Both options sound slightly dangerous, but this one at least sounds a bit better than the other. While Jesse has a point, I see it as far too dangerous to travel in the dark, especially considering that their surroundings are dangerous and filled with potentially hostile people. If they get lost there, they are likely to die. The positive thing is that whomever is out there will have it harder to spot them in the dark as well, at least as long as they remain silent.
Torv
His head thudded at the rhythm of each heartbeat, the increasing pain unbearable. His body was stained with sweat, and he shuddered … moreat each thought that entered his mind. Dulled figures roaming and dancing in the darkness, haunting the cursed world Torv had found himself in.
He stared at the creatures around him, misshapen and unlike anything he had ever seen. Slowly the black liquid creatures began to form into familiar shapes. Men, women, newborn babes. Torv found himself looking at an oddly familiar scenario, yet he could not pick what he saw.
Before him he saw a woman, her legs spread and two men in front of her. One wore a crown, the other wore robes that fell to his feet. The woman’s screams filled the oily halls like a haunted echo, shrieking some demonic chant rather than a regular scream.
Torv approached the shadow creatures, passing the robed and crowned beings. He found the woman, she lay on her back while the robe… [view original content]
Take note GMs, you shouldn't offer options like [risk trying to] or [attempt to] or [try to] when an other option is less vague. Barely anyone will pick it because it obviously seems unlikely to succeed. This is especially true for options like "Try to kill xyz" in my opinion.
Torv
His head thudded at the rhythm of each heartbeat, the increasing pain unbearable. His body was stained with sweat, and he shuddered … moreat each thought that entered his mind. Dulled figures roaming and dancing in the darkness, haunting the cursed world Torv had found himself in.
He stared at the creatures around him, misshapen and unlike anything he had ever seen. Slowly the black liquid creatures began to form into familiar shapes. Men, women, newborn babes. Torv found himself looking at an oddly familiar scenario, yet he could not pick what he saw.
Before him he saw a woman, her legs spread and two men in front of her. One wore a crown, the other wore robes that fell to his feet. The woman’s screams filled the oily halls like a haunted echo, shrieking some demonic chant rather than a regular scream.
Torv approached the shadow creatures, passing the robed and crowned beings. He found the woman, she lay on her back while the robe… [view original content]
Torv
His head thudded at the rhythm of each heartbeat, the increasing pain unbearable. His body was stained with sweat, and he shuddered … moreat each thought that entered his mind. Dulled figures roaming and dancing in the darkness, haunting the cursed world Torv had found himself in.
He stared at the creatures around him, misshapen and unlike anything he had ever seen. Slowly the black liquid creatures began to form into familiar shapes. Men, women, newborn babes. Torv found himself looking at an oddly familiar scenario, yet he could not pick what he saw.
Before him he saw a woman, her legs spread and two men in front of her. One wore a crown, the other wore robes that fell to his feet. The woman’s screams filled the oily halls like a haunted echo, shrieking some demonic chant rather than a regular scream.
Torv approached the shadow creatures, passing the robed and crowned beings. He found the woman, she lay on her back while the robe… [view original content]
Looks like the H&L parts have crossed over into another story which is really awesome! I will no doubt be contributing an H&L part for the Invasion as well. Great job Wildling!
Alright, so I have the honor to present you the first Histories & Lore part of this story! I wrote it with the assistance of Stigz hims… moreelf
-
Davios Tallman - Promises to the Seven Gods
Davios Tallman sat down on the simple wooden chair. The almost empty sept echoed as the legs of the chair scraped against the floor. An old man in white robes sat opposed to Davios, a serene expression on his face.
“Why have you come to me, Davios?” The old man asked calmly.
“I am leaving the Andalos, and I have promises to make. Promises to the Seven Gods.” Davios spoke with quiet determination in his words. “I see that you are filled with anger, young man.” The Septon said, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of promises would you make to gods, with your heart full of rage?”
The Septon’s words echoed in the sept, and Davios closed his eyes. “Promises of revenge.” He said sternly, and the look that the Septon gave him was full of concern. “H… [view original content]
Alright, well I'll close this vote. Torv will choose to make camp for the night, which will certainly make for an interesting next part
Anyway, I've finished writing the next part, which goes to Steffon Cale. It's been a while since we saw him, he was actually the first part I started off with when returning to the Invasion if I remember correctly, so I figure that's long enough to need a recap. Especially if you're a newcomer
Steffon is the father of the previous Cale PoV: Nalia, and brother to the legendary blacksmith: Brodin. Lately, Steffon was confronted by King Theon after the loss of his daughter and brother, and offered a position of leading the Third Infantry Battalion against the Ironborn in the west. Steffon accepted the honour, and before leaving with the sellsword Gareth and brutish warrior Edmund, he met with Theon once again. Theon gave Steffon his family's legacy sword: Ice, so that he would not risk losing it in Andalos. He also made a request to have Steffon take his son - Harmund, a boy of fourteen - to war with him. You chose to deny Theon's request, and to have his bastard brother: Wulfgar, by Steffon's side instead.
Torv
His head thudded at the rhythm of each heartbeat, the increasing pain unbearable. His body was stained with sweat, and he shuddered … moreat each thought that entered his mind. Dulled figures roaming and dancing in the darkness, haunting the cursed world Torv had found himself in.
He stared at the creatures around him, misshapen and unlike anything he had ever seen. Slowly the black liquid creatures began to form into familiar shapes. Men, women, newborn babes. Torv found himself looking at an oddly familiar scenario, yet he could not pick what he saw.
Before him he saw a woman, her legs spread and two men in front of her. One wore a crown, the other wore robes that fell to his feet. The woman’s screams filled the oily halls like a haunted echo, shrieking some demonic chant rather than a regular scream.
Torv approached the shadow creatures, passing the robed and crowned beings. He found the woman, she lay on her back while the robe… [view original content]
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the morning snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow had mixed with the mud, yet the glare from the crystals was still irritable despite being minimal. Steffon groaned, his thighs sore from riding for so long. Winterfell was nearing.
He thought of his last time at Winterfell, before defending the eastern coast from the Andal invaders. It had been a long time since he had needed to pick up a sword since then, and whenever he had it had never done him any good. The last war he fought in took his honor, and now this one had taken his family.
Steffon barely noticed Gareth riding by his side, leaving the armoured brute to slowly canter across the flatlands. They slowed down to a canter, but Steffon gave the sellsword little attention, keeping his gaze lowered and ahead of him. Despite his efforts, it did not succeed in disinteresting the man.
“General.” He said, a touch of mockery in his tone. Steffon shot a glare towards the man, who clearly looked taken aback.
“What do you want, mercenary?” Steffon asked with a grudge, his words sharp and short. Gareth lifted his opened hands in gesture of surrender, his expression oddly fearful.
“I meant no harm, General. Please, don’t hurt me.” His final words had a slight twist to them, distasteful and mocking. Steffon held his bitterness.
“Why don’t you go back and accompany the Beast, or ride ahead and be shot down by the guards before I arrive.” Steffon suggested, his voice monotone. Gareth chuckled and shook his head.
“Well, I’m afraid that formidable giant isn’t a man with much to say, and I have no plans of dying today. No, I want assurance that I am going to be paid, and I want more than the previous deal.” Steffon raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze to Gareth.
“More?” Steffon asked, and receiving a nod from Gareth.
“Aye, my contract had me fight for Theon against the Andal’s. We won the battle, and his further quarrels are none of my concern, though he wants me to fight another of his wars? I’ll take the praise for free, but my sword has a price.” Gareth stated confidently, smirking. Steffon looked down at his blade.
“I can see that. What is it? Iron?” Steffon asked, though he did not truly care for the answer. Gareth grinned, shaking his head and unsheathing the blade.
“Steel.” He announced, showing the delicacy of the blade. “I claimed it from one of the Andal’s, I doubt he had much use for it anymore.” He said, winking his eye. Steffon rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
“Looted it, more like.” Steffon spotted a frown on Gareth’s face, and a small shrug.
“Loot, claim. Call it what you like, General. It’s one less steel blade in the hands of the Bolton’s, and I’ve seen these cut straight through bronze swords.” Gareth said, almost with astonishment. Steffon gave a fake smile.
“Then perhaps you ought to buy a weapon forged by a real blacksmith.” Steffon suggested, a light chuckle following. Gareth smirked, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge Steffon.
“Now, where could I find a smith that could forge me a bronze weapon stronger than steel?” He asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. Steffon knew the answer to his question, but grief withheld him from answering. He hesitated, which was enough for Gareth to shake his head with a victorious smile.
“Nightsong.” Steffon finally answered, confidence in his tone. “That man has forged some of the finest bronze blades I’ve ever seen, and his works had cut through steel. Alara Caron made example of that when she struck down Argos Sevenstar.” Steffon stated, a smirk now appearing on his face. Gareth nodded, now grinning.
“Suppose you’re right there, but that Caron bitch is truly something. Maybe once this is all over, I’ll pay her a visit, show her my charms.” Gareth reached down groped his manhood, giving a sick wink to Steffon, who in reply simply rolled his eyes.
“That’s if you survive.” Steffon stated coldly, turning his eyes forward. The stone walls of Winterfell could be seen over the hills ahead. “The Ironborn aren’t as forgiving and honorable as the Andal warriors.” Gareth hawked and spat beside him.
“As I said, I don’t plan to die anytime soon, old man.” He snorted, running his hands through his slicked back brown hair. “Now, will you agree to work with my prices, or should I go find a better offer?” His words were cocky, like he was trying to state his importance. Steffon smirked, adjusting his hands on the reins.
“If you wanted a better offer, you should have spoken with King Theon before we departed. Abandon your contract and pledge your services elsewhere, it matters little to me. Though if you do decide to stay, you’ll follow my orders, or I’ll cut your precious manhood from you and send it back to your mother in a box.” Steffon did not wait for a reply, digging his heels into the ribs of his destrier he galloped for the Eastern Gate of Winterfell.
-
The Great Hall was dimly lit, yet comforting and warm. The hot springs beneath Winterfell had dealt to that, keeping even the stone walls insulated. Steffon sat at the end of the long table, a wooden platter with glazed pork and beans. The potatoes were smouldered, black and crisp, with the inside being stuffed with butter and melted cheese.
The platter stared up at Steffon with pleading notions, causing his belly to rumble. However, his self-control prevailed, as he sat patiently and respectfully with the rest of the Stark family.
The head of the table was empty, and it was clear that was where Theon had usually sat, the seat to his left was also vacant. Opposite that sat Queen Helia, and beside her was the young Prince Harmond. Opposite Helia was Wulfgar Snow, the bastard brother of Theon.
In the centre of the table sat Teran Woodmill. Opposite of him was Haymitch Woodfoot, the son of Lord Ursus Woodfoot, who was held captive on Bear Island by the Ironborn. The remaining of the table was vacant, except for Steffon who sat at the far end.
A short moment came before Queen Helia started her meal, and the rest of those at the table were permitted to begin. Steffon grabbed at the meat first, tearing the flesh from the bone and forcing the meat down his throat. He had a hunger, and a thirst. He grabbed for his horn, which was topped with ale, and downed it in one gulp before returning to the rest of his meal. The servants topped his horn again.
As he ate, a general discussion arose from the occupants of the table, discussing small matters until talk of the Ironborn arose. Steffon felt the heavy weight of stares on him, he raised his eyes to find the table looking at him.
“Pardon?” He asked, sucking his fingers of the oils. Queen Helia did not flinch, and instead repeated her question.
“When will Theon return with our army?” She asked, a touch of impatience in her voice. Steffon raised an eyebrow, staring at her.
“I was informed that an army was being formed here.” Helia laughed and rolled her eyes, returning to her meal.
“Petty lords with little men to offer, mere peasants and farmers that our soldiers could rally. This is not an army, but a mob waiting to be slaughtered.” She stated, frustration in her voice. “So I ask again, when will our army return?” Steffon sighed, taking a moment to answer.
