Game of Thrones: A Change of Balance IC

[SilverPariah]

Welcome!

Posts are expected at least once a day, at least a paragraph long. (Try to cap it around three paragraphs, please.) Proper spelling and grammar is also important. Partial knowledge of the series is essential.
If you intend to make use of a pre-existing character, please notify me.

OOC: http://roleplayerguild.com/showthrea...48#post8078448

THE HOUSES:

(A brief summary...)


HOUSE BARATHEON: A strong, and relatively new contender to the game. Robert Baratheon brought this house to glory when he defeated Aerys Targaryen on the Trident, breaking the Targaryen royal line, and ascending the Baratheons to kingship in King's Landing. Other important Baratheons include Lord Renly and Lord Stannis, Robert's brothers. Their sigil is the stag,

HOUSE LANNISTER: A powerful and rich clan based in Casterly Rock, House Lannister is headed by Lord Tywin, a firm ruler who is said to "shit gold." His daughter, Cersei Lannister, is married to Robert Baratheon, making her Queen. Rumors are abound that she has relations with her twin brother, Jaime Lannister. Other notable Lannisters include Tyrion Lannister, also known as "The Imp," a disfigured dwarf with powerful intellectual capabilities.

HOUSE TARGARYEN: This house is one of the most distinguished, as they swept into Westeros centuries ago from Dragonstone, riding giant dragons and leading great armies. They swiftly assumed control and held it until Robert Baratheon wrested the crown from Aerys. All Targaryens following that point are believed dead.

HOUSE STARK: The steadfast lords of the North, these clans rule from Winterfell, where they keep watch on the Wall, supporting the Night's Watch in defense from Wildlings and Others. Eddard Stark is currently the King's Hand.

HOUSE GREYJOY: The ironborn, hailing from the iron-islands. These once-great conquerors are unmatched at sea, where they worship the Drowned God. Their power has lessened recently, and they meekly serve Westeros, awaiting the time to rise again.

HOUSE TYRELL: They rule from Highgarden in the south. Not much else to say.

HOUSE MARTELL: Rulers of Dorne, the kingdom south of Westeros. They have a neutral relationship with Westeros, although many of their citizens are angry at the murder of Elia and her kin by Ser Gregor Clegane following the uprising. Ruled by Doran.

Those are SOME of the details on MOST of the major houses. For more, consult: http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Houses_of_Westeros

Other notable locations include:

THE FREE CITIES
Trade hubs in the east full of slavery, piracy and secrets.

THE WILD
The frozen wasteland in the North, inhabited by Wildling barbarians and mysterious, deadly beasts known as "Others."

THE WALL
A gargantuan barrier of ice that stretches from coast to coast on the northern border of Westeros.


A map: http://www.campaignmastery.com/blog/...s-complete.png

REMEMBER:

• Posts need to be at least one paragraph long.
• Posts need be NO MORE THAN three paragraphs.
• All characters and houses exist, plus more.

[SilverPariah]

Grif and Olivar sat alone in the highest tower of Highwind Hall.

The small castle stood in the foothills of the Vale of Arryn, past the Bloody Gate, but too far from the Eyrie to take place in daily politics. It was a stout thing, with walls ten men high, and five towers of various heights. While the shorter four served as watchtowers at each corner of the trapezoidal wall, the tallest sat atop the keep in the center, and was used as the living quarters for the lords Highwind.

The two men couldn't be more different from each other. Grif was a dashing young man in his prime, fierce and brave, who impulsively charged into conflicts to earn honor for his name. Olivar, on the other hand, was an old and stooped man well in his sixties. He was cautious, crippled and wise, and he had served both as a knight and a maester when he was younger. Now, he was Grif's well-needed counselor, who kept the house Highwind running smoothly.

The room was dimly lit by moonlight from outside and a tall wax candle that burned on the table. The table itself was several meters across, and around it sat Grif and Olivar. Grif was puzzling over a letter.

"'Send troops immediately.'" he read aloud, the last line of the letter. He turned to Olivar. "It seems that the Night's Watch has encountered Others dangerously close to the Wall. They're requesting reinforcements from each lord of Westeros. It says here they're vastly undermanned. What do you make of this?"

Olivar frowned, deep in thought, tugging slowly at his lush beard. After a few moments of consideration, he spoke.

"Other lords will surely be able to spare a few." he said. "If we are to carry through with this fool's errand, we will need every man we have."

Grif nodded solemnly. For months now they had planned an uprising against Lord Robert, the sickly infant who ruled the Vale. Since John Arryn had passed, the people in the Vale had suffered greatly from his maniacal whims. If he didn't like someone, he took great joy in watching them fall from the heights of the Eyrie through the Moon Door.

