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.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ 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.
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.
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.
_________________________________________________________ House Seat: Starpike _________________________________________________________ Region: The Reachmarch
◼ 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.
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◼ 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.
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.
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.
So I saw your comments on asking about the intricacies of the world and lore, however the character was already finished. If the way I portray wood elves is completely contrary to the established lore let me know, and I'm happy to change things up. Thanks.
Name: Swyfr Glenfyndor son of Cyndyll
Age: One and Forty
Gender: Male
Race: Woodland Elf
Rank: Iron
Appearance:
There is an amused air about the young elf, as if he were about to burst from excitement. He has a disarming smile, charming with a hint of mischievousness for his grin contains fangs both figurative and literal. He dresses in the customary buckskin clothing of his folk, pale brown animal hides, fringed on the seams and richly adorned by amber jewelry marking him as an elf lordling. His feet are covered by thin slippers made of rabbit fur so soft he could walk on dry twigs and make nary a sound. His hair is long, wild and golden and his eyes are like twin bits of emerald. His features lack the weight of centuries most of his kind possess and instead presents an untapped glee at a world of opportunity and feyish trickery. Swyfr is tall and springy, like a yew sapling, pairing the agile grace of elves with his youthful vigor. He would be considered a handsome lad, (by human eyes at least) if he weren’t so offputtingly strange, given the way he stares at people without blinking like a cat. Or how his eyes glint in the dark when a light is cast on him. Or how alien his movements and mannerisms are. Most recognize woodland elves to be creatures of good nature and friendly demeanor, but that does not change that they are oddities, different, and unknown. Swyfr is no exception to this rule.
Personality:
Swyfr is an odd fish, even or especially amongst elves. Named by his kin for the laughing red squirrel, he has proven himself worthy of the title time and again. He is insatiably curious and infamously crafty. His face is constantly plastered by a large toothy grin as he pokes and prods at whatever takes his fancy. He does not care about tact, and he has yet to learn the delicacy of handling interracial affairs. He is not malicious in his lack of sensitivity, simply unknowing and somewhat uncaring. For the ages have not yet laid a coating of wisdom upon him, much to his father’s anguish. Nevertheless, most will find he is a willing worker, longsuffering in hardship, never once losing his sense of cheerful inquisitiveness. He possesses a pleasant laugh, and does so often even at the expense of others. He is prone to losing his feet and falling to the ground where he will share his mirth amongst the flowers and grass. Sometimes his humor and what causes it is strange to the minds of men, who scratch their heads and wonder what madness had possessed the gleeful elf, only for Swyfr to double up and laugh more. For elvish folk do not scratch their heads when they’re confused, and this is most amusing.
At his center is a good soul, wishing to be helpful and to learn. Pride and dignity do not hold him back from erudition from the so-called mortal beings, like it does for so many other elder races. He is one of the few of his kind who would forsake the woodland and adventure wide and far just for the sake of the journey. To see what is beyond the next hill. His pranks and comments are not meant to deride, but to see how different beings respond to new stimuli. His lordly parents claim he will outgrow this youthful vagabond phase once he reaches the turn of the century, but Swyfr would only smile, and wave, and laugh.
Brief Backstory:
Elvish children are a rare and exciting time for the Clan of Woodland elves. When Cyndyll son of Syndr, and Rwenhild Daughter of Nymlith announced they would gift their folk with a child there was excitement and celebration. For the elflord and lady had not yet been blessed with an heir. Perhaps the precious gift they expected was not the adventurous prankster they received. Nonplused Cyndyll and Rwenhild carried on, teaching and guiding the best they could. Elves measure the development of their children in decades, and the success of their wisdom in centuries. They found the best method of control for the young Swyfr would be to send him on scouting expeditions to the far reaches of their forested realm alongside mentors and guides, where he might foster his curiosity. These forays were dangerous affairs in the wildlands, and before he reached his thirtieth year he bore the scars of several hard learned lessons. As the years advanced so to did his abilities and he was entrusted to lone hunting trips and scouting missions. His adventures had reached their logical extent within the confines of the woodland. Eventually he built up the courage and entered the outskirts and wandered amongst the human settlements there, though he never strayed far from beneath the trees.