“His grace has decided to take his forces across the Narrow Sea, to Andalos. He wishes to destroy the Andal threat once and for all.” Steffon observed how each member of the table took the news. Helia showed signs of disbelief, Teran Woodmill’s jaw gaped open, Haymitch’s eyes were widened. The silence did not linger for long.
“So he should.” Wulfgar piped in, slamming his fist on the table. “The damned Andal’s need to know who they’re messing with.” He received a dismissive glare from Queen Helia, who clearly showed bitterness towards him.
“Save me your outrage, Wulfgar. Were it not for my husband’s request to keep you here and run Winterfell, I’d be praying to all the gods that your drinking would finally kill you off.” Steffon raised his eyes in semi-shock, yet Wulfar seemed unbothered by it.
“My Queen, there are young ears at the table.” Teran quietly informed her, and the glare he received cut thicker than any blade. Yet it was not her voice that spoke, but Harmund’s.
“I’m no boy.” He stated with arrogance, standing from his chair. “I’m the Prince of Winterfell, heir to the Winter Throne. You will treat me with respect!” His voice squeaked with his final scream, before his mother placed a hand on his forearm. Teran Woodmill looked genuinely baffled and afraid.
“Come down, my sweet wolf. I think it’s time for bed.” His furious glare turned to Helia, who seemed to handle it well.
“You will not order me around, woman!” He yelled, before storming away from the table. Helia turned and looked at the men at the table, embarrassment on her cheeks. She stood and followed after her son with haste, leaving the hall quiet and somewhat empty.
Steffon looked to the other men on the table. Teran stared at his meal, his eyes widened and he seemed genuinely fearful, like he had ruined something. Haymitch had buried his head in his hands, clearly frustrated, and Wulfgar was downing his third ale.
“Girl.” Wulfgar sounded, gaining the attention of the cupbearer. “Leave us the casket and excuse yourself. We grown men have some words to say that you need not concern yourself with.” The young girl, who looked around thirteen, nodded and exited the Great Hall.
“Bloody hell.” Haymitch muttered, his voice muffled in his cupped hands. Wulfgar nodded, a frown on his face as he poured himself another ale.
“Aye, I sure miss Prince Bael, he was the heir that Winterfell truly needed. Not some wide eyed mummy’s boy whose balls are stuck in his throat.” Wulfgar took another drink from his horn, while Teran looked at him with shock.
“That is the King’s son you speak of, my lord.” Teran’s voice was shaky, but slowly growing more stable. Wulfgar shrugged, placing down his horn.
“Bugger the little brat, and fuck my brother for wasting his hunger on some unarmed Andal’s. Sure, it’s needed, but there are more pressing matters.” Steffon watched Haymitch raise his head, nodding in agreeance. Wulfgar turned his eyes to Steffon. “So, you’ll lead this ‘army’ to the western coast, hm?” He asked, his voice croaky. Steffon nodded, picking up his pork bone.
“Aye, that is what King Theon wanted of me.” Steffon said before eating the oily flesh directly off the bone. Wulfgar nodded, grabbing his horn of ale.
“The Ironborn are relentless, and confident. They know Theon marches east, and they’re taking advantage of that. We need to show them that this is the North, but we can’t do that with the army we have.” Wulfgar concluded, somewhat remorsefully. Haymitch now cut in, his tone somewhat sullen.
“We’ve gathered the houses of the Wolfswood, as well as conscripting peasants and farmers to fight in the Third Infantry Battalion. Though there is without a doubt we need more men.” He held his tongue for a moment, before continuing. “My uncle serves as Commander of Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. He has over a thousand men under his command, more than enough to help us take Bear Island back.” Haymitch said this with a touch of hope in his words, but a mocking laugh from Wulfgar was all that answered him.
“They’re men of the Night’s Watch, they won’t help us.” Wulfgar stated without a second thought. Haymitch shook his head.
“My uncle would, I know it. Family meant the world to him, if we could just get word to him then I have no doubts he would help. The Night’s Watch are the shields that guard the realms of men, after all.” Haymitch reminded Wulfgar, who simply rolled his eyes.
“Aye, shields that guard the realms of men, by sitting on their asses. I say we send a rider to Barrowton, and request help from King Dustin. It’s patchy, aye, but we’d have all the men we’d need to defend the west coast. No doubt the Ironborn will start raiding them after they’re done with us.” Haymitch shook his head.
“Calling on the neighbouring kingdom would be a sign of weakness. If they know Theon is truly out of the North, they may take it as a sign to invade us. We should avoid the assistance of other kings, for the safety of our own realm.” Haymitch said, almost pleading. Wulfgar looked to Steffon.
“Well, it’s your army, Steffon. You know we don’t have the men, what should we do?” Wulfgar placed down his ale, while Teran and Haymitch turned their eyes to Steffon.
Haymitch’s eyes almost pleaded for Steffon to make the right decision, and Teran’s showed genuine fear. This was likely the first war he was going to see. Wulfgar stared elsewhere, alone with himself and his ale. Steffon sighed, taking a drink from his own ale to wash down the pork.
[Send a rider to Barrowton] [Send a rider to Westwatch]
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
This was an awesome H&L, and definitely gives more insight to Davios as a person rather than as an enemy to all our favourite First Men … morehouses. I really enjoyed reading this, prominently because his zealous behavior is one of the key parts of his personality which I have shown little of. Excellent starter to hopefully a stream of H&L's!
Ever watched the Histories & Lore videos that are dubbed over from the tv show actors? It basically gives a bit of history on a specific region, or in this case it gives some history on a character and their opinion on something. In this case, it was Davios and his views on the Seven Gods. However, it can be a knight and their views on knighthood, or a queen with her ideals on power. The list goes on, and it's a good way for readers to be more interactive with the story, and it also helps the writer get a better understanding for characters as well
If you're interesting, forge a draft and send it to me via PM
We don't know what can we expect in Barrowton, as Dustin is dead, we can't be sure that the new ruler will help us. As ridiculous it sounds, Night's Watch people will be more reliable.
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
Ever watched the Histories & Lore videos that are dubbed over from the tv show actors? It basically gives a bit of history on a specific… more region, or in this case it gives some history on a character and their opinion on something. In this case, it was Davios and his views on the Seven Gods. However, it can be a knight and their views on knighthood, or a queen with her ideals on power. The list goes on, and it's a good way for readers to be more interactive with the story, and it also helps the writer get a better understanding for characters as well
If you're interesting, forge a draft and send it to me via PM
[Send a rider to Westwatch]
We don't know what can we expect in Barrowton, as Dustin is dead, we can't be sure that the new ruler will help us. As ridiculous it sounds, Night's Watch people will be more reliable.
Hey guys! Just a quick post, nothing of much importance but I gathered I should inform you. I've updated the main discussion post thing for the Invasion (where the characters are shown). Basically, the kingdoms have been updated, showing everything up to date. Also, there are two new images of Westeros (provided to me by @joriandrake ) which help better depict what Westeros would have looked like during the Andal Invasion.
The first image shows the prominent dominions, and you'll notice there are some regions that belong to different kingdoms in more modern ASOIAF. The second image shows the forestry of Westeros, which was much larger than it is in current ASOIAF, and where the Children of the Forest lived (which will be making an entrance into the story very soon).
I've also added another chapter onto the list, so in case you did not know there are 5 chapters planned for the Invasion, and we are currently in Chapter 3 :P That's about it!
Stigz I photoshopped Dolphin Hall for House Lowther, it isn't perfect because obviously the story castle has no windows on the castle walls, but it is pretty close to how I imagine it with bronze dolphins and plated roofs.
For everyone else, I also post the Lowther CoA here.
edit: not sure the maps are useful for the others as they are from different ages, the one with Children do however show circa where they can still be found to live, but the age of heroes political map isn't really up to date atm
Hey guys! Just a quick post, nothing of much importance but I gathered I should inform you. I've updated the main discussion post thing for … morethe Invasion (where the characters are shown). Basically, the kingdoms have been updated, showing everything up to date. Also, there are two new images of Westeros (provided to me by @joriandrake ) which help better depict what Westeros would have looked like during the Andal Invasion.
The first image shows the prominent dominions, and you'll notice there are some regions that belong to different kingdoms in more modern ASOIAF. The second image shows the forestry of Westeros, which was much larger than it is in current ASOIAF, and where the Children of the Forest lived (which will be making an entrance into the story very soon).
I've also added another chapter onto the list, so in case you did not know there are 5 chapters planned for the Invasion, and we are currently in Chapter 3 :P That's about it!
Stigz I photoshopped Dolphin Hall for House Lowther, it isn't perfect because obviously the story castle has no windows on the castle walls,… more but it is pretty close to how I imagine it with bronze dolphins and plated roofs.
For everyone else, I also post the Lowther CoA here.
edit: not sure the maps are useful for the others as they are from different ages, the one with Children do however show circa where they can still be found to live, but the age of heroes political map isn't really up to date atm
[Send a rider to Barrowton] Looks like I'm alone with this, but I think the Dustins would be more eager to help, since obviously the Ironborn will be a problem to them as well.
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
Ultimately, I think Barrowton will be the far better option. The Night's Watch guards the Wall, they do not involve in wars south of it. After all, why should they? They are the shield that guards the realms of men, not the shield that guards the North in case of an attack by the Ironborn (who are included in the realms of men). I'm pretty sure they'd actually go against their oath if they'd meddle in southern wars. Barrowton meanwhile has a shared interest in striking down the Ironborn, so I think they should be more willing to help.
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
[Send a rider to Barrowton] Since I do not believe the Night's Watch would willingly help in a conflict south of the wall regardless of if one of the commanders is family or not. Plus as said already, the Dustins would most likely be more willing to help since the Ironborn will be trouble for them as well.
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
Alright, so we're currently stuck on a tie. This is a choice I don't particularly want to decide, and the submitter of this character (a friend of mine in person) has not read this story for a while and has been inactive for some better part of 6 months. So, I'm hoping that @alikir34 may arrive in time to vote, otherwise I will have to close the vote myself, which I don't particularly want to do. You may also change your votes if you wish.
Edit: I have had a chat with the submitter of Steffon today, and she has chosen to side with Westwatch on this one. So the voting is closed, Steffon will send a rider to Westwatch.
Anyway, I'm beginning to write the next part, which goes to Alara Caron. It should be out sometime tonight, though if not then it may be postponed till as far as the weekend. So, in case you don't recall her last events, here's a recap.
Alara Caron is the daughter of Jaycen Caron, lord of Nightsong. She is currently working as a mercenary, who has pledged her sword to King Theon to repel the Andal's from the North. Currently she rests outside the Dreadfort, along with the rest of the Stark army, waiting to cross the Narrow Sea and head to Andalos. In her last part, she was reunited with one of her old warrior pals from the Valyrian Freehold: Dromon Tarth. When confronted with the decision to allow Dromon to head south, or keep him in the north, you chose to keep him in the north.
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the mornin… moreg snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow ha… [view original content]
Alright, so we're currently stuck on a tie. This is a choice I don't particularly want to decide, and the submitter of this character (a fri… moreend of mine in person) has not read this story for a while and has been inactive for some better part of 6 months. So, I'm hoping that @alikir34 may arrive in time to vote, otherwise I will have to close the vote myself, which I don't particularly want to do. You may also change your votes if you wish.
Edit: I have had a chat with the submitter of Steffon today, and she has chosen to side with Westwatch on this one. So the voting is closed, Steffon will send a rider to Westwatch.
Anyway, I'm beginning to write the next part, which goes to Alara Caron. It should be out sometime tonight, though if not then it may be postponed till as far as the weekend. So, in case you don't recall her last events, here's a recap.