"How soon will we be ready?" Grif asked.

"Days, at the most. Templeton and Waxley have pledged themselves to our cause, as well as Corbray, Grafton, Waynwood, Hunter, Lynderly, and a few of the lesser houses."

"Excellent." Grif said, smiling. He walked to the window and leaned on the frame, peering out. "At this rate, the Eyrie is as good as ours."

[VanceXentan]

At the capital...

Ser Jeros and Lord Paul Duneadane sat together enjoying a wine and meat feast sent to them by Kindal who was busy managing the Duneadane Hall until Paul's return. Paul and his men arrived with little fanfare and a group of forty guards who spent their time in the Duneadane Compound near the Hand's tower but not in the castle itself. It was a small little minor mansion area that was built for them during the Tagaryen Era but was mostly destroyed by falling debris and various other war machines lucky the Duneadane had no valued objects in there and most of them were held up at Torrhen's Square back in the day. The Black Cross was draped over the manor's walls and the guards walked about doing their duties as a handful of servents who had come with them, Maestar Kindal did not trust hired help without working with them for an extended period of time, and they even invited a few of their off duty guards to join them. Jeros's hair was greasy and dity but neatly cut he had a few dirt stains and he was sore but otherwise he was in a very happy mood. Paul wore his thick fur robes and the necklace passed down by his fore fathers. They both ate and talked merrily as they partied. "It was a good fight out there you showed those new knights whats for right?" Paul said as he smiled and drank small sips of wine as to not get intoxicated. Jeros nodded and said a very inappropriate remark about the group of young knights he beat up not to long ago with only the blunt part of his spear. "Let's just say they won't be bothering us anymore! I'm not called the "Sea Bane" for getting my ass handed to me on a silver platter. Besides I don't still suckle on my mothers breasts like those young punks!" the guards laughed, mostly from the wine they all drank, and Paul grinned and shook his head. It had been a long time since he had reason to enjoy himself. Ed Stark as the Hand of the Empire? Ha that was one sight to behold indeed...

[Kaizen]

Ironman's Bay...

The timber laden galley sailed west along with three of Rolyn Hightyde’s longships for escort. The remainder of the Hightyde fleet sailed south hell-bent on raiding the coast. It had been years since the Hightyde’s had last raided the coast south of Ironman’s bay. Rolyn’s veins coursed with salty excitement, his latest son of two and twenty to earn the rank of captain and his own longship, recently drowned, led the fleet on his first raid. His other six sons of age, drowned men and captains of their own ships sailed with him as well. In all 22 longships were under Hightyde’s command, but only 13 sailed on the raid. Three escorted the galley, and six remained at port on Great Wyk. Only a fool would leave the shipyard weak and unguarded. The Ironborn preyed upon weakness.

The rising sun revealed the fishing village as the fleet of longships coursed through the breakers directly towards it. Rolyn tugged on the straps of his chainmail and checked his battle axe as the sounds of alarm rose from the village. The villagers knew what lay ahead of them. They would grab what they could and flee inland for safety. Whatever garrison, if any, would put up little resistance and be quickly overrun. Any women unlucky enough to be found would be raped and taken for saltwives.

The symphony of chaos as the Hightyde men pillaged and raped their way through the village brought pride to Hightyde as he watched his youngest captain-son earn his respect. By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the Ironborn were well away from the small village and on to the next. The plunder had not been great, mostly foodstuffs loaded on a small fishing schooner that trailed behind the longship fleet.

[OiHarkin]

CRIPPEN - HIGHGARDEN

As Crippen Snow applied a poultice to a young bannerman's flank, he found himself hearing a lot about the state of affairs in the Tyrell castle. Such training wounds were commonplace. Since completing his training for the silver link, he'd found himself in the castle more often than before and that was a rather valuable position to be in. As the youth of the noble houses chattered, they talked about who their fathers were matching them with, recent contracts that had been completed, the military actions that were being planned. When they did deign to notice the acolye bastard who tended to their wounds, it was to showboat by kicking mud onto his robes and making jibes about celibacy. The acolyte had been taught not to rise to such assaults, for that was not the place of a maester. Theirs was to advise and serve. They were to be humble.

After bundling his supplies back together and handing the bloodied rags off to one of the serving girls that had been giving the young bluebloods doe eyes in the hopes of perhaps having a bastard sired on them, getting a golden dragon in exchange for what was between their legs. Yes, they thought that the dark-haired acolye was little better than a eunuch - but Crippen was not a maester yet. He forged links, but until his chain stretched all around his neck then he was just an acolyte and he had taken no vows. He'd squirted a baby into two women that he knew for certain now. And he planned to spend as long between a woman's legs before his vows of celibacy began.

