A WEAVER HAS MOCKED THEIR FUTURE IN INK, spelling out its doom from front to back, top to bottom, with a flowing black tatau in a tongue none recognize. When first she saw it, their Lord's wife called it beautiful - and commanded them to keep it hidden for their own good.

Hidden or no, the doom written on their skin cannot be avoided. Sylvan's fate will haunt them all the way to the end, and it shall be the death of them. It begins with hazy memories of their past. You already know how it ends.

-=-

This is a request for a GM who views themselves as a skilled writer who shares my penchant for statecraft, warfare, economics, so on. These will be core to the story and, much like Sylvan's future, cannot be avoided. The paragraphs down below are different possibilities in Sylvan's life.

The Savages.

Many thought Pentos to be a den of vipers, but all it was filled with were the castoff scum that were too low even for the other 'Free' Cities of Essos. Cowardly to the core, they never missed an opportunity to kneel before the Dothraki, to offer them their most favorable lands upon which they'd find the tribute expected of them. Including the slaves.

Oh yes. The slaves.

Every conqueror needed slaves of course. The lucky dozens would be the ones chosen to serve them personally, to cut their meat and polish their armor and serve them in bed. Second place were the tens of thousands needed to cater in the manses and estates, cleaning and taking to the horses and eating whatever food was left over from the feasts. The rest? Well.

It would be centuries before someone thought of them. The hundreds of thousands. Millions. The ones that toiled and died in plantations, salt mines, the first ones to die in raids, or violated, or taken as slaves by yet another conqueror who might improve their lot or kick them even further down.

This was Sylvan's fate, serving at the bed of a Khal. It wasn't long before they prove themselves as more than just a sheath however, and, before long, they found themselves at their side addressing their riders, on the battlefield, and even at their table, sharing bread, laughter, and happiness with the man, going as far as managing even to talk the man into sharing the same privileges with others. It was intolerable. A stain on the Khalasar's honor. Challenging his manhood and ability to lead the host, their voices finally got them what they wanted- Sylvan was given to them for as long as they wished, and when they returned the slave to them, the Khal, horrified at what he saw, fell onto his beloved's friends feet to beg for their forgiveness.

They hadn't so much as spoken a word to one another in months. Sylvan prayed to their dead gods that they never would. Rather than be forced to see his one-eyed slave and their empty gaze, the Khal sent them away, to Pentos, to their estate, where they might find some joy in the faraway asylum where none could disturb them.

They Weave Gold.

Pennies were enough to buy a war, but loyalty could not ever be bought.

Sylvan had not expected to be the confidant to Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister, and few expected them to be any good at it, but they were proud to have proven themselves and everyone else wrong. The Ninepenny War had brought them across the sea as a slave, and they'd landed in Westeros as a valuable prize to one of the wealthiest men on the continent. Few people had the mutual respect and trust of Lord Tywin, and Sylvan was proud to be amongst that number.

He'd entered the room of Sylvan's master, and rather than cornering a mewling Essosi officer, he'd stumbled into a pool of blood and nearly right into a dark-skinned foreigner whose tattoos were almost invisible, so thick was the blood that covered their body. It was nearly distracting enough that Sylvan almost managed to slash Tywin's throat with the same murderous knife.

Endeared and glad to have one of his enemies removed for him that had already killed his last squire, a thankfully short conversation concluded that Sylvan would become his new servant, and if they were impressive enough, they might just be able to follow them back to Casterly Rock as a servant. That had been many years ago. They were more than just a servant now. Knights and men-at-arms greeted them, clerks gratefully bowed their heads as Sylvan helped file their paperwork, and the occasional man and woman daydreamed about them.

His Majesty King Aerys had deemed it fit that Lord Tywin should serve as his Hand, and it seemed equally fit that in a far less official capacity that Sylvan would rule in his stead, no matter what his children had to say about it.

SALT. IRON. ONIONS.

THEY WERE BORN TO ROW DROWN IN THE SEA LIKE SO MANY OTHERS.

The Seven had outlawed the enslavement of men, but the Iron Born had rejected the Westerosi and their still-living gods, embracing only their own, their dead gods, their gods that lived beneath the sea. The gods that bid them to reap the coasts and gorge themselves on the lamenting of their victims, spreading havoc and misery wherever they sowed.

The most truly dammed were crammed into the bottoms of the ships, forced to sit and row under the punishment of an unending, pitiless whip. They had but one choice- die at the hands of their slavers, or die at the hands of their slaver's enemies, the ships sunk by fleets who had no quarrel with them. Nobody would shed tears over their deaths as they, still chained to the ship, were dragged to the bottom of the ocean, screaming as the Iron Born sang in joy to finally join their Drowned Gods.

The Iron Born experienced no joy in being smashed by Stannis Baratheon. The Greyjoy Rebellion had ended in almost the same breath it had begun, and when their armies swept through the land, many Thralls were given the choice to join them on their way home- an opportunity many took. Some even went as far as to find themselves in lofty places they couldn't have hoped for, including a young, strange Thrall with dark tattoos and bright eyed that had managed to take their master's ship and turn it on the enemy, earning the favor of Stannis and a place in his home.

Taken in as a favorable brat, they find themselves now acting as Lord Stannis' confidant, a stubborn, undying loyalty festering in them to the man that had freed them and given them so much opportunity.

The Old Blood

VALYRIAN BLOOD RUNS DEEP IN VOLTANTIS.

Steffon Baratheon had been tasked with bringing Prince Rhaegar a queen of Valyrian blood, and a queen he had found. A strange, violet-eyed woman that had said and done everything he needed her to, and then everything he'd hoped for to claim what he aspired to more than anything else- to serve as the Hand of the King.

It's only natural that they would all nearly die on their way back to Storm's End.

One moment the sea is heaving them to and thro, nearly throwing their ship into the sky when, just as death seemed near, the sun broke through the clouds and the sailors whistled and whaled as they realized that their deaths were still a ways to go. Rising from the floor, Sylvan's prayers to Rh'lor looked as if they'd been answered as the sun paid her special heed, staring giddily at the rocks as they drew closer to port.

It was true then. She was going to be a princess.

She couldn't believe he bought it.