Alara Caron is the daughter of Jaycen Caron, lord of Nightsong. She is currently work… [view original content]
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something weak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, his tone swift and persuasive. Alara looked at him curiously.
“Where?” She asked, and Dromon shrugged. “Along the Weeping Water?” He replied hesitantly, and Alara shrugged. “Alright.” The two smiled at each other pouring more ale into their mugs.
Hours passed, and it was midday before Alara left the tavern. Dromon had claimed he would need to hunt their meal and prep it before dusk came, which gave Alara a good enough excuse to relieve herself of all the ale they had consumed. Refreshed, and slightly happier than her average mood, she found herself standing outside the tavern.
Bolton and Stark soldiers hesitantly worked side by side of each other, packing arms or loading crates into carts. Some sat and relaxed in the seemingly rare sunlight that warmed the cold land. However out of the crowd was a familiar face. The sick grin of Rechar Greenwood and his lackey friends, and in front of them was a steaming Athena being held back by Stark men. They stood in the middle of a pathway, causing quite a commotion.
With haste, Alara made her way to them, joining Athena’s side. Rechar’s boring brown eyes flickered towards Alara, along with his sickly smirk. Athena turned her mismatched eyes to Alara, her cheeks red with a temper. Rechar chuckled.
“Well if it isn’t the Caron bitch.” His mocking eyes turned to Athena. “Can’t fight your own battles, boy?” Alara noticed Athena’s clenched fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Alara turned her gaze to Rechar.
“What’s going on here?” Alara asked, her tone slightly irritable. Just as I thought I was having a good morning. Rechar’s smirk turned to an ugly sneer, directed at Athena.
“This bitch won’t mind her place, she nearly grabbed at my cock, the filthy whore.” Rechar’s words were foul and unmindful. He thrived off Athena’s hatred.
“If I got my hands on your cock, I’d rip it off and choke you with it!” She screamed, trying to lunge herself at him. Rechar laughed, quickly joined by his lackey friends.
“Good thing my cock is going to be nowhere near your hands then.” Rechar jested, his boys still laughing. “He and I have been on a lot of adventures, isn’t that right boys? Fucked that Raven bitch, and your Cale whore.” Athena’s eyes widened, filled with a burning anger.
They may have held her back, but their strength was outmatched by Athena’s sudden fury. She broke free of their grip, lunging herself at Rechar. The two met the ground with a collided force, a shrieking scream and a yelp of terror. Her nails clawed at his eyes, only just making contact with the skin, leaving mere scratches.
The men holding her pulled her off of Rechar before she could do anymore, the lackey boys had their hands on the hilts of their bronze blades. Rechar stood, his gaze menacing yet sickly.
“You’re a wild one.” He admitted, yet his smile was still revolting. “Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.” He decided, grinning. Alara had heard enough, taking a step towards him and spinning him around.
“Do you ever learn to fuck off, Greenwood?” She asked, bitterness in her words. Rechar smirked, his eyes displaying boredom.
“Bitch please, I’m the king of the castle around here. Before long you’ll be kissing my feet and begging me for a child.” His japes did her no harm, and the shock on his face amused her as she grinned directly back at him.
“Will I?” She asked, clenching her dominant fist. Before he could answer, she swung her closed fist directly into his jaw, throwing him back onto the ground.
The lackeys unsheathed their blades, Alara grabbing for her sword. The two Stark soldiers behind Alara separated, one joining Alara’s side while the other held Athena down. Alara stared into the eyes of the lackey boys, who looked at her with sickly eyes.
The crowd around them had gone dead silent. Stark men working alongside Bolton’s had dropped their loads, reaching for their arms. Another move and things would get bloody. A trickle of sweat ran down her brow, her hand stiff around the hilt of her blade. She took a defensive stance. Silence lingered in the air, but the tension was heavy and suffocating.
A voice broke the silence, cutting through the needless tension. All eyes turned, looking to the interrupter, or the savior. A young man stood, surrounded by Bolton kingsguard. His dark brown hair was long and curly, his eyes were like muddy snow.
He wore dark red vest, displaying the Bolton sigil, with a crimson vest beneath it. His maroon cloak fell to his lower thighs. A short bronze sword hung by his leather belt. In his hand he held a leather whip, which he passed to one of his fellow guards.
“Carver, take Rechar and his companions to the dungeons.” He muttered, the young man in the kingsguard outfit took the whip and slowly approached Rechar, who was now on his feet.
Alara felt a smirk begging at her lips, but she kept a straight and stern face, aware of her surroundings. Rechar’s cheeks boiled in anger, as his wrists were tied in binds by one of the kingsguard. One of the lackeys attempted to run, but the quick attention of the one known as Carver brought him down to the ground with the whip.
Meanwhile, the man who gave the order approached Alara, a frown on his face. He stopped only a few feet from her, his hands clasped in front of him. He nodded his head to her in greetings.
“Apologies, mylady. Rechar Greenwood will be taught some discipline, he will learn that this alliance holds the North in peace.” He announced for all to hear. Many had returned back to their work, disappointed or relieved. Athena had been freed from the grip of the Stark soldier, and now stared at the Bolton man with confusion.
“Who are you?” She asked, a touch of concern in her tone. The man raised his eyebrows, nodding with clear embarrassment on his face.
“I am Tobas Bolton, son of King Rogar and…” He hesitated, like he was trying to comprehend the words he was speaking. “Heir to the Dreadfort.” He finally stated, but Alara could spot the grief in his eyes.
Athena grunted, storming off in her own direction. Tobas stared on with a long frown, as if he had somewhat failed to assist her. Alara stepped in, extending her hand towards him.
“I’m Alara Caron, daughter to Jaycen, the lord of Nightsong.” Alara noticed the kingsguard ease up as her hand approached their prince, though Tobas shrugged them off, accepting her greeting.
“A pleasure, mylady. You’re a far way from home?” He said curiously, and Alara nodded in answer. However, before she could reply, one of the kingsguard reached out to Tobas.
“My prince, it would be best to take you back to the Dreadfort. With the death of Prince Edwyn, and assassination of Prince Dormund from the Andal spies, your safety is paramount.” Tobas looked back to the man, doubtful and hesitant. After a short moment, he nodded, a frown re-appearing on his face.
“Another time, Lady Caron.” Tobas mumbled, and Alara nodded out of respect.
“Of course, my Prince.” However, her words were heard by no one, as the prince was quickly escorted by his guard back towards the Dreadfort.
Alara sighed, nursing her fist. Her punch had caught Rechar off guard, though it hadn’t left her unharmed, it was a lousy throw by her part. However, she had heard a crunch in his jaw. Once again she stood alone, with men from House Bolton and Stark passing her like she was a boulder in the middle of a river. She took in a deep breath, exhaling it with a long sigh.
“That was brave.” A young voice surprised her. She spun around, finding a young man stand before her.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise you…” Alara stumbled on her words, the ale had gotten to her head and taken their toll on her senses. She was not alert, which panicked her. The young man smiled, extending his hand.
“I’m Bautistant, and this here is my second-in-command, Bautian. I already know you, however. Alara Caron.” His voice was young, yet deepened to a point of maturity. Alara guessed he was still young, around seventeen. She grasped his hand.
“Should I know you?” She asked, barely thinking of whether the question was offensive. Bautistant smiled, his green eyes looking into hers.
“I suppose not. I own a small sellsword company, and I’m wanting to offer my services to King Theon. I wonder if you could take me to him?” He asked, and Alara took a look at him, then Bautian.
Bautistant was only just taller than Alara, standing probably three inches taller. His hair was wavy and black, and his eyes jade green. He had a scar on his right eyebrow. Bautian seemed younger again, with a crew cut and bright blue eyes. Alara nodded to him.
“Of course, I’m sure he’d be happy to take on more men to his cause.” Alara encouraged, and Bautistant gave her a warm friendly smile. He turned his gaze to Bautian.
“Go back to the men, I’ll return to you with word of our contract. If Theon accepts, that is.” Bautian nodded, turning and walking in his own direction. Bautistant turned to Alara. “Shall we?” Alara nodded, and began walking the route to the King’s pavilion.
They walked in silence for a while, passing the disassembled Stark tents, as well as iron and steel weapons that belonged to the Andal invaders. Alara spotted the disappointment in Bautistant’s eyes, it was clear to her that he was not impressed that he had missed the battle.
“So, how do you know me then?” Alara asked, somewhat curious. Bautistant grinned, lowering his gaze downwards as if he were embarrassed.
“Everyone in the Stormlands has heard of the Nightingale, mylady.” Bautistant stated admirably, and Alara raised an eyebrow.
“You’re from the Stormlands?” She asked, somewhat excited to meet another person from her homeland. The young man nodded, smirking.
“My brother owns a small bit of land down south.” Bautistant admitted, and Alara nodded with a smile.
“So, what’s the catch with your contract? You’re a bunch of young sellswords from the looks of things, searching for some glory I presume?” Bautistant smiled, but shook his head.
“No, though that’s a good guess. We’re here out of exile, and hoping to be rewarded with some land if we prove our worth.” Alara raised an eyebrow to this, somewhat surprised that a man at his age was exiled from his home.
“Exiled? How did that come by?” Alara asked, and Bautistant shrugged off the question.
“Perhaps that’s a topic for another time, looks like we’re here.” Bautistant suggested, and indeed he was correct. The heavily guarded pavilion of King Theon stood taller than any other that remained standing.
They stopped before the entrance of the pavilion, and the guard entered the large tent, only to return a few minutes later. They entered the tent, and found King Theon standing behind a table with a rolled over map. Generals Daniel Glenmore and Corbin Cerwyn stood beside him, eying Bautistant curiously. Alara spoke up.
“Your grace, this young man is the leader of a small sellsword company which wishes to join among the ranks to Andalos.” Alara announced, gaining the attentions of the generals and the King. Theon nodded and smiled to Alara.
“Very well. Stay close, Alara, I’d like to speak with you once I’m done here.” He proclaimed, and Alara nodded gracefully.
She exited the tent alone, the guard glaring at her suspiciously. If Alara were not in such a tipsy state, she might have tried to explain the situation to the guard, however she was in a tipsy state and had absolutely no regards for the guard.
She turned left, strolling down the pathway between cartloads of packed tents, and tents that still stood. Stark men sung and chanted as they worked on their designated jobs, singing of their feats in the recent battle. Others simply drank and remained quiet, which Alara understood well enough.
Alara stopped at a small gathering of men around the fire. Sellswords seemed welcome, according to the tabards and attire of some of the men and women that drank and ate around the fire. Some Stark men also sat around the fire, one she recognised was Lieutenant Simon Holt of the Ranged Formation.
The unknown eyes flickered to her, inspecting her and somewhat curious. Alara eyed them back with confidence. Simon Holt sat with an ale in his hand, his light blue eyes staring from beneath his scruffy black hair. He had a black bear which matched the untidiness of his hair, which was somewhat attracting.
Beside him sat a girl with no shoes, wearing plain hide clothing with two steel daggers sheathed to her belt. She had tanned skin, with short black hair and black eyes. It was clear to Alara that this girl was a foreigner. Beside her was another girl, who wore her white hair in the ‘Sistermen short tails’ style. Her eyes were a light green, and she cleaned a bronze shortsword. The last man had short red hair, and wore bronze armour that looked as if it were forged from fish scales.
“May I take a seat?” Alara asked, and received a short warm nod from Holt.
“Allow me to introduce you to everyone, Alara. This here beside me is Lillith of Lorath, and next to her is Kasia. That over there is Chet Tully.” Holt concluded, and they all gave short brief nods, except for Lillith.
“This is the girl who slayed the Andal?” She asked, and Alara turned her eyes to her, nodding. “A girl is brave, though bravery is not seen through the eyes of the Blind God. Does a girl know of Boash?” Before Alara could answer, despite being thoroughly confused, Kasia stepped into the conversation.