As he wound his way through the splendor of Highgarden's castle, his brown robes held stark contrast against the lush vibrancy of the castle grounds and the nobles therein. In the antechamber to the Lord's throne room, he encountered Maester Lomys, his current tutor. The older man smiled and waved him over.

"Acolyte Crippen, how were the lordlings?"

"Their swordsmanship appears to be slipping. I have tended to more cuts and bruises this week than all of last month."

"Perhaps the wine in the cellars has been improved." The two shared something of a subtle laugh before moving on to other topics of discussion. "You seem well established in with your silver link. It is time you began studies to forge your next one. I think that would be your last as an acolyte. Have you decided what it shall be?"

"I have, Maester Lomys. My next link shall be Valyrian steel."

[ClockworkDaisy]

Aemon.

Aemon Tyrell, younger brother of the current Lord Tyrell, threw down his helm and re-sheathed his sword even as his squire and younger cousin, Jaques threw Aemon's cape across his Master's shoulders. Aemon grinned to the younger man, a cocky smile full of the arrogance of youth, and reached over to muss up his hair.

"Well Ser Squire, what have you to say on that? Another to send to the young Maester, eh?" Aemon canted his head, eyes flashing, as Jaques began to report.

"Yes Ser, that makes six today and well played indeed.." Jacques rolled on into a litany of the failings and strengths of those Aemon had opposed.

It was the youth's role and part of his learning to observe Aemon in practice, the two had learnt much together and Aemon had fast risen among the ranks of his peers. His natural talent for swordplay and strategist's mind had seen his older brother Lord Tyrell knighting the young man before his 18th birthday. Although he had been gifted with a title befitting a Lord of Highgarden it was almost unknown now in favour of the moniker given him by the common folk. 'Ser Thorn'. Though this brought to mind a sour faced and dour knight, it was bequeathed more in lieu of his younger (by a moment) sister, Aiyana, and her ridiculous beauty. Gentle and fair, the voice of a nightingale, it would be a lucky man that got to marry the Rose.

And they would have to go through me to do it.

Aemon had an affection for his sister borne of sharing a womb.

Entering into the house proper Aemon was greeted by a servant summoning him to an audience with his older brother.


Aiyana


Aiyana stepped from the bath, the scent of roses filling the room as the maids began to dry her skin with their rough towels until her skin was blushed pink and she nodded with satisfaction. The rub of the towels near burned in a most pleasing way and she turned to her Ladies' maid with a soft smile. Her dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, unbound after bathing and her opalescent skin seemed almost to glow in the candlelight that lit the darkened room. Aiyana took to a stool and beckoned the girl closer.

"Aemon has bested them again! He truly is a marvel on the field mi'Lady." Lily smiled to her in the mirrors reflection even as she began the intricate braiding necessary for a public appearance. It was overtaxing at times being a Lady but the look in the eyes of other Ladies was well and truly worth it. What woman didn't like to be the envy of others? She simply acknowledged that she reveled in it and didn't hide that from herself. "Jaques says he sent many to the Maester this day."

Aiyana looked up sharply, her emerald eyes burning with a keen intelligence which would have made anyone observing question that girls exterior portrait. She lifted her fingers and ran them over the brushes laid out before her, the ivory handles pleasing her over much. Finding the brush she desired, an ornate piece with elegant long handle and scroll work adorning it, she lifted it and weighed it in her hands, watching the girl in the mirror work intricate knots throughout her hair.

As the maid stepped away, Aiyana gave the brushes' handle a sharp twist and pulled a thin blade of valerian steel forth. Lily gasped and raised her fingertips to her lips in shock.

A Lady must always be a little protected. He had whispered in her ear as he had laid it in her waiting hands much too long ago. The smell of him was a stain upon her memory that she desired never to see fade. Leather, wax and the iron tang of blood.

Aiyana, Rose of Highgarden, lifted her eyes to her determined reflection and with great deliberateness wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the blade, her deft right hand tugging the blade backwards through her skin. Blood began to flow as she lifted her chin still higher and looked too Lily.

"It seems I have need of a Maester, Lily." Her voice was even and calm to the point of cool, no waiver to betray the pain she felt. Control. Perfect Control.

Tucking the brush/blade away out of view she watched the girl scamper out of the room then couldn't help but lift a finger of her right hand, sliding it through the blood that collected upon the table. Raising it too her lips she inhaled gently before her tongue flickered across her fingertip, cleaning it of all the blood.

Iron.

