army lacked. The moment he entered Able leapt up and embraced him, unmistakable concern written on his youthful face. Gormon hesitated, wanting to rebuke the boy for the display, but only Unwin was there to see. His brother would not fault him. He growled in disapproval but he relented and gave his worried son a half hug. It was more than his own father ever would have allowed public or private he mused silently.

“The outrider’s report said you took a wound.” The boy explained his concern, when he pulled away gesturing towards Gormon’s bandaged leg. “I thought maybe-”

“Nothing,” Gormon snorted, waving away the worry. “The bugger proved swifter than my shield is all. He wielded an accurate blade, and a strong hand. He lies dead now, him and a hundred of his ilk. I will admit my head is muddled, I must sit and eat and I want out of this armor.”

“Of course brother, you look weary.” Unwin said standing as well. “Rest a moment, we shall rid you of that steel, and then we must hear of your exploits in the skirmish.” While they carefully removed his armor and bloodied clothing Gormon recounted the battle, describing in detail his victory. The two were good listeners and Able even gave a cheer when Gormon described how he finally bested the Qorgyle knight. He produced the captured scimitar and let Able hold it. The boy’s face became enraptured by the bejeweled weapon.

“I shall win one just the same before this war is through.” The boy swore as he passed the sword off to Unwin to examine. Gormon felt his heart swell with pride and he let the faintest hint of a smile appear on his lips thankfully hidden by the dim candlelight.

“You shall listen and train hard under your Uncle, and heed his orders.” He admonished in a serious yet pleased tone. “Do that and you’ll live long enough to be capable of vanquishing a worthy foe. Be patient and level headed, you will have your chance for glory, every man does.”

“You advising patience and cool headedness Gormy?” Unwin jibbed. “I must have missed when the sun rose in the west, and pigs took to wing. The world has turned to madness.” Gormon growled, throwing his gauntlet at his insolent brother, Unwin laughed and dodged while Able was all smiles.

They ate heartily of a haunch of goat and drank deeply of wine and spring water. The taste of warm savory blood on his tongue restored Gormon’s strength and his head felt clearer despite the abundance of alcohol. The two men discussed Unwin’s diplomatic venture with Lord Selmy, and the pledge to drive away the Dornish first and foremost. The conversation turned then towards how best to utilize the meager resources the Marcher lords had at hand to defeat the Martells. Able listened raptly drinking in every word of strategy and logistics, but as the hours dragged on the boy’s head drooped and his eyelids fluttered until at last he lost the hard fought battle against sleep. His head nestled on his arms, resting against the table. His soft snores drew the men’s attention, and Gormon shook his head irritably. “My son has the right of it, we should rest. The scheming can wait for the morrow. We need Selmy’s approval before anything may be set in stone.”

“I concur brother, but I am certain Summerhall remains the chink in our armor. The Boneway must be closed before we can rendezvous north.” Unwin stood and suppressed a yawn. “Shall I return my squire to his tent? Seems a shame to disturb him.”

“Nay leave him be, he may sleep here for the night.” They parted, Unwin vanishing out into the darkness for his own pavilion while Gormon gently picked up his son and deposited the boy in the bed. For a brief moment Able seemed to Gormon’s eyes a tiny babe again, asleep in his crib beneath an Ambrose roof. Those days were simple, serving as a knight without prospects. He never would have guessed how it would develop. Everything he had, his brave sons and dutiful daughter, his loyal wife, his titles and castles and honors all given by the gods. Would they be so cruel as to snatch them away again? Should he have accepted his fortunes and forgone ambition, duty and hatred? The slumbering boy stirred, and his trusting grey eyes found Gormon’s own.

“The seven keep you father.” He murmured before sleep stole him away again.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

T H E R I V E R L A N D S

Lord Walytr granted his private audience with all the proper respects, no highborn here might complain for the lack of hospitality. Nobles were offered the comforts of the somewhat overcrowded castles, Harold even received his own quarters in the northbank keep which he shared with his grandson and new ward Nory. His retinue were found lodging in the castle town, which seemed in the midst of an economic boom comparable to a tourney. The streets were packed by merchants and farmers hawking their wares, while tavernkeepers let their brews flow as coins changed hands rapidly.

These Northern lords alongside many riverlanders and valemen brought great hosts, and though the towns outside the Twins seemed full to bursting these were no armies, merely retinues designed to display wealth and power. When they are reminded of their oaths and swayed to act they must return home. Harold thought, his lip twisting in displeasure. They must slowly gather their armies, and rally their knights and ride south again. How much time must they waste? The bastard who would be king already had an army, a competent one if the reports were anything to go by. Every second they delayed Daemon took more ground, and here in the Twins it seemed everyone wished to do naught but delay.

Harold was shown into a comfortable study in the southbank keep, within the private chambers of the Frey’s. Books lined the walls, looking dusty and unread and ample animal skins carpeted the floor, but they seemed old and well trodden. A lord who wishes to appear a lord without the strain Harold noted as his greying host welcomed him.

“How might I serve you my lord Harold?” Lord Walytr Frey had a nasally whining voice that irked Harold on some primal level. Great effort became required to keep his face passive, not a hint of irritation appearing in his own tone.

“It is a great honor to be welcomed into your hall my Lord Walytr. Your courtesy lives up to your reputation. I do not wish to take up much of your time, I understand the gathering happens soon. I have a simple query, one of minor importance, but I came upon a curiosity during my travels to your hall. Might I beseech of your knowledge of the local nobility?”

The Frey lord’s eyebrows rose and he sat a little straighter, and Harold was reminded of a clever weasel who’d caught the scent of a hunting hound on the wind. “Of course, were you beset by one of my sworn knights? Or perhaps scorned the comfort of their holdfasts? If you were given an offense I shall see to it, that I swear.”

“Nay, no offense from your chivalry, no I merely ask if you are familiar with the current Lord Vance?”

Frey noticeably relaxed and seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Of course, which one?”

That gave Harold some pause, he recalled there were two Lords named Vance. One ruling from Altranta and the other from Wayfarer’s Rest. The latter's holding was far from the Twins, across two rivers, far too great a journey surely to be reasonable for a wounded governess to flee. “Altranta’s lord, I am curious if he will be attending this gathering.”

“Ah, my good-brother. Married to my younger sister.” Walytr said knowingly. “I think not, he sent no ravens declaring his intentions either way. I believe he was ill last I heard. He goes by the name Lord Armistead Vance.”

“His heir?”

“A babe, Norbert I believe the name was.”

Harold gave his thanks and offered his excuses to depart from Waltyr’s study. The heir and potentially the lord of a powerful noble house, dropped into his hands by the providence of the gods. Here was one lord whose banners would join the red dragon in full muster, of that Harold felt certain. Letters would need to be sent, threats need to be made but an army he would have.

_____

The great hall hosted a grand assembly of nobility. Direwolf banners were ranked just below those of the red dragon, and alongside the silver fish of Tully and the two towers of Frey. The rest of the walls were an explosion of colors and animals and shapes from the rivers and north. Even the fretty green and gold of Hayford could be seen amongst the others. Lord Hayford found the Crownlands section of the hall largely empty, his fellow lords were well convinced of Daeron’s cause by the simple threat of proximity to the capital or loyalty to their oaths. The great travel distance put pause to most who desired to attend as well. Nevertheless a young Stockworth second son or somesuch knight represented his house alongside a wizened lord Celtigar who looked as if he’d much rather be anywhere else. Harold greeted his fellow Crownlanders courteously, easily gaining their pledge of support to any of his proposals.