“Easy Lillith, we’re all followers of different religions. You have your Blind God, I follow the Faith of the Seas. Alara no doubt worships the Old gods, is that right?” Kasia’s green eyes met with Alara, to which Alara shrugged in reply.
“If any at all.” Alara revealed, and received a disapproving glare from Lillith. Chet looked up from his longsword, which he had been polishing, and looked at Kasia.
“The Faith of the Seas? I thought only the Manderly’s worshipped that crap.” He claimed, and received a menacing glare from Kasia.
While the argument sparked up, Alara spotted something in the distance, behind some tents. At first she had shrugged it off to be nothing, though after a while she recognised it to be boots, connected to legs… What disturbed her the most was when the body started dragging off, and a red trail was left on the grass where it was originally.
Alara looked around at those she sat with, who argued over religion now. It looked as if the argument was getting out of control, though Alara did not know if she could do much to stop that. If she had seen a body, she knew she had to check it out, though the tension seemed like something she could not simply walk away from.
[Investigate where the body was] [Calm down the argument]
So, did Rechar just admit that he murdered Raven and Nalia? Man, shame Steffon isn't there anymore. At least Tobas Bolton sounds almost decent, if he was genuine with his order to bring Rechar away. On another note, Alara and Dromon, I do kinda ship it
[Calm down the argument]
I genuinely have a very bad feeling about what might happens if she investigates this body. If someone was killed, then he was killed silently and that makes it possible that Alara gets killed with equal ease. I'm not going to risk it. Arguments about religion might not be a pretty topic to speak about, but I really don't want to get her killed.
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something we… moreak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, hi… [view original content]
Rechar did not so much admit to the murder of Raven and Nalia, but taunt Athena with the possibility of it. Prior to Alara arriving on scene, the whole argument began with Rechar boasting to his friends about all the women he's been with, claiming Athena was one of them. Being close-by, hearing this and offended, the argument started off, and Rechar revealed Raven and Nalia into it, which Athena would have likely perceived as lies.
At any rate, I have a whole bunch of characters at the Dreadfort which I rarely show, so bringing back old characters like Tobas and Simon Holt, characters we haven't really seen since Dormund's death, was pretty good.
So, did Rechar just admit that he murdered Raven and Nalia? Man, shame Steffon isn't there anymore. At least Tobas Bolton sounds almost dece… morent, if he was genuine with his order to bring Rechar away. On another note, Alara and Dromon, I do kinda ship it
[Calm down the argument]
I genuinely have a very bad feeling about what might happens if she investigates this body. If someone was killed, then he was killed silently and that makes it possible that Alara gets killed with equal ease. I'm not going to risk it. Arguments about religion might not be a pretty topic to speak about, but I really don't want to get her killed.
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something we… moreak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, hi… [view original content]
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something we… moreak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, hi… [view original content]
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something we… moreak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, hi… [view original content]
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something we… moreak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, hi… [view original content]
Rechar did not so much admit to the murder of Raven and Nalia, but taunt Athena with the possibility of it. Prior to Alara arriving on scene… more, the whole argument began with Rechar boasting to his friends about all the women he's been with, claiming Athena was one of them. Being close-by, hearing this and offended, the argument started off, and Rechar revealed Raven and Nalia into it, which Athena would have likely perceived as lies.
At any rate, I have a whole bunch of characters at the Dreadfort which I rarely show, so bringing back old characters like Tobas and Simon Holt, characters we haven't really seen since Dormund's death, was pretty good.
No, I've just been pretty busy in general over this weekend with work and exercise. Haven't really had time for the story, but I'll get something written during this week I think.
Alright, so I'll close this vote. Alara will attempt to calm down the argument set from the religions of the Old gods, and the very old Faith of the Seas. We'll be seeing a lot more of both the religions in the parts to come, but that's all I'll say about that.
Now, by the inactivity on story lately, that should probably give you a rough idea I've been busy. Don't worry, the story has been on my mind for the duration of it, and I'm already starting new parts. However, I'm just going to be a little slow over the next few weeks, as the work load is starting to pile up and I somehow gotta keep it under control. I'll still remain reasonably active in my own hours to reply to PM's, and try to catch up on the other fan fics I'm so far behind on...
However I think this would be a good time to work on H&L's to keep the story somewhat active while there are medium-sized gaps between each of the parts. I'd really like to encourage this idea, as it has worked so well on @WildlingKing 's Nymeria's War in keeping the readers included and more intrigued with the story. At any rate, if you have an idea for one of your characters, shoot me a PM with a draft (or just an idea) and we can work from there
Once again, I apologise for the delays, I'll try to get on top of my ever flowing schedule as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience.
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something we… moreak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, hi… [view original content]
Alright, so I'll close this vote. Alara will attempt to calm down the argument set from the religions of the Old gods, and the very old Fait… moreh of the Seas. We'll be seeing a lot more of both the religions in the parts to come, but that's all I'll say about that.
Now, by the inactivity on story lately, that should probably give you a rough idea I've been busy. Don't worry, the story has been on my mind for the duration of it, and I'm already starting new parts. However, I'm just going to be a little slow over the next few weeks, as the work load is starting to pile up and I somehow gotta keep it under control. I'll still remain reasonably active in my own hours to reply to PM's, and try to catch up on the other fan fics I'm so far behind on...
However I think this would be a good time to work on H&L's to keep the story somewhat active while there are medium-sized gaps between each of the parts. I'd really like to encourage this idea, … [view original content]
Hey guys, so I found some time to do a little bit of writing. Mind you, I should have been doing other things, like determining the complexity of terrorism in a book which is completely unrelated to terrorism... Though anyway. I've written up a short part, going to a new character which I made myself. I won't say anymore about him, as you'll get to read that for yourselves, but I will mention that the next part after this will be a Jaycen Caron part, which I will get to writing this weekend Without any further ado, allow me to introduce York =D
Soft flakes of the early morning snow fell from the red sky, landing on his cloak as he trudged through the thick melting snow. The morning was cool, and as unforgiving as every other, though York persisted in his travels. Given any other day, and York would have settled out and made a fire, yet not today.
Persistence drove him forward, and his destination had appeared in the horizon. Descending down the frozen rocks capped in snow, that built up to be some of the tallest mountains in Westeros, York saw the seemingly small castle in the distance.
The red castle stood in a field of green with occasional snow patches, like a keep drenched in blood. The red banners flapped and billowed in the winds that coursed through the vale, and the tents of an army camped outside shuddered in the cool winds.
York chattered his teeth, rubbing his hands against his body in an attempt to warm himself. It had been many years since he had made such a long journey, and admittedly he was not as prepared and able as he was in his prime years.
His trembling hands reached for the shortsword he carried on his back. Unsheathing the blade from such an awkward position felt unnatural to him, though he carried it this way for transportational reasons. He entrenched the bronze blade into the snow, kneeling down in the cool wet crystals.
The rune pommel spoke its own tongue, one which York would likely never understand, though he did not need to. His mission was clear, it had been from the very start, before his exile. I will finish what I started. He promised, before arising and sheathing the blade back into the fur scabbard.
Without any warning, the black bird landed on his coated shoulder, pecking at the black shadowcat fur. York sighed, turning his gaze to the pest of a companion. The raven silently nibbled at his shoulder, showing a clear hunger for flesh.
“Ready?” York muttered, turning his light grey eyes back to the red castle. A confident squawk was the only reply he received, and was the only reply we needed. There’s no going back now, my time has come.
-
His legs powered on once he entered the camp, yet his exhausted body was ready to fall in the next bed he found. He did his best to ignore the feeling, rubbing and blowing in his hands for warmth as he trudged through the mud without a word.
The once small red castle in the distance had now grown into the everknown Redfort, which loomed over him with a bloody shadow. Yet the formidable castle did not fear him, nor did the inspicuous eyes that weighed him as he passed by. Sooner or later a soldier would halt him, or try to, it was their mission. Though York’s mission was bigger than any mere soldier in a mere army, and he would not be halted.
He lifted his trembling hands to his cold face, rubbing his rough fingers over the scars that ran down the left of his face. A shadowcat had clawed him during his time in the mountains, taking his ear and courage to leave the hut. York had skinned the beast, making a cloak out of it’s fur, though the beast had taken York’s hearing. A constant whistling rang where his ear used to be, like a boiling kettle that never ceased.
York smacked the side of his head, yet with no avail. He groaned, tired and irritable. He yearned for a fire, for warmth and something to eat. Another day in the wilderness and he would have eaten the damned raven, if the intelligent creature had shown itself.
As expected, two courageous guards rose from their campfire, the banners next to their tents displayed the sigil of House Moore. It had been many years since York had seen the three bronze spearheads, yet the sigil was still a warm welcome to his sight.
“Who goes there?” One of the men muttered, placing his gloved hand on the pommel of his sword. The other guard had grabbed for his spear, though from the looks he was only a novice. York nodded.
“Hello friends, good morning for it.” York said with a pitiful gaze, though his smile was genuine, even if it were weak. The guard with the spear raised an eyebrow, pointing the bladed end towards York.
“Good for what?” He muttered curiously, resulting in York giving a boring shrug.
“I find it hard to talk when blades are pointed in my direction. Is this how Lord Marric trains his men now?” York saw the confusion in the men’s eyes, which somewhat worried him. The guard with the sword stared at York intently.
“Lord Marric is dead… Beheaded for treason.” York felt his heart sink slightly, though he stood strong and confident. “Now, this is your last chance. Who are you?” The man said, unsheathing his sword. York sighed gently, rubbing his hands together.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, if what you say of Lord Marric is true.” York said quietly, now clenching his hands into fists. The guards scowled at him.
“So be it.” The man with the sword grunted, taking a step forward, his companion following close behind him. York groaned. Here we go.
The bronze blade soared through the thin air, aiming for his chest. York backed away with a sudden sidestep, dodging the attack only merely. The second strike came from the spearman, a lazy thrust that would have barely nicked the studded leather York wore.
Regardless, York caught the spear between his shoulder and body, attempting to disarm the young man. Before he could throw his closed fist, the swordsman returned with an angry blow. The sudden strike caught York on his deafening side, and the blade bashed against his shoulder. Were it not for the single pauldron he wore, the attack might have left him seriously wounded, however a simply dint in the bronze forging was the worst he would suffer.
A tight grip around the shaft of the spear, York used the power in his arms to thrust the spear back towards the wielder. The man fell into the mud, the spear accompanying him. He was just in time to catch the swordsman’s third attack, a heavy double handed strike. York caught the man by the forearms before he could send the attack.
The two held in a lock for a moment, though York could now feel the effects of the attack on his shoulder. His already trembling arms were starting to give way, and soon that blade would be lodged into his head. The two men groaned, fighting with all their strength to break one another’s guard.
York put his head to better use, bashing his forehead against the swordsman’s face. Shortly after he felt the weapon release from the man’s hands, falling into the mud beneath them. York pushed him back, though only enough to make him stumble. York was prepared to deflect the first attack, a leathered fist aimed directly for York’s skull.
He blocked the throw, sending a counter which caught the man in the gut. With his defense broken, York seized the opportunity, slamming his free fist into the back of the man’s skull. The unconscious body fell into the mud before him, spraying York’s shins in brown.
York could only just hear the unsheathing of more metal over the hissing in his left ear, he turned to find more than a dozen soldiers armed in bronze. All slowly advancing on him, cautious and observant. York sighed and grabbed for his sword, unsheathing the blade. I will not be stopped.
The familiar squawks of his companion reached his one good ear, as the raven flew overhead towards to Redfort. For the shortest moment it felt as if everything stopped, all motion ceased to exist. Only that of the dark bird that flew above remained in motion. Yet in a sudden click of reality, the men were already upon him.
York parried the first attack, thrusting his unarmed fist into the jaw of the first man. The man stumbled back, his defense broken, but York’s attention was now preoccupied with the next attack. A shielded man carefully advanced on York, thrusting his blade towards York’s chest. York dodged the attack, though when returning a counter he only found the wooden shield.