At last, upon leaving the early years of elvish childhood and advancing into later adolescence he expressed his desire to venture further afield, to walk amongst men and all the beings of the world and see what lies beneath earth and sky. Despite his mother’s protests, his father Cyndyll gave his blessing. Requiring only that Swyfr return before his hundredth year so that he might be welcomed into full noblehood with the proper ceremonies. Thus prepared for a long journey Swyfr struck due north, intent on reaching the nearest town and joining the Adventurers, a Guild of heroes he had heard so much about from his time amongst the settlements. His joining was considered uncommon, yet not unwelcome. For there had been wolf sightings amongst the sheep pastures and a group of copper adventurers was needed to send them off. Swyfr's talents proved vital in tracking the pack to its den, and his sling sent more then one to the darkness of death. He and his two companions at the time proved their worth and earned their rewards. From there on Swyfr found work aplenty in his first year amongst the brave champions and learned much. His companions would find his company welcome for Swyfr rarely claimed his portion of the reward or loot desiring far more the experiences gained and the battles won.
Equipment:
Swyfr’s primary weapon is an elk sinew sling and a pouch of rounded river stones. He is a deadly shot at forty paces, and can load, swing, and release in a matter of seconds. The sling itself once loaded can be utilized as a flail, nearly two feet long it is perfect for battering heads and hands alike should a foe draw to close. Should that prove inadequate he carries a long bronze knife, adaptable at skinning prey and slitting foeman’s throats. He carries very little else besides the clothes on his back, having little need for camping supplies or coin.
Skills:
Taught for over two decades by the finest woodland rangers, Swyfr is a superb hunter. Stalking his prey across miles of rugged untamed wilderness, sneaking until he is nearly on top of them before striking swift and lethal. Although he lacks experience fighting proper opponents both armored and aware, he has won his fair share of scraps against dangerous fauna. Such as a battle against a puma which would often result in a young hunter’s demise. He survived, albeit barely and with the scars to prove the encounter, and a lesson in not trying to out sneak a cat.
He finds it simple to navigate most terrain, and can whisk up a tree faster then a squirrel should the need arise. By the stars and the sun he can set a course straighter then most. Thanks to his mother’s teachings he isn’t half bad at cooking the prey he snares, though as a woodland elf he prefers his meat rarer then humans would.
This sounds fun, I think I'd like to join. Make a dwarf or an elf character most likely. Quick question though, what is the technology level here? I assume high medieval which is typical for fantasy.
Hey this sounds like a really neat idea. I'm assuming it would be a international group of scientists right? Chartered by the UN maybe? I've got a couple character ideas to work with in the old noggin, but what sort of people do you think would be interesting if they got launched into a adventure like this?
From a roll of bone, rose a raucous roar, followed by a drunken curse. A short ride from Summerhall, the castle town’s inns hosted a great number of expectant knights and tourney attendees, packing the taverns full to bursting. Ale flowed free, and gambling ran hot as men tested their fortunes on games of dice and tiles. Here, amidst the rough folk, far afield from the suffocating mask of the castle grounds, famed hero Ser Quentyn Ball, oft named Fireball bounced a half-dressed tavern maid on his knee. Wielding a rapidly draining tankard of best brown ale in his four fingered left hand, he tossed carven bone di in his other, all drunken mirth and wild as a youthful buck. A distant picture of the chivalrous knight ladies dreamed of from the fables, Fireball demonstrated himself more than willing to fraternize with these men, and banter with the best of them. Surrounded by over a score of hedge knights and squires he played a competitive game, finding many to be far more a match than those he faced in the Targaryen court. Losing a particularly costly round he tossed away his unlucky bones reaching for his tankard and downing the half pint in one go, letting the alcohol carry away the worries of lost silver lining the pockets of more skilled players. The comfortable atmosphere helped him relax, relieving the dark thoughts that had plagued his mind these past years. The scent of roasted pork, the cheery repartee of good company, and the gentle warmth of a beautiful woman occupying his lap. All worked to loosen his tongue and share tales of his youth, not that it took much loosening.