”Will any of the Targaryen's attend?” The Stockworth knight asked fidgeting with his swordbelt. “Their presence would lend us credence, and we can be more certain of our pledges.”

“I do not know,” Harold admitted. “However I have the King’s seal, and speak using his voice and authority. I can make promises and the crown will fulfill them. I have done so before.”

“Yes, but what do the northerners care for some crownland lord’s words? They do not know you.” Lord Celtigar grumbled.

“They will know me.”

Beside Harold his grandson Steffon held parchment and quill. He scribbled in furious abandon recording every detail using a neat penmanship Harold could only dream of. The names of those attending were already written, and Harold’s first deals were jotted down in suspiciously flowery detail and accurate quotes.

“Every word and scene is not needed. It will be too long of a report to send back to King Daeron.” Harold admonished a smile twitching at his lips.

“Of course lord grandfather.” Steffon said scribbling down every word of that as well.

Harold chuckled and turned his attention to those he most wished to address. The Lord Stark of course, the cold and imposing lord would be a challenge. Ice could be melted but he wanted something, or rather a lot of something. Perhaps his sons or daughters would prove more receptive and provide an opportunity he could exploit, one that would not promise half the treasury away. “It bears considering.” He murmured to himself, noting with a flare of annoyance that Stefforn wrote that down too.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

T H E R E A C H

They were surrounded in a heartbeat. The four negotiators found themselves encircled by twenty horse of the Selmy household, knights, squires,and freeriders all armed and armored for battle. None of Unwin’s companions wore plated armor or helms. Unwin and Patryk dressed in blackened hauberks of ringmail suitable for outriding, but Able and Neville were armored only in fabric traveling tunics and riding trousers. For armaments they carried swords and a single lance, held by Able which was fastened the orange banner of house Peake. Unwin brought along a white cloth which he now thrust over his head in clear view. The outriders from Selmy had allowed them to approach within a mile of the army before pouncing, ensnaring the four in a well constructed trap beneath the trees. No naked steel was drawn, no arrows flew but Unwin and his would be captured or dead in a moment should word be given.

“Halt, in the name of his honor Lord Bearmond Selmy of Harvest Hall! State your names and intentions.” One of the knights who surrounded them spoke through his closed visor, the steel muffling his voice. Unwin recognized the chief sigil, upon which the passant bear in silver strode on a field of yellow. A Tottington, Neville’s cousin no doubt.

“Well met Ser!” He called boldly holding high his white cloth. “I am Ser Unwin Peake, the Fourth Keep. Before you ride the invincible Ser Neville Tottington, the wise Ser Patryk Pax, and my beloved nephew Able Peake heir to Starpike, Whitegrove, and Dunstonburry. We come bearing tidings of our liege Lord Gormon and a gift for your Lord Selmy. Please grant us passage and safe escort."

“Well met indeed Ser Peake, I am Ser Henry Tottington. Your arrival is most fortuitous, my lord Selmy is expecting you.” Polite nods and greetings were given to all in turn before he addressed his kin. “Many warm welcomes to you dear cousin. How is the wife and the grandchildren?” Henry raised his visor so that Unwin could get a good view of his face. White whiskered and sunburnt, the cousins bore striking resemblances.

“The wife is fierce as ever Ser, spitting mad I’m off on campaign again. You ought to have seen her chastising me about coming home before winter. The grandchildren are multiplying faster than an old man can keep track, some may even be married soon.” Came Neville’s reply. The knights around them visibly relaxed, and Unwin felt his own muscles loosening. The greetings were friendly, and it seemed their presence was a welcome one met only by the caution of an army on campaign, not enemies meeting under the banner of truce.

“Come Sers,” Benard gestured them to fall in behind his riders. “Lord Selmy is awaiting you, he has news for Lord Gormon and a plan of action.” Curious now Unwin flicked his reins and drove his palfrey into a steady trot, bringing himself alongside Henry.

“You speak of a plan? Is this why you leave the Stormlands and follow the road west?”

He looked uncertain and shook his head. “You will hear soon enough our reasons. I best say little, they are words for Lord Selmy to share at his discretion.”

“How mysterious.” Unwin chuckled. “The entirety of the war must hang in the balance.”

“Mayhaps.” The knight shrugged. “Who am I to say?”

They rode on, continuing down the road until the forest broke for a stretch of open hills. The land brightened here, wildflowers grew in abundance and tall grasses stretched for miles. These were Ashford lands, where herds of cattle and sheep grazed and wary herdsmen watched the foreign army assembled on the road with suspicious eyes. The host from Harvest Hall were well armed, much the same as those Marcher’s from Starpike. Tall triangular shields, longbows, and pikes were in much abundance. They wore good armor, ringmail and gambesons. On their heads were shining halfhelms and even decent boots shod their feet, befitting a merchantman more than a levied spear. Up close and counting Unwin’s silent mental calculations did not bode well. If it had come to battle, he could not be sure his brother’s soldiers would vanquish these. It would be a costly and uncertain contest. Unwin breathed a small relief seeing how it seemed the two armies would pass peacefully. Still, it gave him pause to see the men milling about so casually. Unwin knew his brother would be forming up into battle order, and having his soldiers don full armor and prepare positions. These troops were busy jesting with each other, partaking in meals or even playing dice. One could chalk it up to extreme confidence that the nearby Peake force was friendly, or perhaps and more likely the Harvest Hall host was commanded by an inexperienced leader. Or both. Unwin thought back to what he knew about Lord Selmy, though it was little.

“We are only part of the army.” Henry began explaining while they rode past the ranks of resting men. “Ser Benard Selmy, Bearmond’s uncle commands a detachment to defend Harvest Hall and its lands from incursions. He’s going to bring together a force from Blackhaven and Stonehelm if all goes well which will remain in the Stormlands.”

“The Stormlord Marchers are gathering then.” Unwin said, impressed. If the quality and numbers from the Dondarians and Swann’s matched these together they would make a large, impressive force.

“Indeed, we’ve cast our lots though it is not against the Dornish we march. Not yet, come Lord Selmy shall explain.” They found Bearmond near the middle of his host surrounded by senior knights and advisors including a grey robbed maester. Lord Selmy could not have been older than fifteen, though tall and strong his youthfulness remained evident from his pimpled face to the thin wisp of a starting beard on his upper lip. He raised a gloved fist in greeting when his guests arrived, shaking each of their hands in turn when they dismounted, even young Able.

“About time you arrived Sers, my outriders were lathering at the mouth about how you were surely foemen. Keeping them so efficiently from your host, as you did. I told them though, I said there is no bloody way Gormy sides with the Dornish loving arse kisser who calls himself king.” The boy lord spat and Unwin couldn’t keep his smile from spreading. He was going to like this young lord.

“Gormy,” Able groaned, covering his face with his palms. “Only Ser Aegor is allowed to call my lord father that. Any lesser man is liable to have his tongue ripped out.”

“Good thing I am no lesser man laddie.” Came the bold jest, and the easy smile from Lord Selmy. Able looked thundertruck.

“I-I meant no offense my lord my many apologies-”

“None taken, I suppose I might be a lesser man compared to your honorable father I should think.” The young lord soothed the rattled squire. “Seeing as I wish to keep my tongue where it is I shall refrain from using the alias meant for Bittersteel’s usage alone. Though I do wish to hear the tale behind that.”

“You’ll hear it from me if there is time enough for tale telling.” Unwin offered while giving Able a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It is most heartening to hear you’ve raised your banners to fight alongside King Daemon. We were concerned when we saw no black dragon flying over your host.”