Lodged into the wood, nearly splitting the shield in half, York was left disarmed and having to fend the next attack off with his bare hands. He caught the cold bronze blade in his hands, gripping tightly onto the blade. Before he could lay an offensive, he felt a force hit him from behind, knocking him down on his knees.
The sudden movement was enough for York to free himself a new weapon from his opponent, who fell with the sudden surge back. York swung the blade wide, attempting to back his opponents away. He would not fall. He turned just in time to meet the pommel of a bronze longsword, which smashed him in the cheek.
The wet mud embraced him in welcome as he fell from the sudden attack. The whistling in his ear rampant, and all other sounds were seemingly insignificant in comparison. Yet one stood out like no other, something quit in the screeching of his ears, yet strong and conquering. The sound of a young man’s voice.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice yelled from the shadows, saving him from death as many other contributors had.
York pulled himself from the mud, looking to find the voice that had postponed his death. He saw his opponents kneeling in the mud beside him, their weapons at their feet. York stood himself up, looming over the men around him.
Before him stood a man he had never seen before, but a face he knew so well. The young grey eyes of Robar Royce stared into York’s, with almost some sort of astonishment. Beside him stood two others, one being Lord Barrock Redfort, and another being a girl that York had never seen before. York saw the disgust in Barrock’s eyes, the gritting of his teeth.
“Bloody hell.” He muttered, crossing his arms. The woman beside him stood with her hands on her hips, staring at York intently. Robar took a step forward, his face riddled with confusion.
York
Soft flakes of the early morning snow fell from the red sky, landing on his cloak as he trudged through the thick melting snow. The … moremorning was cool, and as unforgiving as every other, though York persisted in his travels. Given any other day, and York would have settled out and made a fire, yet not today.
Persistence drove him forward, and his destination had appeared in the horizon. Descending down the frozen rocks capped in snow, that built up to be some of the tallest mountains in Westeros, York saw the seemingly small castle in the distance.
The red castle stood in a field of green with occasional snow patches, like a keep drenched in blood. The red banners flapped and billowed in the winds that coursed through the vale, and the tents of an army camped outside shuddered in the cool winds.
York chattered his teeth, rubbing his hands against his body in an attempt to warm himself. It had been many years since he had made s… [view original content]
That was a great part from a very interesting new PoV. I'm kinda liking that entrance he made, even if I'm not entirely sure what his goal is. I mean, he was not exactly very subtle or trying to avoid a conflict, so there must be something behind it. And have I understood that correctly that he is the uncle of Robar Royce? Very intriguing for sure.
York
Soft flakes of the early morning snow fell from the red sky, landing on his cloak as he trudged through the thick melting snow. The … moremorning was cool, and as unforgiving as every other, though York persisted in his travels. Given any other day, and York would have settled out and made a fire, yet not today.
Persistence drove him forward, and his destination had appeared in the horizon. Descending down the frozen rocks capped in snow, that built up to be some of the tallest mountains in Westeros, York saw the seemingly small castle in the distance.
The red castle stood in a field of green with occasional snow patches, like a keep drenched in blood. The red banners flapped and billowed in the winds that coursed through the vale, and the tents of an army camped outside shuddered in the cool winds.
York chattered his teeth, rubbing his hands against his body in an attempt to warm himself. It had been many years since he had made s… [view original content]
Hey! Glad you liked him York is going to play an interesting role in the story to come, and I kind of needed a character to show the events of Robar and his army, since both Wyllam and Jarden had been giving Robar no screentime as of late Yes, you have understood correctly York is the uncle of Robar Royce, brother to the short reigning Edd Royce, and son of Yorwyck VI Royce
That was a great part from a very interesting new PoV. I'm kinda liking that entrance he made, even if I'm not entirely sure what his goal i… mores. I mean, he was not exactly very subtle or trying to avoid a conflict, so there must be something behind it. And have I understood that correctly that he is the uncle of Robar Royce? Very intriguing for sure.
I admit you kinda freaked me out, as you know I was very careful with how to set up my forces and in what armor, I didn't even set up any troops using iron yet.
Comments
[Camp for the night]
Both options sound slightly dangerous, but this one at least sounds a bit better than the other. While Jesse has a point, I see it as far too dangerous to travel in the dark, especially considering that their surroundings are dangerous and filled with potentially hostile people. If they get lost there, they are likely to die. The positive thing is that whomever is out there will have it harder to spot them in the dark as well, at least as long as they remain silent.
[Camp for the night]
Take note GMs, you shouldn't offer options like [risk trying to] or [attempt to] or [try to] when an other option is less vague. Barely anyone will pick it because it obviously seems unlikely to succeed. This is especially true for options like "Try to kill xyz" in my opinion.
[Camp for the night]
Looks like the H&L parts have crossed over into another story which is really awesome! I will no doubt be contributing an H&L part for the Invasion as well. Great job Wildling!
Alright, well I'll close this vote. Torv will choose to make camp for the night, which will certainly make for an interesting next part
Anyway, I've finished writing the next part, which goes to Steffon Cale. It's been a while since we saw him, he was actually the first part I started off with when returning to the Invasion if I remember correctly, so I figure that's long enough to need a recap. Especially if you're a newcomer
Steffon is the father of the previous Cale PoV: Nalia, and brother to the legendary blacksmith: Brodin. Lately, Steffon was confronted by King Theon after the loss of his daughter and brother, and offered a position of leading the Third Infantry Battalion against the Ironborn in the west. Steffon accepted the honour, and before leaving with the sellsword Gareth and brutish warrior Edmund, he met with Theon once again. Theon gave Steffon his family's legacy sword: Ice, so that he would not risk losing it in Andalos. He also made a request to have Steffon take his son - Harmund, a boy of fourteen - to war with him. You chose to deny Theon's request, and to have his bastard brother: Wulfgar, by Steffon's side instead.
Without further ado, here is the next part
Steffon
Mud splashed beneath the hooves of their destriers as they galloped across the barren green lands, lightly capped with the morning snow. Steffon led the formation, riding his brown destrier with black splodges. The mane blacker than the night’s sky.
Closely behind him were Gareth and Edmund the Beast. Gareth was a tall man, especially on horseback, with a slim muscular build. He wore a leather vest over his light velvet shirt beneath it. He wore a beige cotton cloak, with fox fur linings.
Edmund, however, seemed to double Gareth. Standing taller than the average man, with muscles as thick as a man’s head, his plated bronze armour made him an intimidating sight. Though what bothered Steffon was the man himself. He never removed his armour, and had never shown his face. The only thing he had ever mentioned of himself was his name: Edmund.
Steffon focused his attention on the flat hills ahead of them, white patches of snow had mixed with the mud, yet the glare from the crystals was still irritable despite being minimal. Steffon groaned, his thighs sore from riding for so long. Winterfell was nearing.
He thought of his last time at Winterfell, before defending the eastern coast from the Andal invaders. It had been a long time since he had needed to pick up a sword since then, and whenever he had it had never done him any good. The last war he fought in took his honor, and now this one had taken his family.
Steffon barely noticed Gareth riding by his side, leaving the armoured brute to slowly canter across the flatlands. They slowed down to a canter, but Steffon gave the sellsword little attention, keeping his gaze lowered and ahead of him. Despite his efforts, it did not succeed in disinteresting the man.
“General.” He said, a touch of mockery in his tone. Steffon shot a glare towards the man, who clearly looked taken aback.
“What do you want, mercenary?” Steffon asked with a grudge, his words sharp and short. Gareth lifted his opened hands in gesture of surrender, his expression oddly fearful.
“I meant no harm, General. Please, don’t hurt me.” His final words had a slight twist to them, distasteful and mocking. Steffon held his bitterness.
“Why don’t you go back and accompany the Beast, or ride ahead and be shot down by the guards before I arrive.” Steffon suggested, his voice monotone. Gareth chuckled and shook his head.
“Well, I’m afraid that formidable giant isn’t a man with much to say, and I have no plans of dying today. No, I want assurance that I am going to be paid, and I want more than the previous deal.” Steffon raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze to Gareth.
“More?” Steffon asked, and receiving a nod from Gareth.
“Aye, my contract had me fight for Theon against the Andal’s. We won the battle, and his further quarrels are none of my concern, though he wants me to fight another of his wars? I’ll take the praise for free, but my sword has a price.” Gareth stated confidently, smirking. Steffon looked down at his blade.
“I can see that. What is it? Iron?” Steffon asked, though he did not truly care for the answer. Gareth grinned, shaking his head and unsheathing the blade.
“Steel.” He announced, showing the delicacy of the blade. “I claimed it from one of the Andal’s, I doubt he had much use for it anymore.” He said, winking his eye. Steffon rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
“Looted it, more like.” Steffon spotted a frown on Gareth’s face, and a small shrug.
“Loot, claim. Call it what you like, General. It’s one less steel blade in the hands of the Bolton’s, and I’ve seen these cut straight through bronze swords.” Gareth said, almost with astonishment. Steffon gave a fake smile.
“Then perhaps you ought to buy a weapon forged by a real blacksmith.” Steffon suggested, a light chuckle following. Gareth smirked, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge Steffon.
“Now, where could I find a smith that could forge me a bronze weapon stronger than steel?” He asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. Steffon knew the answer to his question, but grief withheld him from answering. He hesitated, which was enough for Gareth to shake his head with a victorious smile.
“Nightsong.” Steffon finally answered, confidence in his tone. “That man has forged some of the finest bronze blades I’ve ever seen, and his works had cut through steel. Alara Caron made example of that when she struck down Argos Sevenstar.” Steffon stated, a smirk now appearing on his face. Gareth nodded, now grinning.
“Suppose you’re right there, but that Caron bitch is truly something. Maybe once this is all over, I’ll pay her a visit, show her my charms.” Gareth reached down groped his manhood, giving a sick wink to Steffon, who in reply simply rolled his eyes.
“That’s if you survive.” Steffon stated coldly, turning his eyes forward. The stone walls of Winterfell could be seen over the hills ahead. “The Ironborn aren’t as forgiving and honorable as the Andal warriors.” Gareth hawked and spat beside him.
“As I said, I don’t plan to die anytime soon, old man.” He snorted, running his hands through his slicked back brown hair. “Now, will you agree to work with my prices, or should I go find a better offer?” His words were cocky, like he was trying to state his importance. Steffon smirked, adjusting his hands on the reins.
“If you wanted a better offer, you should have spoken with King Theon before we departed. Abandon your contract and pledge your services elsewhere, it matters little to me. Though if you do decide to stay, you’ll follow my orders, or I’ll cut your precious manhood from you and send it back to your mother in a box.” Steffon did not wait for a reply, digging his heels into the ribs of his destrier he galloped for the Eastern Gate of Winterfell.
-
The Great Hall was dimly lit, yet comforting and warm. The hot springs beneath Winterfell had dealt to that, keeping even the stone walls insulated. Steffon sat at the end of the long table, a wooden platter with glazed pork and beans. The potatoes were smouldered, black and crisp, with the inside being stuffed with butter and melted cheese.
The platter stared up at Steffon with pleading notions, causing his belly to rumble. However, his self-control prevailed, as he sat patiently and respectfully with the rest of the Stark family.
The head of the table was empty, and it was clear that was where Theon had usually sat, the seat to his left was also vacant. Opposite that sat Queen Helia, and beside her was the young Prince Harmond. Opposite Helia was Wulfgar Snow, the bastard brother of Theon.
In the centre of the table sat Teran Woodmill. Opposite of him was Haymitch Woodfoot, the son of Lord Ursus Woodfoot, who was held captive on Bear Island by the Ironborn. The remaining of the table was vacant, except for Steffon who sat at the far end.