“Where was I? Oh aye. There I was, in the midst of that Dornish ambush near abouts Kingsgrave, a few leagues south of the marches. Naught but a broken lance in hand and a dirk in my belt. A boy of ten and four, and lost in the moment of it all. Never seen anything quite like it. There were near two hundred Dornish riders, all dressed up in orange and green and purple, fast as deer and fierce as lions. Part of Lord Yronwood’s vanguard. They snuck around our outriders and fell on our flanks, scattering the footmen reserves to the winds, leaving none but the three Kingsguard and ten knights to defend the King. His honor guard, and all that was left to see him through that fateful hour. What a day for the songs it was. Every man there fought like the Warrior himself, all while the greater battle raged below the ridge. I remember Ser Grell wielding his mace in a bloody dance. Ser Swann, whose axe alone claimed three Dornishmen, and whose horse slew a fourth. I was squiring for Ser Farman of the Kingsguard, and no greater man could a boy hope to squire for. He was a blur of blade and cloak, soon more red than white. The seven hells were packed in the evening hours, and many met the Stranger with the name Farman on their lips. He slew six Dornishmen and his lance had shattered on the last. He rode to me and demanded another, and he rode out again. Not hesitating or fearing death for a moment.” Fireball’s eyes were distant, lost in the memory of a battle long passed. He drew again from his drink, watching as his opponent rolled dice, once and again. Knowing he was keeping the eager spectators in suspense he continued his tale, his voice growing ever more somber. Fireball could weave an excellent yarn, and his deep baritone wielded an inviting tone that drew the listener in. The men about him were hushed, enamored by this retelling. Leaning forward they hung onto every word as if it were gospel from the High Septon himself. “He met his fate with the seventh man he faced… Baleysh the Vast they called him, descended of giants they said and I would believe it. Dornishmen should not grow that tall and strong, but he did. And he felled brave Ser Farman in a single blow, cleaving the white helm in twain. I cried out as my knight perished, whether of fear or anger I remember not. The good knight must have been dead before he struck the ground so deep set was the giant’s axe. When Ser Farman died the line was broken not but for a second, closed again by the whirling melee, yet it was enough for the giant to slip through and advance upon the King himself. Aegon, fearless noble Aegon would not be intimidated, but even a dragon proved little match for such a foe. He was knocked from his horse and disarmed. Baleysh was on him in a heartbeat, to capture or kill I cannot say. Perhaps he fancied himself a king slayer, mayhap all he desired was the glory of forcing the King to yield. Whatever his intentions, it was not his day for such a prize.”
“What happened next?” A squire asked, utterly enraptured by the narrative. No doubt he already knew, this one was a popular story for young lordlings eager to imagine themselves on a distant battlefield, the last line of defense for the King himself. Such were the childhood fantasies of young men, whose minds were all of battle and blood. To hear it from Fireball himself though who lived those very acts of valor, that was worthy of its own story and Fireball was more than happy to oblige them, eventually.
“I intervened.” He said with a grin. Ignoring the impatient groans of his audience he tapped a copper coin on the table calling for another drink. “Storytelling is thirsty work.” He protested as a few of the rowdier patrons jostled him to continue.
“Best save your coin.” One of his dice opponents chuckled as he rolled well once again. “You’ll owe it all to me soon enough.”