“Pfft, my late father wished to be neutral, I had no time to have one swen.” For the first time anger flashed in Selmy’s eyes, but hurt lingered where the hate flared. “He shamed us I think in his hesitation. Even if he’d chosen to ride alongside the filthy Dornish that might have been acceptable. If we could just pinch our noses against the stench.” The boy lord shrugged though Unwin recognised the moment of grief behind the harsh words. “It matters not now, I suppose, I’ve chosen my king. May the seven faces of god bless me or curse me for that choice.”

“They shall surely bless you.” Ser Unwin said confidence in his words. “The Warrior rides alongside the man with the thickest armor and the longest lance.”

“Cheer, cheer.” Came the murmured reply.

The negotiators were offered wine and smoked venison of which they partook eagerly. When they had eaten and drank their fill Unwin bid Able fetch the gift they’d brought. An eight foot length of embroidered cloth, sewn by Lord Gormon’s wife herself. Bright red like blood, with a mighty black dragon stitched in great detail in the center.

“Is this a gift or a threat?” Selmy laughed as he examined the fine workmanship of the battle banner.

“I am gladdened it is a gift.” Unwin said without missing a beat. “May it fly before your host when the battle is hardest, and give heart when morale begins to break. May it never be captured or touch the ground.”

“By blood and iron shall it be.” Selmy agreed, handing the folded bolt of cloth to one of his knights. “We shall raise it up as we continue our march.”

“That’s the other thing my lord.” Unwin scratched at the stubble under his chin. “You seem to be marching the wrong direction. Summerhall and Dorne are to the east, why are you moving west? We’ve already tamed the lion.”

“Just so,” Selmy agreed, waving for his advisors to bring forth a map. The maester hurried forward and spread a drawn depiction of the southern realms before the assembled. Weighing the edges down using nearby stones. Selmy tapped on a location on the banks of the Mander, labeled Highgarden. The seat of the lord Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South. “It seems Longthorn is on the move, he has not been idle since his domain erupted into chaos. Lords declaring for this king and that. He commands a company of knights and mounted men at arms and is bloodlessly scattering his bannermen whenever they assemble their armies. It is hard for men sworn directly to Longthorn himself to raise a hand against him. They do not wish to battle him, whether out of loyalty or cowardice. Especially when he arrives at their castle, thousands at his back and demanding their hospitality. Anyone who declared for Blackfyre within reach of Highgarden had their hosts sent home, their gold confiscated and become prisoners in their own castles.”

“You move alone to challenge the lord paramount of the Reach?” Unwin asked incredulously. “That is a mighty undertaking indeed.”

“We have not sworn anything to Longthorn.” Selmy explained as if this solved everything. “We will not hesitate to bring him to battle and hole him up in Highgarden, or even capture him in the field before he can escape behind his walls. Either way we plan to remove him from the war. I suspect the castle will prove difficult to seize, however we can keep him contained and allow our many allies in the Reach the breathing space to gather their hosts again and assemble around Ser Ball. I have reason to believe this would greatly swell our numbers.”

“Who ordered this strategy?” Unwin asked, not wishing to insult anyone before he knew the originator of this absurd plan.

“Myself of course.” The boy lord looked very pleased with himself.

“My lord…” Unwin began choosing his words using the utmost care. “The Dornish are a more present threat I think. If Longthorn wishes to ride about the southern half of the Reach glaring at his bannermen I think we ought let him. He is a capable warrior, and if he is brought to battle he might wish to raise a proper host of his own and defy us directly. Meanwhile the Prince Martell crosses the red mountains bringing tens of thousands at his back. We must throw him back here and now utilizing all our combined strength.”

“You think my plan a bad one?”

“No my lord, I would just ask that we send ravens to Ser Ball or King Daemon and ask their opinions. I know for a fact Ser Ball wishes his army to gather in the Marches and bring the Dornish to battle. Your presence would be a welcome one indeed. The Selmy's fearsome reputation would do wonders to encourage our forces and terrify the enemy.”

“I wished to put challenge to Longthorn…” For the first time the boyish lord looked uncertain, his past bravado fading. Unwin guessed there to be some unknown history between the Lord Paramount and this pimpled youth, something that pulled stronger than the festering hatred against the Dornish. Unwin decided to seize on this.

“You shall my lord, if he dares show his face in the Marches. For now your lands, the lands of your father are under threat and must be defended.”

For a long moment Unwin feared Bearmond would reject his words and insist on his initial course of action. At long last the bold glint faded and the young lord nodded. “I am torn, but you are right Ser, the present threat must be contained, nuy then Longthorn shall have his reckoning! We should send riders to Dondarrian and Swann as well. They ought to know the Dornish are crossing the red mountains. We can join forces under Ser Ball and crush them.”

“Most wise,” Unwin said, a feeling of relief flowing through him. It seemed Bearmond could be swayed from his mission quite easily. Unwin noted that a few of the Selmy knights looked enormously relieved at Unwin’s success, while others scowled and shook their heads. At that moment a rider galloped into the gathering. The horse breathed like a forge bellows, its chest heaving from exhaustion. Even the man astride her looked sweaty and tired.

“Dornishmen!” The outrider shouted, pointing wildly over his shoulder. “Riders to the south near Ashford. Hundreds of them!”

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

T H E R I V E R L A N D S

A light drizzling rain began to fall and Lord Harold Hayford turned his face skyward, letting the first drops of chilling water strike his visage. Autumn rains he thought, soon enough the leaves would turn gold and red and brown and litter the earth. Winter would come and all warfare would cease as men hung up their arms and armor and huddled closer to hearth. Not soon enough though. He twitched the reins and Stringstep, his dappled grey palfrey hurried her idling pace, ambling along at a gentle trot. The other members of his entourage, a score in number, followed his lead eager to be clear of the oncoming rain. The promise of a comfortable castle and a warm fire gave them fresh vigor here towards the tail end of their journey. Nearly a month in the making they’d traveled from Hayford Hall at a steady pace avoiding trouble for the most part despite the obvious signs of war that lingered in burnt villages and smoldering holdfasts. Even a party as large and well armed as Harold’s own slept warily in these lands. Brigands and traitors prowled in number, growing bolder by the day. Still the people went about their lives in a resigned determination. Here and there they passed smallfolk tending animals, fixing homes, and tilling the soil. Landed knights would wave while they patrolled their little patches of land offering the seven blessings in passing.

The farther north Harold rode the less ruined the countryside became. It seemed these people cared little for the politics of distant southron kings. Lord Hayford wondered how his own fiefdom remained. The Crownlands were well in Targaryen control, but that would not give pause to a sizable raiding party slinking in under the cover of darkness. Harold could only pray the capable men he’d left behind to defend his possessions would prove adequate to the task. Here he needed to keep his mind focussed on the objective at hand. Defeating the traitors by reminding these far flung northerners of their oaths. First the wolves in their winter dens, and then the falcons roosting upon mountain peaks, and lastly whatever meager strength could be drawn from the cowed lion in the west.

They approached a shallow stream which they forded and stopped to let the horses drink and rest. A young lad of fourteen wearing the sigil of Hayford upon his breast joined Harold by the streambed, letting his palomino gelding walk along the banks grazing leisurely while he strode beside it minding the reins. The squire had headful of curly dark hair that fell to his shoulders and round boyish features. A bit portly like his grandfather, though not nearly as well fed. Truth be told Harold felt positively thin after the month long ride from the Crownlands. His personal cook remained behind in Hayford Hall, meaning the usual fresh fare he typically enjoyed lacked of late. Persistent hunger gnawed at him night and day interrupting his sleep darkening his thoughts. The thought of another hurried dinner of cold salted beef and stale travel bread did not ease his pangs. The sacrifice he made for the realm, he chuckled to himself.