A short moment came before Queen Helia started her meal, and the rest of those at the table were permitted to begin. Steffon grabbed at the meat first, tearing the flesh from the bone and forcing the meat down his throat. He had a hunger, and a thirst. He grabbed for his horn, which was topped with ale, and downed it in one gulp before returning to the rest of his meal. The servants topped his horn again.
As he ate, a general discussion arose from the occupants of the table, discussing small matters until talk of the Ironborn arose. Steffon felt the heavy weight of stares on him, he raised his eyes to find the table looking at him.
“Pardon?” He asked, sucking his fingers of the oils. Queen Helia did not flinch, and instead repeated her question.
“When will Theon return with our army?” She asked, a touch of impatience in her voice. Steffon raised an eyebrow, staring at her.
“I was informed that an army was being formed here.” Helia laughed and rolled her eyes, returning to her meal.
“Petty lords with little men to offer, mere peasants and farmers that our soldiers could rally. This is not an army, but a mob waiting to be slaughtered.” She stated, frustration in her voice. “So I ask again, when will our army return?” Steffon sighed, taking a moment to answer.
“His grace has decided to take his forces across the Narrow Sea, to Andalos. He wishes to destroy the Andal threat once and for all.” Steffon observed how each member of the table took the news. Helia showed signs of disbelief, Teran Woodmill’s jaw gaped open, Haymitch’s eyes were widened. The silence did not linger for long.
“So he should.” Wulfgar piped in, slamming his fist on the table. “The damned Andal’s need to know who they’re messing with.” He received a dismissive glare from Queen Helia, who clearly showed bitterness towards him.
“Save me your outrage, Wulfgar. Were it not for my husband’s request to keep you here and run Winterfell, I’d be praying to all the gods that your drinking would finally kill you off.” Steffon raised his eyes in semi-shock, yet Wulfar seemed unbothered by it.
“My Queen, there are young ears at the table.” Teran quietly informed her, and the glare he received cut thicker than any blade. Yet it was not her voice that spoke, but Harmund’s.
“I’m no boy.” He stated with arrogance, standing from his chair. “I’m the Prince of Winterfell, heir to the Winter Throne. You will treat me with respect!” His voice squeaked with his final scream, before his mother placed a hand on his forearm. Teran Woodmill looked genuinely baffled and afraid.
“Come down, my sweet wolf. I think it’s time for bed.” His furious glare turned to Helia, who seemed to handle it well.
“You will not order me around, woman!” He yelled, before storming away from the table. Helia turned and looked at the men at the table, embarrassment on her cheeks. She stood and followed after her son with haste, leaving the hall quiet and somewhat empty.
Steffon looked to the other men on the table. Teran stared at his meal, his eyes widened and he seemed genuinely fearful, like he had ruined something. Haymitch had buried his head in his hands, clearly frustrated, and Wulfgar was downing his third ale.
“Girl.” Wulfgar sounded, gaining the attention of the cupbearer. “Leave us the casket and excuse yourself. We grown men have some words to say that you need not concern yourself with.” The young girl, who looked around thirteen, nodded and exited the Great Hall.
“Bloody hell.” Haymitch muttered, his voice muffled in his cupped hands. Wulfgar nodded, a frown on his face as he poured himself another ale.
“Aye, I sure miss Prince Bael, he was the heir that Winterfell truly needed. Not some wide eyed mummy’s boy whose balls are stuck in his throat.” Wulfgar took another drink from his horn, while Teran looked at him with shock.
“That is the King’s son you speak of, my lord.” Teran’s voice was shaky, but slowly growing more stable. Wulfgar shrugged, placing down his horn.
“Bugger the little brat, and fuck my brother for wasting his hunger on some unarmed Andal’s. Sure, it’s needed, but there are more pressing matters.” Steffon watched Haymitch raise his head, nodding in agreeance. Wulfgar turned his eyes to Steffon. “So, you’ll lead this ‘army’ to the western coast, hm?” He asked, his voice croaky. Steffon nodded, picking up his pork bone.
“Aye, that is what King Theon wanted of me.” Steffon said before eating the oily flesh directly off the bone. Wulfgar nodded, grabbing his horn of ale.
“The Ironborn are relentless, and confident. They know Theon marches east, and they’re taking advantage of that. We need to show them that this is the North, but we can’t do that with the army we have.” Wulfgar concluded, somewhat remorsefully. Haymitch now cut in, his tone somewhat sullen.
“We’ve gathered the houses of the Wolfswood, as well as conscripting peasants and farmers to fight in the Third Infantry Battalion. Though there is without a doubt we need more men.” He held his tongue for a moment, before continuing. “My uncle serves as Commander of Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. He has over a thousand men under his command, more than enough to help us take Bear Island back.” Haymitch said this with a touch of hope in his words, but a mocking laugh from Wulfgar was all that answered him.
“They’re men of the Night’s Watch, they won’t help us.” Wulfgar stated without a second thought. Haymitch shook his head.
“My uncle would, I know it. Family meant the world to him, if we could just get word to him then I have no doubts he would help. The Night’s Watch are the shields that guard the realms of men, after all.” Haymitch reminded Wulfgar, who simply rolled his eyes.
“Aye, shields that guard the realms of men, by sitting on their asses. I say we send a rider to Barrowton, and request help from King Dustin. It’s patchy, aye, but we’d have all the men we’d need to defend the west coast. No doubt the Ironborn will start raiding them after they’re done with us.” Haymitch shook his head.
“Calling on the neighbouring kingdom would be a sign of weakness. If they know Theon is truly out of the North, they may take it as a sign to invade us. We should avoid the assistance of other kings, for the safety of our own realm.” Haymitch said, almost pleading. Wulfgar looked to Steffon.
“Well, it’s your army, Steffon. You know we don’t have the men, what should we do?” Wulfgar placed down his ale, while Teran and Haymitch turned their eyes to Steffon.
Haymitch’s eyes almost pleaded for Steffon to make the right decision, and Teran’s showed genuine fear. This was likely the first war he was going to see. Wulfgar stared elsewhere, alone with himself and his ale. Steffon sighed, taking a drink from his own ale to wash down the pork.
[Send a rider to Barrowton] [Send a rider to Westwatch]
[Send a rider to Westwatch]
[Send a rider to Westwatch] Because King Dustin is dead
I would like to have a reply in detail on what exactly a h&l is
Ever watched the Histories & Lore videos that are dubbed over from the tv show actors? It basically gives a bit of history on a specific region, or in this case it gives some history on a character and their opinion on something. In this case, it was Davios and his views on the Seven Gods. However, it can be a knight and their views on knighthood, or a queen with her ideals on power. The list goes on, and it's a good way for readers to be more interactive with the story, and it also helps the writer get a better understanding for characters as well
If you're interesting, forge a draft and send it to me via PM
[Send a rider to Westwatch]
We don't know what can we expect in Barrowton, as Dustin is dead, we can't be sure that the new ruler will help us. As ridiculous it sounds, Night's Watch people will be more reliable.
It would work for an introduction of the Manderly Kingdom, but atm I can't do it, as yo u know i'm busy with finishing the actual family
to be fair, one can't know if the Watch is willing to get involved in anything south of the Wall
Hey guys! Just a quick post, nothing of much importance but I gathered I should inform you. I've updated the main discussion post thing for the Invasion (where the characters are shown). Basically, the kingdoms have been updated, showing everything up to date. Also, there are two new images of Westeros (provided to me by @joriandrake ) which help better depict what Westeros would have looked like during the Andal Invasion.
The first image shows the prominent dominions, and you'll notice there are some regions that belong to different kingdoms in more modern ASOIAF. The second image shows the forestry of Westeros, which was much larger than it is in current ASOIAF, and where the Children of the Forest lived (which will be making an entrance into the story very soon).
I've also added another chapter onto the list, so in case you did not know there are 5 chapters planned for the Invasion, and we are currently in Chapter 3 :P That's about it!
Stigz I photoshopped Dolphin Hall for House Lowther, it isn't perfect because obviously the story castle has no windows on the castle walls, but it is pretty close to how I imagine it with bronze dolphins and plated roofs.
For everyone else, I also post the Lowther CoA here.
edit: not sure the maps are useful for the others as they are from different ages, the one with Children do however show circa where they can still be found to live, but the age of heroes political map isn't really up to date atm
Looks awesome man, great work!
[Send a rider to Barrowton] Looks like I'm alone with this, but I think the Dustins would be more eager to help, since obviously the Ironborn will be a problem to them as well.
[Send a rider to Barrowton]
Ultimately, I think Barrowton will be the far better option. The Night's Watch guards the Wall, they do not involve in wars south of it. After all, why should they? They are the shield that guards the realms of men, not the shield that guards the North in case of an attack by the Ironborn (who are included in the realms of men). I'm pretty sure they'd actually go against their oath if they'd meddle in southern wars. Barrowton meanwhile has a shared interest in striking down the Ironborn, so I think they should be more willing to help.
[Send a rider to Barrowton] Since I do not believe the Night's Watch would willingly help in a conflict south of the wall regardless of if one of the commanders is family or not. Plus as said already, the Dustins would most likely be more willing to help since the Ironborn will be trouble for them as well.
Alright, so we're currently stuck on a tie. This is a choice I don't particularly want to decide, and the submitter of this character (a friend of mine in person) has not read this story for a while and has been inactive for some better part of 6 months. So, I'm hoping that @alikir34 may arrive in time to vote, otherwise I will have to close the vote myself, which I don't particularly want to do. You may also change your votes if you wish.
Edit: I have had a chat with the submitter of Steffon today, and she has chosen to side with Westwatch on this one. So the voting is closed, Steffon will send a rider to Westwatch.
Anyway, I'm beginning to write the next part, which goes to Alara Caron. It should be out sometime tonight, though if not then it may be postponed till as far as the weekend. So, in case you don't recall her last events, here's a recap.
Alara Caron is the daughter of Jaycen Caron, lord of Nightsong. She is currently working as a mercenary, who has pledged her sword to King Theon to repel the Andal's from the North. Currently she rests outside the Dreadfort, along with the rest of the Stark army, waiting to cross the Narrow Sea and head to Andalos. In her last part, she was reunited with one of her old warrior pals from the Valyrian Freehold: Dromon Tarth. When confronted with the decision to allow Dromon to head south, or keep him in the north, you chose to keep him in the north.
wait a day, contact people who read the story earlier and commented here
Alara
Dromon stared at her with an inquisitive gaze, candlelight dancing in his sapphire eyes. His smile had settled down to something weak, almost shy. His bronze chainmail clinked against each other as he inhaled a deep breath.
Alara grabbed her mug, topped with ale and stared him in his gentle blue eyes. She saw strength and courage, yet anxiety and reluctance. She finally nodded at him, smirking.
“Yes, you have a reason to stay.” She said confidently, raising her mug. “Dromon of Tarth.” She said, almost mockingly, yet as a warm gesture.
His lips formed into a wide grin, grabbing for his mug to which they clinked against each other before downing them. They slammed the mugs on the table, smirking at each other. He leant forward, over the table and leaning close to her. Was it time already? Alara stared at him, somewhat baffled, yet his smile did not waver.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner this evening?” He asked, his tone swift and persuasive. Alara looked at him curiously.
“Where?” She asked, and Dromon shrugged. “Along the Weeping Water?” He replied hesitantly, and Alara shrugged. “Alright.” The two smiled at each other pouring more ale into their mugs.
Hours passed, and it was midday before Alara left the tavern. Dromon had claimed he would need to hunt their meal and prep it before dusk came, which gave Alara a good enough excuse to relieve herself of all the ale they had consumed. Refreshed, and slightly happier than her average mood, she found herself standing outside the tavern.
Bolton and Stark soldiers hesitantly worked side by side of each other, packing arms or loading crates into carts. Some sat and relaxed in the seemingly rare sunlight that warmed the cold land. However out of the crowd was a familiar face. The sick grin of Rechar Greenwood and his lackey friends, and in front of them was a steaming Athena being held back by Stark men. They stood in the middle of a pathway, causing quite a commotion.