Waving their protests and jabs away Fireball tortured them for a minute more until his tankard was filled and the maid was paid. “Alright, alright let’s see… I recall it well, the lance Ser Farman handed me had shattered in such a way that it left a jagged point. Even as the king fell from his steed, I forgot all reason of self-preservation and ran the giant’s horse through. Straight into its hearts. I was strong, even as a boy and the wood bit deep. What a powerful destrier it must have been, a shame it had to die. It launched the giant up into the air, away, away with its death throes and he fell. I swear upon the Father it caused the earth itself to tremble when he crashed upon the dirt. Up he came with a roar like a lion, barely a heartbeat after he fell as if it hadn’t happened at all. He rose in a fury unmatched and raised his axe to do me in. I tell you true, I had no desire to die. I drew my dirk and made as if to parry his blow, and what a fool I was to think I could. The power that man possessed… Like the strike of a bear, it cut through the steel of my knife’s guard and took my finger, near enough my entire sword hand.” Fireball lifted his left hand to show all present, where a terrible scar remained. Unseemly white skin pulled taunt over where his left pointer once resided. The wound cast a spell over the audience, as all present gapped at it, trying to imagine the terrible scene in their mind’s eye. The desperation and ferocity of the mismatched fight, as a boy made his final stand against a terrifying foe. The evidence made it all seem more real. Fireball wasn’t done, not here and not in the story. His pitch grew louder, more intense and triumphant as the tale drew towards its glorious conclusion.
“I collapsed; my own blade driven into my helmet by the force of it. My knees simply could not hold me upright under enduring his wrath. He must have thought he had done me the same as Ser Farman, because he stepped right over me. Not a second glance towards the boy who had killed his mount. A word of advice lads, this is why you always ensure the man you face is dead or done. Underestimate no foe, no matter how small for death resides in carelessness. I freed my knife and cut straight through his breeches as he passed. A cock the size of my arm fell from him, and a spray of blood blinded me, and oh you should have heard him scream. You see, the thing about Dornishmen is, they love their fighting as much as they love their fucking. And when they aren’t fighting their fucking, and I had just made a great many women down in Sunspear very sad. For the giant was now a eunuch and bleeding like a stuck pig. Not that it slowed him down, or weakened him. A wound that would cut the fight from most men just made him angrier. He picked me up by the throat as if I weighed no more than a feather, intending to snap my neck with a twist of his hand. The Mother smiled on me that day, for after six buckets of blood drained from his sliced groin the strength faded from his arms, and I thrust my dirk beneath his helmet, straight unto his dark eyes. He died then, at long last and the day was won. The Dornishmen routed by a charge of Vale knights and the giant lay slain at my feet.” His tale concluded Fireball grabbed the girl upon his lap and kissed her and the men cheered raising their tankards in salute they drank deeply.
“To dead Dornishmen and soiled Dornishwomen!” One knight called to a roar of approval.
Watch your tongues, lest the Prince cut them out.” Cautioned another who had witnessed Maekar's justice.
“Wait… I heard you used Blackfyre to slay the giant.” A squire protested when the ruckus died down and Fireball broke away from his woman. “You took up the King’s sword and defended him, lopping off the monster’s head in a single blow.” A few murmurs rose up as men considered their own favorite retellings of that day.
“I lopped off a head of his with a single blow,” Fireball jested into his drink, foam clinging to his red beard as he rumbled a laugh at the lad’s disappointed face. The boy’s version did sound more worthy of the songs, but rarely did Fireball exaggerate. He never needed to; others would do that for him. “Just not that one, and not with the King’s sword. Nay, I castrated Baleysh and he bled out. Near crushed me when he collapsed, but King Aegon pulled me out from under the corpse. Gave me a knighthood that very day before all the army, but I didn’t feel much the knight.”
“No? You had saved the King. Such an act is worthy of knighthood most would say.” Came the inquiry.