[OiHarkin]

Lomys was clearly taken aback by Crippen's unusual choice for the next step in his studies. A link forged of Valyrian steel meant the wearer had studied magic and the higher mysteries, but most Maesters did not believe magic truly existed, or at least if it did that it had existed the world long ago. Less than one in a hundred links forged were that of Valyrian steel, for there was little a maester could use the knowledge to accomplish. Most Maesters who did choose to study it usually were outsiders of the order and never rose very high in the heirarchy. To hear someone so young declare that intent gave the older Maester pause, a bright pained look in his eyes, but before he could speak a distraught looking maid clung to his arm. "You must come quick! M'lady has hurt herself!"

Lomys turned to the young maid, frowning. "Lily, isn't it? Tell me more. Is she conscious? How bad is the wound?"

"I didn't see much, ser, but there is blood. She just cut her hand with a knife and -" Lomys waved it away at that point.

"It sounds a trifle. My acolyte can attend to it. I must give Lord Tyrell my counsel. You know the way, Crippen?"

The bastard nodded, producing some spare rags from his satchel that he could use to bind the wound. He imagined the wound was not severe and that the maid was simply being melodramatic - or afraid she might lose her job if this was pinned on her - and followed Lily through the castle up into the tower that held the sleeping quarters for the family. He was ushered inside, bowing respectfully as he did to the room's occupant. His drab brown acolyte's robes could not have looked more out of place in a lady's boudoir.

"Acolyte Crippen, ma'am. Maester Lymos sends his apologies, but he is council with lord brother." He cast his eyes respectfully down to the ground, his long black hair falling over his face. When he looked back up, he beheld the situation. He walked over and knelt by her, unable to avoid the scent of rosepetals and blood that filled the room. "Your pardon, but I need to examine the wound." He excused the liberty as he reached out to take her wounded hand, cupping it lightly. While her skin was soft and perfumed, save of course where it had been cruelly split, his were rough and pitted with many an odd mark - here a scar from a caustic spill while studying medicine, there his pen-callous. Rough as they were, they were clever and quick as they looked over the wound. Shallow, his green eyes saw, and a clean cut. One slash, made with intent. The edges were so smooth, the blade must have been razor-sharp - not a kitchen utensil, clearly.

A bleeding rose wrapped round a blade of Valryian steel, buried in a still-beating heart. You saw this, in one your true-dreams. Part of him suddenly remembered a troubled night last month, woken with a green dream and a certainty that something soon would happen to draw him higher than he could have gone - if only he could discover what and how.

He began to wrap the wound in clean cotton fabrics, hands moving efficiently and effectively - his silver link had been well-earned through long hours tending to many similar injuries. "Is the pain severe, milady? I have some poppy-milk if you wish."

[ClockworkDaisy]

"Acolyte Crippen, ma'am. Maester Lymos sends his apologies, but he is council with lord brother." He cast his eyes respectfully down to the ground, his long black hair falling over his face.

Aiyana had gone so far as to pull a robe around herself, she loved the indulgence of the fine silks her father’s ships brought back from across the seas, and she sat now with her hand cradled in her lap doing nothing to stem the flow. What was life without the gaping jaws of death nipping at ones heels? A Ladies life was boring enough..

She watched him as he crossed the room with emerald eyes hooded under lashes cast demurely low. The brown suited him though she imagined easily the rough home spun was about the least comfortable thing one could wear and she wondered that none had thought to seek out a less irksome material.

"Your pardon, but I need to examine the wound." He excused the liberty as he reached out to take her wounded hand, cupping it lightly.

She nodded in mute understanding – she had been told long ago by Aemon that such things as broken flesh were supposed to hurt – registering the feel of his hands holding hers with only a secondary interest. She even went so far as to bite her lips as if stifling pain yet the adrenalin coursing through her body was enough to render her numb to the sharp pain.

She studied him as he studied her hand and wondered what he could see. Is he able to tell or does he purely see only what he has too? She watched his eyes, green like her own, his brow as it seemed to furrow in thought and his deft fingers as he began to wrap her hand.

"Is the pain severe, milady? I have some poppy-milk if you wish."

She looked to his eyes once again, pulled from her moment’s reverie, a lapse she would seek to avoid in future. Such things left one… susceptible. Her eyes were soft though her tone echoed with challenge.

“I find, ser, that if one numbs oneself to pain then when one experiences exquisite pleasure they do not appreciate it quite the same..” She reached out and traced one of the myriad scars upon his hand, her finger long and delicate, barely touching him as she traced the line of flesh.

“You have much experience with such things… pain and pleasure.. do you not ser?” Her eyes drifted off to the drying blood upon the dresser, wondering if the blood would badly mar the wood or add character. “As a part of your studies of course.”