“You seem deep in thought, Grandfather. What troubles you so?” His grandson piped up when he drew closer.

“Oh, nothing serious dear boy. Just the grumblings of an old man’s stomach. We haven’t had a proper meal since we left that holdfast the previous morning. Here’s hoping the Frey’s have a decent kitchen, and ample stores.” Harold patted his large stomach, a dreamy glimmer appearing in his eye. “What I would give for a lamprey’s pie, they ought concoct an excellent eel confection at the Twins. Out on the river like that. Perhaps fresh baked salmon, or small-eye bass fillets cooked in cranberry sauce and chives.”

Steffon licked his lips and covered his eyes in exasperation. “Oh grandfather I plead you cease lest you set my stomach to rumbling as loud as yours.”

“Mmhmm. Crawfish steamed and buttered, and fruits aplenty on the side. Apples, bloodmelons, blueberries and more. Sugar cakes hot from the oven, cinnamon scones and honey and sweet preserves spread on thick brown bread all served with spiced wine from the arbor - Say, who’s this?” Harold interrupted himself, his gaze having been drawn to the stream where a small child waded through the shallows. Unclothed and decidedly unconcerned the boy, who could be no older than four sucked on his thumb and gazed up at the gathered men and horses on the bankside. At long last he waved.

“Hello, I’m Nory. I’m hungry too.”

“Well we have provisions, nothing fancy as all that.” Harold smiled down at the toddler. “Get on out of that water young man. Steffon, fetch something for the lad to eat. For me as well, we might as well rest here for a moment and partake in the last of our salted beef and stale bread. So now, where’s your mother? You should not be wandering around on your own.”

“Dunno, lost her.” Nory shrugged and looked saddened. “Sara is sleepy.” He pointed upstream and returned to sucking his thumb.

“Sara, your mother? Sister?”

Two small shakes of the head. Harold sighed and dismounted Springstep. He wrapped his cloak around the child which enveloped the toddler in the greens and golds of House Hayford. Presently his friend and trusted knight Ser Mallyn and Steffon approached bearing a small luncheon for them all. They all dug in hungrily while Harold tried yet again, unsuccessfully to pry more clear answers from the child. At last he sighed and gestured for Ser Mallyn.

“Ser, I ask for your service my friend. Take three men and search both sides of the stream for Sara. She’s sleeping up that way supposedly. She might provide proper answers, though I fear what you may find.”

“I suspect that fear is well founded.” Ser Mallyn agreed but he chose three others and they began laboring their way through the shallow waters. It did not take them long. He returned a child sized smock in his hands, and notably stained dark by what Harold suspected was copious amounts of blood. Yet, the child bore no wounds. Grimfaced the old knight shook his head.

“Found her, an arrow deep through her back. An old septa no doubt about it. She must have ran far carrying Nory before she collapsed. See this too. The boy’s clothing I suspect. I think it must have stank of blood so he pulled it off, and the old woman still had a powerful deathgrip on the sleeve. Took a touch of effort to pull it free.” He held the smock out for Harold to inspect. Surprise filled the lord of Hayford Hall and he squinted at a tiny embroidered badge which would normally be positioned above the heart.

“Here Steffon, your eyes are young and keen. What emblem is this? It appears we have a little lordling on our hands.”

“Steffon peered, but frowned. “I am not certain grandfather. It is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps a cadet branch of Vance? It is quartered by two green dragons and two towers.”

“I’m Lord Vance.” Nory piped up, pointing at himself. “Sara says so.”

Dumbstuck the diplomatic party of Hayford watched as the self proclaimed lord of a great Riverlands house nodded, smiled and sucked his thumb.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

T H E R E A C H

The dusty road rose before him, trailing ever eastward towards destiny and victory. Behind him came the Marchermen, and march they did. Dressed in orange and brown and upon their heads bright red caps of wool. They carried yew bows, wicked billhooks and banners the color of molten rock. Their booted feet stamped the dirt sending up a great cloud of dust and as they marched they sang. Songs of a hundred verses written to keep a steady pace and a valiant heart. In their hands and draped over their backs were the emblems of vanquished houses, Lannister lions and purple Plumm and the cock of Swyft amongst many others. They shamed these captured standards, holding them ever below the orange of House Peake in a display of conquest. Above all the others and in the forefront, rose a massive vexillium of ruby red cloth like a mighty square sail on a ship's mast, supported by three marching men. On its embroidered fabrics curled a great black dragon of House Blackfyre, King and conqueror.

At the head of the long column rode Lord Gormon Peake upon a black palfrey. Surrounded on all sides by his sworn knights in the vanguard who displayed their proud colors on their tabards in hunters orange, rusty red, brilliant yellow, and brightest blue. A wagon train trailed the marching host and finally in the very rear came the hedge knights and mercenary cavalry in rearguard. They traveled too fast for campfollowers, as Lord Peake pushed his cohort to their limit. Three thousand told they were a formidable force though only a fraction of the army that gathered beneath the Black Dragon banner in total. They had parted from Fireball and his host following the victory in the Westerlands. The tactful general having split the overall army into manageable pieces to ease the logistical strain. They took separate roads through the Reach. Close enough to gather in number should word be sent, but far enough apart they did not make a wasteland of their neighbor’s fiefs. They passed through neutral territory, some friendly and sympathetic, others wary and cowed, but whether potential ally or foe it would not be wise to make enemies of them all.

On Gormon’s left rode his son Able, a lad of thirteen, strong and tall already despite his tender years. He wore the colors of his father’s house in obvious pride and he kept his bay palfrey close at hand. In his grip he carried the warbanner of House Peake, the wooden lance upon which the great banner flew strained in his grasp, ever threatening to escape on the noon breeze but kept in check by the steady youth. On the right rode Ser Neville Tottington, an older knight and Gormon’s most trusted advisor. He commanded the vanguard and his aggressive nature complimented Gormon’s own fierce initiative. Able and Tottington had joined in the song that reverberated from three thousand throats, off tune and and having no accompanying instruments they did not do the verses justice, but they raised their voices and sang with gusto and vigor.


“Ho all to the borders, the marchers come down.
With your trousers of sheepskin and tunics of brown.

With your red woolen caps, and your weaponry come.
To the gathering summons of trumpets and drums.

Come down with your longbow, let brown wolf and fox.
Howl on in the shadows of primitive rocks.

Let lions feed securely from your sheep flocks and stalls.
Here's Dornishmen foe for your arrows and call.

So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer.
And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.

From the north came the dragons, our land to police.
While armed for the battle, they canted of peace.

From the east came the Dornish, the sand blooded band.
To hang up our leaders and eat up our lands.

Ho all to the battle for the warriors stand firm.
No gains for the armies of Sunspear shall earn.

They crave our possessions, these pitiful knaves.
The tribute they gain shall be blood and graves.

So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer.
And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.

You may have our fealty if we bow to your throne
It must be won by the iron and blood of your own.

Our lords themselves are our own fellow kin.
Who can handle the sword and the lance in the din.

Hurrah for the March, this land that we till.
Must have sons to defend her, from valley and hill.

Our vow is recorded our banners unfurl.
In the name of the March we defy all the world!

So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer.
And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.”