“Aye, that I did.” Fireball’s dice opponent was waiting expectantly. He shook the cubes, raising his clenched fist for the woman in his lap to blow upon them. The roll was followed by the expectant moan as Fireball’s terrible luck continued. He mused for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire and the excitable conversation all around. The truth of it was rarely as pretty as the singers claimed. Luck more than skill had brought him alive through that day, fortune he should never have possessed. After all the retellings, with the events of the battle still burned into his memory and dreams, he could not fathom how he managed to survive. He could still recall the terrible strength, as the fingers closed tight around him throat. Blinded by the giant’s blood he kicked and fought to no avail. The desperate slashing of his knife scraping uselessly off the steel helm as he squirmed helpless like a mouse caught in a lion’s jaws. The wash of relief when his blade sank home, and the power in those arms suddenly receded like the tide as they fell in a heap of blood and metal. He shook the memory away like dog drying itself from a swim, a wry grin on his lips. “The truth of it is, while the King charged me to be brave in the name of the Warrior, I still stank of mine own piss.”
The unexpected line brought a peal of drunken laughter as the men and boys rolled about on the dirt floor, unable to contain themselves at the thought of the legendary figure pissing himself out of terror. That would be a story to share with their grandchildren. It was no loss to him, and one day they might find encouragement in the knowledge that even heroes felt fear in those crucial moments. Fireball joined in on the banter as a few other experienced warriors shared the stories of their first battle. None of course could top slaying the giant of Dorne and saving the king, but that is what separated the wheat from the chaff. The ability to seize opportunity when it came, and Fireball did not waste a moment. Cheering for victories of all the men around him, no matter how small. Raising spirits and building rapport and memorizing names, he had always been good at that. He never forgot a face and the name attached. When the hours grew long, and Fireball deep into his cups felt his purse grow worryingly light he called off his game conceding defeat to the better players. “Away with you robbers, or I shall have no coin left for the lists. I exhausted all my luck years ago clearly.” He threw away the dice and took one last draw of his empty tankard, catching a few stray drops on his tongue.
One man, a younger and cocksure fellow counted out his winnings, smug in his victory he bantered boldly with the elder warrior. “Say, my Lord Fireball, should I bet these on you in the joust? I assume your lance is better than your di.”
“I am no lord, merely a knight such as yourself. However, on that final point you can be certain pup. My lance never misses its mark.” Fireball stood and stretched; his muscular arms crossed behind his head until the old joints popped to his satisfaction. He had lost track of the hour, and his family would be arriving soon at the height of the afternoon sun. Summerhall was a good half hour ride away and he wouldn’t want to miss them. “Save your coin for another, lad, I intend to allow some other champion a chance at victory this time. I cannot win every tourney, or else the bets grow stale don’t you know? No, these next few days I intend to relax and spend some time with my kinfolk, whom I rarely see these days. I’ve swung enough swords and lances in my day to sate my lust for such activity. Though I wish you all good fortune, and the Warrior’s courage and Father’s strength.” There were other reasons he would not be participating, namely he did not have the time. There were a great many conversations to be had, lords to meet, hedge knights to rally, but that he left unsaid. He leaned close, his voice lowering so that he only spoke to those present, the dozen or so still listening. His words lost their slur, and though his breath stank of alcohol his voice held a certainty you would not hear from a drunk. He turned his emerald gaze on each in turn, making them feel known and respected. “Lads, if you do want someone upon which to risk everything, I would wager every last copper on Blackfyre. You can take that, as the word of Fireball.”
Straightening he adjusted his sword and kissed the maid one last time before swaggering from the tavern, steady and straight as an arrow, as if he hadn’t drank a single drop.
Legendary hero Fireball builds rapport with a company of Hedge Knights, and sets off to meet his family arriving for the tourney.
Set within the fertile heartland of the Reach, along the banks of the Blueburn rests the humble castle Cinnamont Keep. Surrounded there, by many acres of farmlands, orchards, and a dozen landed knights with holdfasts and towers of their own. The castle itself is a modest thing, little more than a keep and hall, with a single ringed wall of bright whitewashed stone. The fortifications are set upon a small hill, and the Blueburn acts as a half moat on its northern flank. Nearby to the castle's west lies the town of Bluewood, named for the rolling woodlands that swathe the lands of House Ball, intermingled by patchwork fields and dotted smallfolk homesteads.