[SilverPariah]

Grif Highwind

Night had fallen over the Vale.

Grif rode astride his brown destrier Gale, both steed and rider clad in brilliant steel laced with green jade. Beside him, Olivar rode a smaller grey mare, armored himself but not his horse. Before them, two thousand foot soldiers marched in rhythm. Behind them, one hundred knights carried the tune with the whinnies and hoofbeats of their horses. The footsoldiers were clad in whatever armor they could throw together. Some had beaten iron plate, others wore lobstered steel that had been passed down their family line. Still more were clad in tanned leather and a few had naught but their tunics. They all carried a mixture of swords, spears, bows, and all manner of cheap weaponry, from axes to kitchen knives. The knights were better equipped, with shining steel, as well as shields and lances beside their melee weapons.

The day before, Grif had stood atop the Tower of Highwind, gazing down at the camps that had assembled before the walls of his castle. Numerous banners flared in many colors and designs, and the smoke from the campfires reached into the sky. Olivar, as always, was beside him.

"How many have come?" Grif asked, coughing as the smoke reached his mouth.

"The lords estimate eighteen hundred footsoldiers and almost a hundred knights. We're still waiting on Tollett and Waxley before we make our final count."

Grif skipped right to the point. "Will it be enough?" he asked, the anxiety apparent in his voice.

Olivar was hesitant in replying. "Well... yes, I suppose so. But there's no telling how many we might lose on our ascent into the Eyrie."

Grif shook his head. "Don't worry about that. Templeton's made sure there won't be any guards posted in Stone and Sky, so they won't know we're coming until we're knocking on their front door."


Now, Grif wasn't so sure. He saw torches burning on the mountain checkpoints.
They know we're here! he thought, panicking, then: No, you idiot, those burn every night. Still, he was growing more and more worried as they got closer to the base of the mountain.

"I've finalized the strategy." Grif said.

"Oh have you?" Olivar said, a skeptical look in his moonlit eye.

Grif ignored the jest. "I will go up first, with a few of my bodyguard. We will disguise ourselves as a delivery convoy with fresh apples for the Eyrie. When we reach the top, we will try and force Lysa into surrendering. If we fail..." he paused. "Well, by then you should have arrived at the Eyrie with the main force."

Olivar nodded solemnly. "It seems your part will be instrumental." he said. "What would you have me do when you start the ascension?"

Grif smiled. "Watch my horses."

[Kaizen]

Rolyn called a council of his captain-sons before departing the third fishing village that had fallen victim to the Ironborn raid. Overall, the raids had been successful. The schooner was laden with goods from the villages and one merchant ship it had encountered along the way, only one longship had been lost when it rammed the merchant cog.

“Now is the time to decide son,” Rolyn said to his youngest son, acting captain of the raid. The castle of Seagard seemed a tiny speck in the distance, but Rolyn knew the port kept a small fleet of a few longships and a pair of war galleys. It would be a good fight, close to evenly matched. The bitter taste of defeat has lingered for nine years from Balon’s rebellion, but today wouldn’t be the day. “Father, our bellies are full, our appetites sated. Let us return with our full strength gathered, and you will have your revenge on Lord Mallister.” Rolyn accepted his sons words with a grain of salt, “Aye son, let us return and feast your victory, Roll Tide.” Looking back as they sailed away, leaving Seagard untouched only stoked the flames of revenge in Hightyde. He made the decision then, within the year he would be feasting in the castle’s great hall.

The return voyage took four days. Three days spent at sea and one day spent at Pyke, paying homage to his Lord-King, Balon Greyjoy and feasting on the spoils from the raids. While at Pyke, Rolyn held council with Balon Greyjoy and divulged his plans. Greyjoy did not offer any support in the form of more ships, however Hightyde did receive the blessing to move forward with the plans.

The schooner was only half full when they reached Hightyde port, but the welcome they received from the townsfolk was warm and joyous, as much as the Ironborn could muster anyways. The goods were unloaded, the schooner commissioned into the Hightyde fishing fleet (which was of modest size, ~20 vessels of varying sizes), and the festivities began. They drank to victory and the Drowned god, danced the finger dance, and fellowshipped with one another until the early hours of the morning.

The following day, Rolyn took three of his sons, Balon Greyjoy’s blessing, and the remaining bounty from the raids to Lord Merlyn, their liege Lord. Rolyn and his sons lingered in House Merlyn for three days, politicking for support for a great raid. While not thrilled with the results of their efforts, Rolyn was contented with the outcome. He had managed to rally the Merlyn heir to his cause, and the heir brought seven longships with him.