“Riders my lord, from the east and at pace.” Ser Neville had ceased singing, his sharp eyes spotting movement ahead above the rise of the hill. Gormon spotted them soon after, two men riding fast. At once he recognized the tabard that marked his younger brother and the dull green of the scout Ser Patryk Pax. Ser Unwin Peake, Gormon’s wily younger brother commanded the outriders, keeping watchful eyes all around in host for leagues ahead. They could never be blind, Marcher men paid in blood for the folly of military conceit. Unwin also trained Able as his squire, though the boy did not yet have the skills needed for the vital military intelligence that the outriders provided. Moreover Gormon preferred his son close at hand where an eye could be kept on the boy. Knowing his brother would not abandon his duties on a whim Gormon leaned back in his saddle bringing the stirrups forward, never bothering to touch the reins. His horse stopped at once. Pressing two fingers from each hand into his mouth Gormon unleashed a long piercing whistle that rang out above the singing. He spat after, his fingers tasted of horse. Another rider nearby responded at once to the whistle, bringing a horn to his lips and sounding out a dull blast that brought the march to halt. Like a great ungainly beast the column ceased in song and step. Men at arms hefted their spears and yeomen began stringing their longbows and checking their arrows. Ninety to each archer, tipped in steel and feathered by dornish geese. They were blooded veterans now, baptized by the Warrior in battle against Westermen hosts and well versed in such martial necessities. If enemies were upon them soon the Marchers would be ready.

“Ser Tottington, Ser Sootman, Able join me.” Gormon drove his spurs into the palfrey’s dark flanks, stirring the horse into a gallop. His son and knights rode out from the stationary host meeting Unwin and Patryk at the base of the hill. The two outriders were flushed and hot, their horses sweating from a spirited ride, but they seemed unafraid, only excited. Able offered the two men wineskins from which they drank deeply.

“Banners my brother.” Unwin reported once he refreshed himself enough to speak. “A league and a half to the east along this very road marching west. They fly brown standards emblazoned by golden wheat, and are in good order. How many would you say Ser Pax?”

The little man who’d rode alongside Unwin squinted his brown eyes, scrunching up his face in concentration. “Twas difficult to count, we were harried by their own outriders, just as we’re harrying theirs keeping them away from your men my lord. Can’t have been more than four grand total. A great assemblage of knights, maybe four hundred horse and lance all told. Twas a quick count.”

“Able,” Gormon grunted, turning to look at his son who seemed surprised to be addressed. “You heard the scouts description, yes? Whose army approaches us?”

After a moment of hesitation Able responded. “Lord Selmy of Harvest Hall, no doubt. His banner is golden wheat on a brown field. He is a Marcher like us, an ally?”

“Mayhaps,” Ser Neville huffed. “Though he certainly took his time rousing himself. We’ll have to turn him around, the battle is already won in the West.”

“A Stormlander.” Gormon cautioned. “He may be of Marcher blood, yet Lord Selmy takes his oaths seriously no matter Daeron’s corruption and broken promises. He will not be easily convinced to turn his cloak to the Blackfyre cause. Did you see any dragons flying above his standard?”

“Nay,” Unwin provided. The Peakes themselves flew the Black dragon in full view, there could be no doubting their allegiance. Where they marched the people knew they served the true king of Westeros. A bastard born, but a warrior forged. “Nary a red or black to be seen. Seems he wishes to maintain a level of anonymity, the craven. Upon your leave brother I will approach them under a sign of truce and discover whether we need paint these hills red with Selmy blood or welcome them as true Marcher kin.”

“I should go as well, my cousin Ser Nygel Tottington rides amongst Lord Selmy’s knights. He is a good man and will not allow the others to be harmed under the sign of truce.” Tottington offered his white whiskers bristling.

“You’ll need your squire Ser.” Able said at once to Unwin. “To carry your banner and see to your horses whilst talks are underway.” Gormon twitched at this, his flinty grey eyes darting over towards his audacious progeny.

“I ought go too.” Ser Patryk Pax spoke up, hand on his sword hilt. “A calming presence would be needed to keep all these hotheaded heroes in check.”

A scowl appeared on Gormon’s face and he shook his head in resigned consternation. “The Others take you all and your bravado! Shall I deliver all my best men into Selmy’s hand? Should he deem you traitors and capture you I will be undone. Ser Sootman, will you ride out as well and leave me hiding behind my army whilst my bravest take all the risk? Leave me alone to rescue the hostages so willingly given?”

“No.” The dark quiet knight said in response and left it at that. Ser Sootman bandied few words, he let his lance hold his conversations for him and the results were a bloody affair. He commanded the hedge knights and mercenary elements and kept them fearful and well in order.

“Right, then you three.” Gormon gestured for the trio of knights who had volunteered. “Will bring my warm greetings to Lord Selmy and a spare black dragon banner, and bid he raise it up amongst his own standards or face us in the field.”

“Cheer cheer!” Shouted the three knights in chorus.

“Please father.” Gormon felt a tug at the sleeve of his gambeson, Able had taken note of the absent permission to go. For a moment the fatherly protective instincts rose up in Gormon, and he made to command Able to remain alongside him and never to question his decisions. The rebuke never left his tongue. Able wished to demonstrate his daring, and take risks as Gormon would have done in his youth. He would heed orders if commanded, but he would be embittered. A warning notion crossed Gormon’s mind, and he wondered if he could turn his gaze away and allow his son to be slain as a hostage if it came to that. The realm and his bastard king, or his own blood. A test, Gormon realized, not just of Able’s courage but his own as a father. These were times of war, and a young man could never prove himself if his elders kept him under constant observation and guard. Steeling himself Gormon nodded his assent and the boy beamed.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

S T A R P I K E

Tidings Upon the Walls

A fine morning rose on Starpike, a golden sun rising high in the east peeking through billowy scattered clouds. The redstone walls of the mighty castle glistened, wet from an evening rain that broke just before the morn. A cool breeze drifted westwardly, down from the red mountains and into the valley, stirring the proud orange banners flying upon Starpike’s triple towers. A small tributary of the mander flowed past the southern and eastern walls forming a half moat of shallow mountain water before it eventually turned west on its long journey to the sunset sea. Dotted fields, manor houses, and settlements lined along its waters carving out habitable living spaces from the stretching moorland that dominated the southwest. In the north were patches of pine forests and meadows where great flocks of sheep grazed on dew soaked grass. Watchful sentries patrolled the towers, dressed in tunics of brilliant hunters orange and clutching strung lowbows, an arrow ready upon the string. Below in the valley the castle town of Little Apicem nestled a half league away from Starpike the smallfolk were finishing up their morning labors, though a certain quiet held sway over the cobbled streets. Mothers kept a close watch on their children, and young women did far more of the work than normally seen, for many husbands and sons were away.