Sworn to the Tyrells, the Lords of Cinnamont have always proved a reserved and dutiful folk, going about their work and minding their own business with admirable dedication. If a young noble was to seek glory and adventure he wouldn’t find it here. Beneath the gentle quiet trees of the Blue Wood nothing much happens at all. The most excitement seen here in the last decade was a small tourney held in honor of Lord Owen Ball’s birth. On that day Ser Quentyn returned from his duties at the Red Keep, to ride for his infant lord nephew’s honor. The jousts were most chivalrous and competitive, yet in the end Ser Quentyn oft called Fireball unseated Ser Colin Merryweather winning the day. That was six years past, and since then only the occasional escaped horse or traveling stroyteller have been available to break the local monotony.
Should their peaceful existence ever be disturbed, and all the knights and levy of the Cinnamont be called upon by their liege lord, House Ball could summon forth a dozen knights, and four hundred levied foot, including a contingent of sixty longbowmen and two dozen armored sergeants at arms. By their feudal contract six of these knights, and a hundred and fifty men are owed to the Tyrells, should their lordship call. It has been through House Ball’s long and storied service to the Tyrells and the Realm, that they are remembered. The Lords of Cinnamont can trace their line back to the First Men, and a great number of their ancestry have served with distinction since, beneath the banners of the Gardeners, Tyrells, and Targaryen’s. They have given no reason to doubt their loyalty, nor hint of unchecked ambition beyond their little corner of the world.
In recent days they have been a bedrock of nobility and loyalty, and yet the foolishness of one might change that forever.
Recent History:
Gentle Lord Owen Ball, a man with years enough to remember seeing the last of the dragons in its pit, bore by his lady wife two sons Quinn his eldest, and Quentyn, alongside a number of beautiful daughters. His rule was long and peaceful and marred only by a plague of whooping cough that left many worried the young lordling children would perish in their beds. Both boys by many prayers to the Crone survived and Lord Quinn would take his father’s place as lord of Cinnamont Keep many years later, taking on the little Lady Gwyn Merryweather as his bride. Quentyn for his part would leave Cinnamont in his youth, to seek glory elsewhere, eventually rising by martial excellence and prestige to become master of arms at the Red Keep, and even be promised a white cloak by Daeron II should an opening become available. Lord Quinn saw no such good fortune, and struggled in his duties. His marriage to Gwyn was troubled, and despite their best efforts they could produce no living children male or female to continue the Ball line. Lord Quinn’s brother, Ser Quentyn took on no wife and bore no trueborn children, as he expected to become a member of the Kingsguard. To round up it all Quinn was a sickly man, frail and deemed to not be long lived. Should he pass without a proper heir House Ball and all its storied histories would end and the lands would be divided up between the female heir lines of surrounding noble houses.
Lord Quinn did have a son however, by means of a peasant women, and the boy was named Jacob Flowers. He had been brought to Cinnamont as an infant, and was raised and recognized as Lord Quinn’s bastard. He was given all that a lordling might want, education, training, and attention from his father. There were many whispers that Jacob would be legitimized in desperation should no son be produced. In his forty-third year whilst his wife Gwyn was bearing her ninth pregnancy Lord Quinn passed away in his bed, and his final words were heard only by his illegitimate son Jacob, and his wife Gwyn of Longtable.
When Jacob emerged, he declared himself a legitimized son, and Lord Ball of Cinnamont, whilst Gwyn recalled a story altogether different. She had determined she was carrying a son, and lord Quinn wished to see his trueborn heir rule Cinnamont. Should she fail in this duty, she asserted Jacob Flowers may take up the name Ball and rule in his father’s stead as to Quinn’s wishes. It was a drama not witnessed in these lands before, and the excitement was palpable as rumors ran wild. A month later, Gwyn gave birth to a boy, whom she named Owen Ball for his grandfather, Lord Quinn’s first and only living trueborn heir. Calling upon her brother, Ser Colin Merryweather, and brother-in-law Ser Quentyn Ball, she had them excise the scorned Jacob Flowers from Cinnamont and banished him from his home and all the lands of Ball. Stating her son could never be safe living under the same roof as the upstart bastard.