With haste, Alara made her way to them, joining Athena’s side. Rechar’s boring brown eyes flickered towards Alara, along with his sickly smirk. Athena turned her mismatched eyes to Alara, her cheeks red with a temper. Rechar chuckled.
“Well if it isn’t the Caron bitch.” His mocking eyes turned to Athena. “Can’t fight your own battles, boy?” Alara noticed Athena’s clenched fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Alara turned her gaze to Rechar.
“What’s going on here?” Alara asked, her tone slightly irritable. Just as I thought I was having a good morning. Rechar’s smirk turned to an ugly sneer, directed at Athena.
“This bitch won’t mind her place, she nearly grabbed at my cock, the filthy whore.” Rechar’s words were foul and unmindful. He thrived off Athena’s hatred.
“If I got my hands on your cock, I’d rip it off and choke you with it!” She screamed, trying to lunge herself at him. Rechar laughed, quickly joined by his lackey friends.
“Good thing my cock is going to be nowhere near your hands then.” Rechar jested, his boys still laughing. “He and I have been on a lot of adventures, isn’t that right boys? Fucked that Raven bitch, and your Cale whore.” Athena’s eyes widened, filled with a burning anger.
They may have held her back, but their strength was outmatched by Athena’s sudden fury. She broke free of their grip, lunging herself at Rechar. The two met the ground with a collided force, a shrieking scream and a yelp of terror. Her nails clawed at his eyes, only just making contact with the skin, leaving mere scratches.
The men holding her pulled her off of Rechar before she could do anymore, the lackey boys had their hands on the hilts of their bronze blades. Rechar stood, his gaze menacing yet sickly.
“You’re a wild one.” He admitted, yet his smile was still revolting. “Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.” He decided, grinning. Alara had heard enough, taking a step towards him and spinning him around.
“Do you ever learn to fuck off, Greenwood?” She asked, bitterness in her words. Rechar smirked, his eyes displaying boredom.
“Bitch please, I’m the king of the castle around here. Before long you’ll be kissing my feet and begging me for a child.” His japes did her no harm, and the shock on his face amused her as she grinned directly back at him.
“Will I?” She asked, clenching her dominant fist. Before he could answer, she swung her closed fist directly into his jaw, throwing him back onto the ground.
The lackeys unsheathed their blades, Alara grabbing for her sword. The two Stark soldiers behind Alara separated, one joining Alara’s side while the other held Athena down. Alara stared into the eyes of the lackey boys, who looked at her with sickly eyes.
The crowd around them had gone dead silent. Stark men working alongside Bolton’s had dropped their loads, reaching for their arms. Another move and things would get bloody. A trickle of sweat ran down her brow, her hand stiff around the hilt of her blade. She took a defensive stance. Silence lingered in the air, but the tension was heavy and suffocating.
A voice broke the silence, cutting through the needless tension. All eyes turned, looking to the interrupter, or the savior. A young man stood, surrounded by Bolton kingsguard. His dark brown hair was long and curly, his eyes were like muddy snow.
He wore dark red vest, displaying the Bolton sigil, with a crimson vest beneath it. His maroon cloak fell to his lower thighs. A short bronze sword hung by his leather belt. In his hand he held a leather whip, which he passed to one of his fellow guards.
“Carver, take Rechar and his companions to the dungeons.” He muttered, the young man in the kingsguard outfit took the whip and slowly approached Rechar, who was now on his feet.
Alara felt a smirk begging at her lips, but she kept a straight and stern face, aware of her surroundings. Rechar’s cheeks boiled in anger, as his wrists were tied in binds by one of the kingsguard. One of the lackeys attempted to run, but the quick attention of the one known as Carver brought him down to the ground with the whip.
Meanwhile, the man who gave the order approached Alara, a frown on his face. He stopped only a few feet from her, his hands clasped in front of him. He nodded his head to her in greetings.
“Apologies, mylady. Rechar Greenwood will be taught some discipline, he will learn that this alliance holds the North in peace.” He announced for all to hear. Many had returned back to their work, disappointed or relieved. Athena had been freed from the grip of the Stark soldier, and now stared at the Bolton man with confusion.
“Who are you?” She asked, a touch of concern in her tone. The man raised his eyebrows, nodding with clear embarrassment on his face.
“I am Tobas Bolton, son of King Rogar and…” He hesitated, like he was trying to comprehend the words he was speaking. “Heir to the Dreadfort.” He finally stated, but Alara could spot the grief in his eyes.
Athena grunted, storming off in her own direction. Tobas stared on with a long frown, as if he had somewhat failed to assist her. Alara stepped in, extending her hand towards him.
“I’m Alara Caron, daughter to Jaycen, the lord of Nightsong.” Alara noticed the kingsguard ease up as her hand approached their prince, though Tobas shrugged them off, accepting her greeting.
“A pleasure, mylady. You’re a far way from home?” He said curiously, and Alara nodded in answer. However, before she could reply, one of the kingsguard reached out to Tobas.
“My prince, it would be best to take you back to the Dreadfort. With the death of Prince Edwyn, and assassination of Prince Dormund from the Andal spies, your safety is paramount.” Tobas looked back to the man, doubtful and hesitant. After a short moment, he nodded, a frown re-appearing on his face.
“Another time, Lady Caron.” Tobas mumbled, and Alara nodded out of respect.
“Of course, my Prince.” However, her words were heard by no one, as the prince was quickly escorted by his guard back towards the Dreadfort.
Alara sighed, nursing her fist. Her punch had caught Rechar off guard, though it hadn’t left her unharmed, it was a lousy throw by her part. However, she had heard a crunch in his jaw. Once again she stood alone, with men from House Bolton and Stark passing her like she was a boulder in the middle of a river. She took in a deep breath, exhaling it with a long sigh.
“That was brave.” A young voice surprised her. She spun around, finding a young man stand before her.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise you…” Alara stumbled on her words, the ale had gotten to her head and taken their toll on her senses. She was not alert, which panicked her. The young man smiled, extending his hand.
“I’m Bautistant, and this here is my second-in-command, Bautian. I already know you, however. Alara Caron.” His voice was young, yet deepened to a point of maturity. Alara guessed he was still young, around seventeen. She grasped his hand.
“Should I know you?” She asked, barely thinking of whether the question was offensive. Bautistant smiled, his green eyes looking into hers.
“I suppose not. I own a small sellsword company, and I’m wanting to offer my services to King Theon. I wonder if you could take me to him?” He asked, and Alara took a look at him, then Bautian.
Bautistant was only just taller than Alara, standing probably three inches taller. His hair was wavy and black, and his eyes jade green. He had a scar on his right eyebrow. Bautian seemed younger again, with a crew cut and bright blue eyes. Alara nodded to him.
“Of course, I’m sure he’d be happy to take on more men to his cause.” Alara encouraged, and Bautistant gave her a warm friendly smile. He turned his gaze to Bautian.
“Go back to the men, I’ll return to you with word of our contract. If Theon accepts, that is.” Bautian nodded, turning and walking in his own direction. Bautistant turned to Alara. “Shall we?” Alara nodded, and began walking the route to the King’s pavilion.
They walked in silence for a while, passing the disassembled Stark tents, as well as iron and steel weapons that belonged to the Andal invaders. Alara spotted the disappointment in Bautistant’s eyes, it was clear to her that he was not impressed that he had missed the battle.
“So, how do you know me then?” Alara asked, somewhat curious. Bautistant grinned, lowering his gaze downwards as if he were embarrassed.
“Everyone in the Stormlands has heard of the Nightingale, mylady.” Bautistant stated admirably, and Alara raised an eyebrow.
“You’re from the Stormlands?” She asked, somewhat excited to meet another person from her homeland. The young man nodded, smirking.
“My brother owns a small bit of land down south.” Bautistant admitted, and Alara nodded with a smile.
“So, what’s the catch with your contract? You’re a bunch of young sellswords from the looks of things, searching for some glory I presume?” Bautistant smiled, but shook his head.
“No, though that’s a good guess. We’re here out of exile, and hoping to be rewarded with some land if we prove our worth.” Alara raised an eyebrow to this, somewhat surprised that a man at his age was exiled from his home.
“Exiled? How did that come by?” Alara asked, and Bautistant shrugged off the question.
“Perhaps that’s a topic for another time, looks like we’re here.” Bautistant suggested, and indeed he was correct. The heavily guarded pavilion of King Theon stood taller than any other that remained standing.
They stopped before the entrance of the pavilion, and the guard entered the large tent, only to return a few minutes later. They entered the tent, and found King Theon standing behind a table with a rolled over map. Generals Daniel Glenmore and Corbin Cerwyn stood beside him, eying Bautistant curiously. Alara spoke up.
“Your grace, this young man is the leader of a small sellsword company which wishes to join among the ranks to Andalos.” Alara announced, gaining the attentions of the generals and the King. Theon nodded and smiled to Alara.
“Very well. Stay close, Alara, I’d like to speak with you once I’m done here.” He proclaimed, and Alara nodded gracefully.
She exited the tent alone, the guard glaring at her suspiciously. If Alara were not in such a tipsy state, she might have tried to explain the situation to the guard, however she was in a tipsy state and had absolutely no regards for the guard.
She turned left, strolling down the pathway between cartloads of packed tents, and tents that still stood. Stark men sung and chanted as they worked on their designated jobs, singing of their feats in the recent battle. Others simply drank and remained quiet, which Alara understood well enough.
Alara stopped at a small gathering of men around the fire. Sellswords seemed welcome, according to the tabards and attire of some of the men and women that drank and ate around the fire. Some Stark men also sat around the fire, one she recognised was Lieutenant Simon Holt of the Ranged Formation.
The unknown eyes flickered to her, inspecting her and somewhat curious. Alara eyed them back with confidence. Simon Holt sat with an ale in his hand, his light blue eyes staring from beneath his scruffy black hair. He had a black bear which matched the untidiness of his hair, which was somewhat attracting.
Beside him sat a girl with no shoes, wearing plain hide clothing with two steel daggers sheathed to her belt. She had tanned skin, with short black hair and black eyes. It was clear to Alara that this girl was a foreigner. Beside her was another girl, who wore her white hair in the ‘Sistermen short tails’ style. Her eyes were a light green, and she cleaned a bronze shortsword. The last man had short red hair, and wore bronze armour that looked as if it were forged from fish scales.
“May I take a seat?” Alara asked, and received a short warm nod from Holt.
“Allow me to introduce you to everyone, Alara. This here beside me is Lillith of Lorath, and next to her is Kasia. That over there is Chet Tully.” Holt concluded, and they all gave short brief nods, except for Lillith.
“This is the girl who slayed the Andal?” She asked, and Alara turned her eyes to her, nodding. “A girl is brave, though bravery is not seen through the eyes of the Blind God. Does a girl know of Boash?” Before Alara could answer, despite being thoroughly confused, Kasia stepped into the conversation.
“Easy Lillith, we’re all followers of different religions. You have your Blind God, I follow the Faith of the Seas. Alara no doubt worships the Old gods, is that right?” Kasia’s green eyes met with Alara, to which Alara shrugged in reply.
“If any at all.” Alara revealed, and received a disapproving glare from Lillith. Chet looked up from his longsword, which he had been polishing, and looked at Kasia.
“The Faith of the Seas? I thought only the Manderly’s worshipped that crap.” He claimed, and received a menacing glare from Kasia.
While the argument sparked up, Alara spotted something in the distance, behind some tents. At first she had shrugged it off to be nothing, though after a while she recognised it to be boots, connected to legs… What disturbed her the most was when the body started dragging off, and a red trail was left on the grass where it was originally.