A familial trio traveled atop the northern wall where a thin woman of strawberry blonde hair held the hands of her small children leading them to her favored spot. She’d dressed herself in a dark blue dress and cloak of furs, dressed warmly despite the mild temperatures. She had not yet grown accustomed to the cooler climate of the moor and mountains, which stood in stark contrast to the pleasant omnipresent warmth of her father’s lands. Her name was Lady Antonie Peake, and she commanded the castle now that her husband found himself away fighting. Antonie looked pale and a little sick with worry, and she clutched tightly to her children as if afraid they would be led away to battle as well. The eldest child skipped and chattered like a squirrel, her darker head swayed cheerily and grey eyes gleamed giving no indication of recognizing the somber ambiance that held sway over the wartime castle or her mother. The grim faced sentries they passed would see the happy girl and could not help but smile themselves, warmed by youthful naivety. They would nod their heads and murmur. “Pleasent morning my ladies, good master.” Before returning to their rounds. The girl’s given name was Ellen, and there could be no subduing her. The little boy, having seen no more than eight years, wore a very different expression. He remained sour and downcast, trailing behind his mother and sister. Occasionally he would glance towards the distant northwest, a look of jealousy and longing in his blue eyes. His name was Meryn, and he long complained at the denial against his wishes to travel with his father and elder brother to bring battle to the sandblooded. Even his beloved uncle Ser Unwin Peake could not bring a smile to the dour little face when it came time to depart two moons ago. Ser Unwin assured the boy that a strong man must be left behind to protect the women of the house, and that not all the fierce warriors of the March could leave home undefended. Ser Derrium Daring had taken charge of course, not an eight year old boy. Castellan of Starpike and master of arms Ser Daring saw to little Meryn’s training, allowing the boy to take a leading role in the decision making and running of the keep in order to distract him from his malaise.

The three settled at the base of the second tower, where the height of the walls and the elevated hillside position of the castle gave an excellent and unhindered view of the spreading countryside. A serving maid brought a basket containing a kettle of tea and a batch of warm scones and honey to spread for a light refreshment. The pleasant scent of fresh baking washed away the worries for a brief moment reminding the young mother of home, and Antonie tried to relax. It would do no good to brood. The maid departed leaving them in peace as they enjoyed the sunshine and birdsong and prayed for their kin’s safety wherever they might be.

They were interrupted again by the approaching sounds of boots and a middle aged man appeared. He wore a sword and a knightly coat of arms across his doublet which depicted an orange mountaineer scaling a black mountain. His face bore many scars and each step displayed a noticeable limp from an old battle wound. This grizzled veteran was none other than Ser Derrium Daring himself, and the landed knight bore himself with a stubborn pride, refusing to show any pain from his past injuries. He had risen far, to be in his current station. Holding the high regards and trust of lord Gorman Peake himself, and granted the honorary position of castellan of Starpike. A notable appointment, especially considering the many Peake kin that lived in the moor and valley. A large bushy mustache of grey scrunched up in a pleased smile as Ellen skipped over and gave the old knight a hug. Meryn, far more restrained than his eager sister, merely shook the man’s hand, but hovered close to the knight, drinking in every word.

“I knew I would find you here, my lady.” Ser Derrium spoke in a low gravely tone and he restrained a cough. Giving a short polite bow to Antonie he continued. “ I beg your pardon, I did not wish to interrupt your pleasant morning, but this concerns your decision and I deemed it prudent to approach you at once. A raven arrived from your lord husband, it seems his honor Lord Gormon has left the Westerlands and achieved many victories. You must be so proud, my lady.”

“Of course,” Antonie could barely believe it. Would Gormon be returning already? The war had scarcely just begun it seemed. It could be probable such a great victory won total control for the Black Dragon, she dared hope for good news.

“I am afraid the war goes on, and Lord Peake is needed elsewhere.” Ser Derrium said, as if sensing her thoughts. “Though he sends word that a hundred yeomen, and four knights including his third cousin Ser Gyman Peake are returning to Starpike, bearing great wagons full of treasure and gains from the west. Seems he wishes to refill the treasury and that taxation may be relaxed upon the knightly manors and smallfolk. That should cheer the people I think. Included in the company is a hostage, a young Halys Swyft, heir to Cornsfield whom we are to treat as a guest.” He turned his attention to the youngest present, considering the boy under a quizzical eye of a teacher. “He is Meryn’s age, so perhaps the two might get along while the lad resides among us.”

“I shall ensure he is welcome.” Little Meryn said importantly, puffing out his chest in pride. “House Peake treats even its prisoners to our best, right Ser?”

“Right indeed.” The knight tousled the lad’s hair looking pleased. Antonie felt a small flush of pride at her son’s good conduct. Little Meryn took his lessons very seriously.

“Ser,” Antonie said when the knight did not continue. “Any word of Able, or my husband’s health? Or that of my brothers who march with him?”

“Ah, I am afraid not.” Ser Derrium’s smile faded, and the big mustache drooped. “You know my lady, Lord Gormon is all business when it comes to these matters, he does not waste words. I am certain if some ill had befallen your son or brothers the honorable Lord would ensure news reached you. In this instance no news is good news I think.”

“My husband never writes,” Antonie said a little sadly. “Though I thought Able might, I asked that he would. Perhaps he is so caught up in the excitement of it all.”

“I hope you do not think less of the lad, I am certain his heart will grow fond and he will heed your instruction.” Ser Derrium turned from the family, leaning against the parapets and gazing out over the forests and moors. Antonie recalled that the knight’s own sons had ridden away in the departing host, and that the veteran knight no doubt wished he were there, ensuring their wellbeing. Derrium licked his lips and turned back to Antonie, his smile gone, his face a picture of gravity. “My lady, I do not wish to alarm you, but Lord Gormon leaves little in his reports, for ravens can be intercepted and code can be broken. However, it worries me that the honorable Lord sends a hundred men and four knights and wagons full of gold back to Starpike, and expresses it so clearly in his missive. It bears foul omens. I fear he expects we need reinforcements.”

“War is coming to Starpike.” Antonie’s breath caught in her throat, and a trill of fear raced down her spine.

“Dunstonburry is in the greatest threat, so close to Highgarden and Brightwater I think we shall send the bulk of our fresh troops there. Whitegrove is nigh impregnable up in the mountains, its garrison can resist all of Dorne I think, and Ser Harry Peake who commands there is stubborn as stone. He will not give up Whitegrove without battle. The additional men shall make it easier to patrol our borders and ensure we know well in advance if any host approaches unwelcome.” Ser Derrium Daring pressed his hand to his heart, resolved to prevail against any odds. “I swear my lady, while I still draw breath you and your children will be safe in this castle, and we shall drive all comers from Peake lands. I need only your permission, and I shall take full command and prepare Starpike and the other castles for the storm and we shall defy it.”

“Go and act as you see fit Ser Daring.” Antonie spoke, her voice shook and she felt a tremble in her hands. She wished again that her husband would return. In his presence she felt safe, in his grim stoic way he remained a reassuring figure. Even if he did little in providing words of comfort. Here at Starpike and its skeleton garrison she felt alone and vulnerable despite the high walls and mighty towers. Ser Derrium soon departed, intent on fulfilling his promise in shoring up the defenses of Starpike and Dunstonburry. He was a good man, a dedicated servant, and a skilled warrior, but he was not Gormon. The Lady of Starpike’s heart ached, and she wiped away the tears that threatened to fall unbidden. She hugged her son and daughter closer and longed for home and peace again.