This was six years past, and the excitement of the incident has faded. The young lord Owen is growing strong, and Jacob Flowers has vanished, out of sight and out of mind for the peaceful lands of Ball.
Family Members: Lord Quinn Ball – Former lord of Cinnamont, perished in his bed from sickness. (48) Lord Owen Ball – Child Lord of Cinnamont and Lord Quinn’s only trueborn son. (6) Lady Gwyn Ball – Mother of Owen, and protector of Cinnamont until her son comes of age. (32)
Ser Jacob “Ball” Flowers – Bastard son of Quinn, and the banished heir of Cinnamont. (24) Ser Andryn Nimbledown - Father to Elowyn and Patrick, and Knight of Stillstone Tower. (52) Patrick “Pat Nimble” Nimbledown – Squire to Ser Jacob Flowers, and youngest son of Ser Andryn. (13) Lady Elowyn Ball – Ser Jacob’s wife, and youngest daughter of Ser Andryn. (20) Quinn Ball – Ser Jacob’s son. (1)
Ser Quentyn “Fireball” Ball – Master of Arms of the Red Keep, and fabled warrior. (47) Ser Colin Merryweather – Younger brother to Lady Gwyn, and steward of Cinnamont. (30) Ser Athelwine Bellfast - Castellan of Cinnamont (41)
Maester Nathaniel – The young Maester of Cinnamont. (25)
Lady Gwyn Ball
Age: Two and Thirty, born mid-year of 170 AC.
Appearance: Regarded as a comely women, but of no outstanding beauty Lady Gwyn looks and acts the part of a noble woman. She is small, standing no higher than the average man’s shoulder, yet with a presence that demands courtesy and attention. She has a sharp, angular face with deep-set emerald eyes, and long blonde hair that she keeps neatly braided. Everything about the women is of good order, evoking a sense of regality. Her visage is marred however, by a large wart grown from the base of her nose, which on occasion draws the eyes.
Description & biography: Like most summer women of the Reach, lady Gwyn enjoys the comforts of highborn life well. She is clean, precise and expects the chivalric acts of men. She was born, daughter of the Lord Merryweather, and was raised to the expectations of a young woman of a noble house. She did her duty, regarded her elders and lords well and was married to a wealthy lord of House Ball on her fifteenth nameday. Should it have been, she might lived happily ever after, but difficulties plagued her life. A husband who was not loyal to his vows of monogamy, eight stillborn children, and a bastard whose presence was a constant reminder of her troubles. It was her pride and joy to finally bring a son into the world even as she despaired it ever occurring. She cherishes him, doting and spoiling the child as a desperate mother would with the fear that a cruel world might snatch this son away as well. Her overprotectiveness has brought about a less jovial side to her, causing paranoia and suspicion. Six years of good health has eased her worries however, and Gwyn has slowly begun loosening her grip on the boy, and turning her focus on developing the wealth of the Blue Wood, and Cinnamont, so that her son might have a strong seat of power when he comes of age.
Ser Quentyn “Fireball” Ball
Age: Seven and Forty, born the year’s end 155 AC.
Appearance: The Fireball is an lithe man, tall and wiry like a spring coiled trap and restrained by muscle forged of experience. An amateurish gaze might consider him no more dangerous than the next man, but the wild glint in his green eyes, the half manic grin upon his lips, the cocksure manner in which he walked, all bespoke a warrior more dangerous than a half dozen men twice is size. He emblazons on his chest a personal sigil derived from House Ball, of a fiery sphere, red as the hair upon his head, burning on a field of black. He dresses in plain clothes and armor, and at his hip is the ever-present longsword, lacking garnish of any kind but bearing the weight of a blade tempered in blood. For Fireball has seen his share of battle, and his body shows the signs of conflict in a patchwork of scars, from a great gash running through his red muttonchops to his four fingered left hand.