Alara looked around at those she sat with, who argued over religion now. It looked as if the argument was getting out of control, though Alara did not know if she could do much to stop that. If she had seen a body, she knew she had to check it out, though the tension seemed like something she could not simply walk away from.
[Investigate where the body was] [Calm down the argument]
So, did Rechar just admit that he murdered Raven and Nalia? Man, shame Steffon isn't there anymore. At least Tobas Bolton sounds almost decent, if he was genuine with his order to bring Rechar away. On another note, Alara and Dromon, I do kinda ship it
[Calm down the argument]
I genuinely have a very bad feeling about what might happens if she investigates this body. If someone was killed, then he was killed silently and that makes it possible that Alara gets killed with equal ease. I'm not going to risk it. Arguments about religion might not be a pretty topic to speak about, but I really don't want to get her killed.
Rechar did not so much admit to the murder of Raven and Nalia, but taunt Athena with the possibility of it. Prior to Alara arriving on scene, the whole argument began with Rechar boasting to his friends about all the women he's been with, claiming Athena was one of them. Being close-by, hearing this and offended, the argument started off, and Rechar revealed Raven and Nalia into it, which Athena would have likely perceived as lies.
At any rate, I have a whole bunch of characters at the Dreadfort which I rarely show, so bringing back old characters like Tobas and Simon Holt, characters we haven't really seen since Dormund's death, was pretty good.
[Calm down the argument]
[Calm down the argument]
get brownie points by calming everyone down, making friends, getting involved wit the team/group
[Calm down the argument]
[Calm down the argument]
are you waiting for my submissions? is that why there is no update yet? I work on two but not ready yet o_O
No, I've just been pretty busy in general over this weekend with work and exercise. Haven't really had time for the story, but I'll get something written during this week I think.
Alright, so I'll close this vote. Alara will attempt to calm down the argument set from the religions of the Old gods, and the very old Faith of the Seas. We'll be seeing a lot more of both the religions in the parts to come, but that's all I'll say about that.
Now, by the inactivity on story lately, that should probably give you a rough idea I've been busy. Don't worry, the story has been on my mind for the duration of it, and I'm already starting new parts. However, I'm just going to be a little slow over the next few weeks, as the work load is starting to pile up and I somehow gotta keep it under control. I'll still remain reasonably active in my own hours to reply to PM's, and try to catch up on the other fan fics I'm so far behind on...
However I think this would be a good time to work on H&L's to keep the story somewhat active while there are medium-sized gaps between each of the parts. I'd really like to encourage this idea, as it has worked so well on @WildlingKing 's Nymeria's War in keeping the readers included and more intrigued with the story. At any rate, if you have an idea for one of your characters, shoot me a PM with a draft (or just an idea) and we can work from there
Once again, I apologise for the delays, I'll try to get on top of my ever flowing schedule as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience.
I'm sure you want H&L's from other people than just me, but I think I could make something for one of the Frost characters.
and my characters aren't in the story yet, so to speak, so I have to wait with the H&Ls
Hey guys, so I found some time to do a little bit of writing. Mind you, I should have been doing other things, like determining the complexity of terrorism in a book which is completely unrelated to terrorism... Though anyway. I've written up a short part, going to a new character which I made myself. I won't say anymore about him, as you'll get to read that for yourselves, but I will mention that the next part after this will be a Jaycen Caron part, which I will get to writing this weekend
Without any further ado, allow me to introduce York =D
York
Soft flakes of the early morning snow fell from the red sky, landing on his cloak as he trudged through the thick melting snow. The morning was cool, and as unforgiving as every other, though York persisted in his travels. Given any other day, and York would have settled out and made a fire, yet not today.
Persistence drove him forward, and his destination had appeared in the horizon. Descending down the frozen rocks capped in snow, that built up to be some of the tallest mountains in Westeros, York saw the seemingly small castle in the distance.
The red castle stood in a field of green with occasional snow patches, like a keep drenched in blood. The red banners flapped and billowed in the winds that coursed through the vale, and the tents of an army camped outside shuddered in the cool winds.
York chattered his teeth, rubbing his hands against his body in an attempt to warm himself. It had been many years since he had made such a long journey, and admittedly he was not as prepared and able as he was in his prime years.
His trembling hands reached for the shortsword he carried on his back. Unsheathing the blade from such an awkward position felt unnatural to him, though he carried it this way for transportational reasons. He entrenched the bronze blade into the snow, kneeling down in the cool wet crystals.
The rune pommel spoke its own tongue, one which York would likely never understand, though he did not need to. His mission was clear, it had been from the very start, before his exile. I will finish what I started. He promised, before arising and sheathing the blade back into the fur scabbard.
Without any warning, the black bird landed on his coated shoulder, pecking at the black shadowcat fur. York sighed, turning his gaze to the pest of a companion. The raven silently nibbled at his shoulder, showing a clear hunger for flesh.
“Ready?” York muttered, turning his light grey eyes back to the red castle. A confident squawk was the only reply he received, and was the only reply we needed. There’s no going back now, my time has come.
-
His legs powered on once he entered the camp, yet his exhausted body was ready to fall in the next bed he found. He did his best to ignore the feeling, rubbing and blowing in his hands for warmth as he trudged through the mud without a word.
The once small red castle in the distance had now grown into the everknown Redfort, which loomed over him with a bloody shadow. Yet the formidable castle did not fear him, nor did the inspicuous eyes that weighed him as he passed by. Sooner or later a soldier would halt him, or try to, it was their mission. Though York’s mission was bigger than any mere soldier in a mere army, and he would not be halted.
He lifted his trembling hands to his cold face, rubbing his rough fingers over the scars that ran down the left of his face. A shadowcat had clawed him during his time in the mountains, taking his ear and courage to leave the hut. York had skinned the beast, making a cloak out of it’s fur, though the beast had taken York’s hearing. A constant whistling rang where his ear used to be, like a boiling kettle that never ceased.
York smacked the side of his head, yet with no avail. He groaned, tired and irritable. He yearned for a fire, for warmth and something to eat. Another day in the wilderness and he would have eaten the damned raven, if the intelligent creature had shown itself.
As expected, two courageous guards rose from their campfire, the banners next to their tents displayed the sigil of House Moore. It had been many years since York had seen the three bronze spearheads, yet the sigil was still a warm welcome to his sight.
“Who goes there?” One of the men muttered, placing his gloved hand on the pommel of his sword. The other guard had grabbed for his spear, though from the looks he was only a novice. York nodded.
“Hello friends, good morning for it.” York said with a pitiful gaze, though his smile was genuine, even if it were weak. The guard with the spear raised an eyebrow, pointing the bladed end towards York.
“Good for what?” He muttered curiously, resulting in York giving a boring shrug.
“I find it hard to talk when blades are pointed in my direction. Is this how Lord Marric trains his men now?” York saw the confusion in the men’s eyes, which somewhat worried him. The guard with the sword stared at York intently.
“Lord Marric is dead… Beheaded for treason.” York felt his heart sink slightly, though he stood strong and confident. “Now, this is your last chance. Who are you?” The man said, unsheathing his sword. York sighed gently, rubbing his hands together.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, if what you say of Lord Marric is true.” York said quietly, now clenching his hands into fists. The guards scowled at him.
“So be it.” The man with the sword grunted, taking a step forward, his companion following close behind him. York groaned. Here we go.
The bronze blade soared through the thin air, aiming for his chest. York backed away with a sudden sidestep, dodging the attack only merely. The second strike came from the spearman, a lazy thrust that would have barely nicked the studded leather York wore.
Regardless, York caught the spear between his shoulder and body, attempting to disarm the young man. Before he could throw his closed fist, the swordsman returned with an angry blow. The sudden strike caught York on his deafening side, and the blade bashed against his shoulder. Were it not for the single pauldron he wore, the attack might have left him seriously wounded, however a simply dint in the bronze forging was the worst he would suffer.
A tight grip around the shaft of the spear, York used the power in his arms to thrust the spear back towards the wielder. The man fell into the mud, the spear accompanying him. He was just in time to catch the swordsman’s third attack, a heavy double handed strike. York caught the man by the forearms before he could send the attack.
The two held in a lock for a moment, though York could now feel the effects of the attack on his shoulder. His already trembling arms were starting to give way, and soon that blade would be lodged into his head. The two men groaned, fighting with all their strength to break one another’s guard.
York put his head to better use, bashing his forehead against the swordsman’s face. Shortly after he felt the weapon release from the man’s hands, falling into the mud beneath them. York pushed him back, though only enough to make him stumble. York was prepared to deflect the first attack, a leathered fist aimed directly for York’s skull.
He blocked the throw, sending a counter which caught the man in the gut. With his defense broken, York seized the opportunity, slamming his free fist into the back of the man’s skull. The unconscious body fell into the mud before him, spraying York’s shins in brown.
York could only just hear the unsheathing of more metal over the hissing in his left ear, he turned to find more than a dozen soldiers armed in bronze. All slowly advancing on him, cautious and observant. York sighed and grabbed for his sword, unsheathing the blade. I will not be stopped.
The familiar squawks of his companion reached his one good ear, as the raven flew overhead towards to Redfort. For the shortest moment it felt as if everything stopped, all motion ceased to exist. Only that of the dark bird that flew above remained in motion. Yet in a sudden click of reality, the men were already upon him.
York parried the first attack, thrusting his unarmed fist into the jaw of the first man. The man stumbled back, his defense broken, but York’s attention was now preoccupied with the next attack. A shielded man carefully advanced on York, thrusting his blade towards York’s chest. York dodged the attack, though when returning a counter he only found the wooden shield.
Lodged into the wood, nearly splitting the shield in half, York was left disarmed and having to fend the next attack off with his bare hands. He caught the cold bronze blade in his hands, gripping tightly onto the blade. Before he could lay an offensive, he felt a force hit him from behind, knocking him down on his knees.
The sudden movement was enough for York to free himself a new weapon from his opponent, who fell with the sudden surge back. York swung the blade wide, attempting to back his opponents away. He would not fall. He turned just in time to meet the pommel of a bronze longsword, which smashed him in the cheek.
The wet mud embraced him in welcome as he fell from the sudden attack. The whistling in his ear rampant, and all other sounds were seemingly insignificant in comparison. Yet one stood out like no other, something quit in the screeching of his ears, yet strong and conquering. The sound of a young man’s voice.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice yelled from the shadows, saving him from death as many other contributors had.
York pulled himself from the mud, looking to find the voice that had postponed his death. He saw his opponents kneeling in the mud beside him, their weapons at their feet. York stood himself up, looming over the men around him.
Before him stood a man he had never seen before, but a face he knew so well. The young grey eyes of Robar Royce stared into York’s, with almost some sort of astonishment. Beside him stood two others, one being Lord Barrock Redfort, and another being a girl that York had never seen before. York saw the disgust in Barrock’s eyes, the gritting of his teeth.
“Bloody hell.” He muttered, crossing his arms. The woman beside him stood with her hands on her hips, staring at York intently. Robar took a step forward, his face riddled with confusion.
“Uncle?”
No decision this time.
so many rich bastards
Wow, that was an oversight. I was so tired writing that last night, I'll fix that now
That was a great part from a very interesting new PoV. I'm kinda liking that entrance he made, even if I'm not entirely sure what his goal is. I mean, he was not exactly very subtle or trying to avoid a conflict, so there must be something behind it. And have I understood that correctly that he is the uncle of Robar Royce? Very intriguing for sure.
Hey! Glad you liked him
York is going to play an interesting role in the story to come, and I kind of needed a character to show the events of Robar and his army, since both Wyllam and Jarden had been giving Robar no screentime as of late 
Yes, you have understood correctly 
York is the uncle of Robar Royce, brother to the short reigning Edd Royce, and son of Yorwyck VI Royce 
I admit you kinda freaked me out, as you know I was very careful with how to set up my forces and in what armor, I didn't even set up any troops using iron yet.