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

This Is PEAKE *Kicks Dornishman into well*

P E A K E

^{"We Three Stand"}

H O U S E D E T A I L S _________________________________________________________ House Seat: Starpike _________________________________________________________ Region: The Reachmarch K E Y M E M B E R S _________________________________________________________ Click to Expand Family Tree ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Lady Antonie Peake, nee Amborse ◼ Age: Twenty and eight ◼ Appearance: A small and sensible woman the Lady of Starpike is neither outspoken or bold in the slightest. In fact she is quite skittish, preferring the company of her books and children to any gathering or ball. She is terribly thin and quiet, and it is often remarked that she might blow away on the breeze and none would know of it, because she wouldn’t wish to raise her voice and bother another person to call for aid. Her long blonde hair is tied back in neat braids and kept strictly in good order. The lady would never dare to be seen in public without her cheeks powdered and hair well made. ◼ Biography: Antonie was always a bit of a romantic as a little girl. She dreamed of being swept off her feet by a noble knight, and they would recite poetry together and spend their days beneath the Reachland stars gazing longingly into each other’s eyes. Her husband to be did arrive one day, in the form of a seventeen year old squire who saved her father’s life in a battle on the Mander. He might not have been the most handsome of men, nor a poet by any stretch of the imagination. In fact he was quite sourmouthed and surly. They never once sat beneath the stars and it took much effort for the man she was betrothed to even say he loved her. Nevertheless he was strong and brave, and he did not dishonor himself or betray her trust and for that Antonie could say she was grateful. They were married, and lived together in Antonie’s father’s hall. They traveled often to tourneys or feasts throughout the realm. Though Antonie would have much preferred to stay at home she did not offer complaint, and thankfully not much was asked of her. Only to be present when her husband Gorman Peake rode the joust or attended a lord in some distant hall. She provided her husband three beautiful children, which became Antonie’s entire world. The eldest Able was a brash and rough and tumble child often getting into mischief and causing a ruckus. The second was her daughter Ellen, a cheery little girl as bold as her older brother and all smiles and elegance. The last was Meryn, who took much after his father. Sour and brooding with little patience for nonsense, he would attend his play with a seriousness not befitting someone of his tender years. Antonie loved them all, even her husband whose surly nature grew on her after years in his company. She never could have expected everything would change so fast. First came word from Starpike that Gormon’s family had suffered a terrible loss, and that his father was on his deathbed. They traveled for the first time to Gormon’s ancestral home, where he was now heir. The comforts of her father’s hall were scarce here, and her friends could be reached only by raven. Then came the summons to war, and Gormon departed, taking Able and riding northwest at speed with his host in tow. This is how Antonie found herself, a shy little woman with no experience in such matters and no one to teach her, commanding three castles with skeleton garrisons and circling enemies on all sides. The sand vipers to the east, an irate and thorny rose to the west, and a looming dragon in the north. Antonie can only pray for son and husband’s safety, and learn swiftly to prepare Starpike for the building storm that was about to be unleashed upon it. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Ser Gormon Peake ◼ Age: Thirty ◼ Appearance: Board and muscular Gorman is the very picture of a Marcher lord. He is proud as he is tall, and possesses a short temper and a terrible wrath against Dornishmen. His speech is more befitting a barracks than lordly hall which does not serve to make him many friends, save those who recognize his martial talents. His hair is dark, and his features seem crudely carved from granite. His complexion is darker than the average Reachman, touched by the sun and weatherworn. Even in his relative youth there is a slight receding of his hairline, which is accentuated by his close cropped styling of his head and beard. ◼ Biography: Born the third son of a lesser lord, Gormon Peake always considered the path of war and service to be his only way forward in life. Raised in the martial and spartan upbringing in the small yet proud keep of Starpike he worked diligently to ingratiate himself to a demanding father in competition with three capable brothers. During his squiring years he served a Ser Tarly, joining the Reachknight in several campaigns against the Dornish, and one combative dispute against fellow Reachmen. Gormon became knighted at the age of seventeen for his courage and skill in the Battle by the Mander. Witnessed in his dubbing by several important lords including Lord Florent and Lord Amborse amongst multiple other knights from noble houses. His actions on the Mander earned him a betrothal with a daughter from the line of Ambrose by the name of Lady Antonie, and he wed her when she came of age two years later. Gormon remained in the service of House Ambrose for seven years, living in their hall. His good lady bore him three children. Two sons, named Able and Meryn, and his daughter named Ellen. His eldest son is of squiring age, and is in service to Ser Unwin Peake, Gormon’s younger brother. Gormon attended several tourneys in these days, earning notoriety in the melee at Lannisport, and the joust at Longtable for his spectacular performances at arms. He became famed for his duel against a Northern knight Ser Manderly, in which he slew the offending man for a grievous insult against his lady’s honor. His actions during his journeys to different tournaments and conflicts brought him into contact with the fearsome Great Bastard Aegor Rivers, with whom Gormon found much in common and became a good acquaintance. Gormon’s entire world changed, whether for the better or the worse during the plague of Dornish Pox. His mother, and two elder brothers and their families were taken in total by the gods, and his father became stricken and bedridden. Thus elevated to heir of Starpike, Dunstonburry, and Whitegrove Gormon returned home after more than a decade away to bring order to the disease scarred lands. He served as regent well, scraping out a measure of prosperity for the people and administrating in a severe manner against all would-be troublemakers. In recent days his father passed, having never fully recovered from the pox, making Gormon the Lord of Starpike, just as the rebellion began. The new Lord Peake was swift to take action on behalf of the Blackfyres. He summoned his yeomen archers and household knights to Starpike alongside his fellow Marcher lords and their hosts. Disregarding the demand from High Garden to stand down Lord Gormon led his men to rendezvous with the fearsome “Fireball”, joining forces and scattering the Westerlanders with all the fury of the Marchermen. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Ser Unwin Peake ◼ Age: Four and Twenty ◼ Appearance: The Fourth Little Keep, that is what they call the wily little Unwin, and that is what he is. In stark contrast to all his kin Unwin is lithe and wiry like a fox amongst boarhounds. His hair is a lighter brown taking after his Fossoway mother, and grown long in a clear break of Marcher custom. He is good natured and likeable, wearing an easy smile on his youthful features. He wears a unique coat of arms, similar to the traditional orange field and three black castles, except a smaller fourth castle is emblazoned below the rest and positioned off to the left hand side. As if tossed in as an afterthought. ◼ Biography: “The best things come in sets of three.” It was a line Unwin heard many times during his youth in the halls of Starpike. His father never showed him favor or scorn, only dismissive offhanded comments and little more. To be practically ignored by one’s dear father might have embittered most, but Unwin always saw the good in life and never once faltered in his loyalty to his blood. Never did a sour word escape him of his kin, nor a complaint about his lot in life. He felt fortunate really, to be set a standard so low, and yet to reach so far above it. He far outstripped his brothers in logic and wits, and though he could not match them in brawn he was quick on his feet and could keep up in their play. During his squiring years he was given to a landed knight in the Peake’s service named Ser Derrium Daring. It was meant to be a dismissal, to be squired to so low a knight when his brothers were trained amongst great families of the Reach, yet a more apt appointment there could not have been. Ser Daring was true to his name, and taught Unwin a great deal in the arts of chivalry. They fought together at the pass of Hell’s Grip in the Dornish mountains, and though he was a lad of mere fifteen when Ser Daring was wounded Unwin stood over him and guarded his knight against four Dornish warriors. “Though they were four, none could break the guard of the Fourth Little Keep.” Were the words of an impressed Lord Mullendore who bore witness to the display of courage and prowess. Unwin was knighted on the spot and offered a place amongst Mullendore’s household knights. Unwin accepted this offer, proving himself a noble warrior, and a fearsome foe. He took no wife of his own, claiming there were many years left to find a worthy bribe, but he wooed many a lady thanks to his quick wit and handsome features. In the opening hours of the rebellion Unwin rode at all haste to join his brother in Starpike, bringing with him a small force of friends to put challenge to his brother’s foes. -