Description & biography: “He shall not suffer the faint of heart, nor the weak of mind and body. Fireball will show no pity but the mercy of a quick death.”
A man of action and excitement, Fireball has dedicated his life to the art of war. He is an aggressive, and confident general boldly going where no others dared. He has a reputation for leading wild charges, and then calling prudent retreats. He is not overconfident his enemies and allies often say, but knows exactly of what he is capable. Fireball has served for the Targaryens since his youth, first squiring for a household knight, before proving himself and earning a knighthood by King Aegon IV himself, seen by a thousand witnesses. He was named Fireball by his foes for his aggressive nature, and shining red hair which he took in stride, adopting it as his personal sigil and wearing it proudly as any man should. On his thirtieth year he was made the Master of Arms at the Red Keep, and trained many a worthy warrior from the Royal House, including the young Daemon Blackfyre, and Ageor Rivers.
His actions in battle, and selfless service for many decades has earned him a place amongst the Kingsguard, it was promised. King Daeron vowed he would raise Fireball to the sworn brotherhood once an opening was made available. With this goal in mind Fireball never took a wife, nor bore trueborn children, all in anticipation of his chance to wear the white, with a warrior’s patience.
Ser Jacob “Ball” Flowers
Age: Four and Twenty, born the year’s beginning 178 AC.
Appearance: In recent years Jacob Flowers has grown into his own, filling out in muscle and with a full beard of red like his father and uncle. Gone are the days where he was a lanky adolescent, all remnants of the baby fat that lingered as a sign of his easy life within a Reach castle have fled. Replaced by the grimy, battle-hardened appearance of a Hedge Knight who has earned his spurs more than once.
Description & biography: There are many things in life that might turn a man sour, entrapped by one’s own desire for vindication. Lies, unfairness, and all the dark deeds of men and women that might snare one into a life of bitterness. It is a path that tempts Jacob Flowers, and yet he struggles on to remain true to himself, and the legacy of his father and ancestors. When he was but a boy, Jacob did not concern himself with worrying about inheritance, for it was made clear to him from a young age that such things would never be within his purview. After all, his father would have plenty of trueborn heirs. Yet, as the years lengthened, and Jacob grew into adolescence his father began spending ever more time with his illegitimate son. Educating him as a lord would need be taught. He instilled a sense of responsibility, and charged him to be noble, brave, loyal and true. Jacob wanted nothing more than to please his father, and took his words to heart. Only, for his heart to break with his father’s passing. He was a Ball then at least, it was his father’s wishes that it be so. It should have been so, but then his half brother was born the woman he called mother for so many years scorned him. Throwing him from his father’s castle, his castle. With nowhere to go, no family to take him in he wandered across the seven kingdoms, furious at the injustice of it all, but with not a soul who cared for his plight. He had no evidence but his word, and what was that against the word of Lord Quinn’s wife?
He might have wallowed in self-pity thereon, and become a beggar, or a robber knight but his father’s teachings rang true. He could never lower himself to such deeds, even when the hunger clawed at his belly. Instead he stayed steady upon the straight and narrow, clinging to the belief of his own self worth. Thus dedicated to what is right, he made a name for himself as a hedge knight, swearing his sword to whomever might take it. His services took him far and wide, until he came into the service of a Landed Knight, by the name of Ser Andryn Nimbledown in the Stormlands. It was in this good man’s service that Jacob found a home, and a wife, a son and squire. Ser Andryn saw the dutiful chivalry of a young man determined to earn his way through a cruel world, and despite initial resistance eventually allowed the blossoming romance between his daughter and Jacob to result in marriage. After all, Jacob insisted he was legitimized, a Ball through and through, so who knew what might happen. Stranger things had occurred before, chances slim though they were.
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