H I S T O R Y ___________________________________________________________________________________ House Peake is proud to trace its origins to the First Men and Florys the Fox, and they have not been idle since those storied days. Though they lack wealth, and their land is dry and rocky, the men of Peake have shown great ambition throughout the years. They are famous for the three mighty keeps, which stand in key positions at the border to the Dornish Marches. The first, and historical seat of House Peake is the keep of Starpike. Although smaller than the other two Starpike was the first, and stood in defiance of Dornish raids and armies guarding the Hellgrip pass against marauding riders for centuries. The second is Whitegrove, which was conquered from an extinct Dornish house, and secures the origins of the tributary leading down to the Torentine river. Whitegrove has found itself besieged and its lands raided many times during its possession by House Peake, but has defied all attempts to take her whitewashed walls. Finally, the long standing rivals of Peake, house Manderly was driven from their ancestral hall at Dunstonburry, during a bitter war between the feuding lordships. Dunstonburry is the largest of the Peake holdings, and the wealthiest thanks to its position on the shores of the Mander and the fertile land it inhabits. It provides significant incomes from taxes, though the Peakes consider the men at arms raised for her towns and villages to be subpar compared to the hardy Marchermen of Starpike and Whitegrove. The Peakes saw themselves grow in prominence during the reign of Lord Unwin, who became hand to the king and brought many of his kin and friends into positions of power at the capital during the regency of Aegon III. Unwin grasped for more than he could hold and was unable to maintain his grip on power, and found himself forced to resign. Since then the importance of House Peake has faltered, even more so thanks to the waning hostilities with the Dornish. The customary position of the Marchers in being the shield against Dorne had been one of great honor and importance. The idea of a lasting peace, and a resignation of conflict seemed a bitter draught to swallow when blood still ran hot, even amongst the Marcher yeomen and landed knights whose memories were long and grudges deep. C U R R E N T S I T U A T I O N __________________________________________________________________________________ The Peakes did not hesitate to declare their loyalty to the Blackfyre cause and summon the hosts of Starpike, Whitegrove, and Dunstonburry. Alongside their fellow Reachmarch lords, and a few others such as their allies in Ambrose, they gathered in force armed and chanting for war. Raising the orange banner beneath Starpike, Gorman has deployed multiple companies under trusted commanders to the heights of the border mountains, securing holdfasts along the numerous passes and sending forays to raid Dornish lands and scatter their smallfolk and delay their retaliation while the Marcher lords prepare. House Peake alone can summon five hundred men from Whitegrove, fifteen hundred from Starpike, and nearly two thousand from Dunstonburry, alongside fifty landed knights who swear their fealty to the Peakes. Half the levied soldiers are yeomen from the Marches. Well practiced in longbows, and experienced in knocking Dornish riders from their mounts in swift, deadly volleys. The incomes from Gormon’s holdings have never been great, and the terrible plague that ravaged their lands in recent days has only worsened the situation. Meager though their wealth might be in comparison to their neighbors Gorman emptied his coffers and managed to acquire the services of some hundred and fifty hedge knights, bringing his total heavy cavalry to nearly two hundred. Thus formed and his own lands secured, Gorman marched northwest, joining Fireball in his campaign against the Lannisters, paying and feeding his troops off the fat of Westerlander wealth.

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Hayford

Harold Hayford

^{"I Speak with the King's Authority."}

P E R S O N A L D E T A I L S _________________________________________________________ Age: Sixty and seven _________________________________________________________ Allegiance: Loyalist A P P E A R A N C E _________________________________________________________ A somewhat rotund older greybeard Harold Hayford gives the impression of someone who appreciates a bit of luxury in life. Nevertheless his powerful forearms, and general height and mass implies significant strength beneath the soft exterior. He carries himself boldly, and can seize command of a room by word alone, his no nonsense attitude cutting across chaos and noise with ease. K E Y A S S E T S _________________________________________________________ Click to View Equipment & Skills ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Weaponry: Although Lord Hayford is trained in lance and shield and sword he does not often carry personal armaments. In recent days, with rising tensions he has taken to carrying an unassuming arming sword at his hip for his personal security, and naught else. ◼ Notable Skills: Harold is a diplomat and peacemaker first and foremost. He has a grandfatherly presence of reason and wisdom that puts others at ease, and a reputation for being fair and trustworthy. There have been many occasions when others have requested his judgment in resolving disputes. He knows when to be stern, and when to be friendly and never lets his own wants command his decisions. ◼ Valuables: The most valuable things to Harold Hayford is his reputation, and his grandson and heir Steffon, who serves as his squire and assistant in court. ◼ Retinue: Besides his grandson Steffon, Hayford travels with only his sworn shield and trusted friend Ser Mallyn Merridan and a small host of servants and attendants. -

P E R S O N A L B A C K G R O U N D ___________________________________________________________________________________ The firstborn and heir to Hayford castle, and the family titles Harold began life as any noble lord would. He was betrothed in the first year of his life to a Rosby girl and spent many days riding back and forth between the keeps to give a good impression to his would be in-laws. Often he was away from home, following his lord father on many trips of state to the court in King’s Landing. The family had been important figures there for many years, and there was a motivated attempt to maintain a presence of respect and diligence after the many executions of Hayford patriarchs to irate Targaryen kings and usurpers. The Hayfords regarded the royal family with a healthy amount of suspicion, and Lord Hayford kept Harold on a short leash whenever duty demanded their attendance in the capital. They were proud to be faithful, but they were not fools. The lessons imparted here upon Harold taught him to be loyal and dutiful, but to practice caution amongst the dragons, for one never knew when they might be burned. When Harold came of age to squire he was trained by a Rosby knight, uncle to his betrothed, and though there were not great feats or moments of unprecedented valor Harold served dutifully and earned his knighthood at twenty and one. Harold was a common figure in Red Keep, earning his reputation as a peacemaker through several important missions for Aegon IV, and the royal family. His personal actions no doubt forestalled several minor conflicts though he was never officially recognized for the efforts. There were those in court who would take note, and remember which was enough for him. His most important and impactful act as ambassador would come later under King Daeron. Harold married after his dubbing, and his lady wife provided him two children, a daughter and a son. His young wife would pass during the second birth however, and Harold never remarried. He would become Lord Hayford at forty, and official ambassador for the Iron Throne shortly after. During King Daeron’s reign Lord Harold would be sent to Dorne, the initial presence representing the Targaryen’s to negotiate the official integration of the kingdom into the realm. Rumors began to rise that Harold could be blamed for being too weak spined during the negotiations and allowing the many rights and privileges granted to the Dornish to be permitted. Shortly after his success in Dorne tragedy struck his family. His only son perished during a riding accident, leaving only a young son of his own named Steffon as heir to Hayford. Harold returned to Hayford castle shortly after this loss, focusing his attention on raising his grandson. He spent years away from the Red Keep in the privacy of Hayford's walls, but a yearning to reenter the excitement and importance of the life he'd left behind weighed heavy on the aging lord. During the rising Blackfyre rebellion Harold could no longer be derelict of his duty. Recognizing the realm needed his talents Lord Hayford offered his services to meet the Northerners and Riverlanders in the Twins, and do his best to calm the strife in the Riverlands. C U R R E N T M O T I V A T I O N S __________________________________________________________________________________ Harold is a man of duty, and understands his skills might be best put to use in the Riverlands. There is a small measure of guilt in Harold, that he was idle during the opening stages of the conflict when more could have been done to prevent the wildfire rebellion from ripping through Westeros. His fresh grief at the loss of his son blinded him to the needs of the realm. Stirred from inaction Hayford rides at all haste along the King’s Road, determined to restore his name as a trusted servant, loyal to the end.

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