So, anyone up for a collaboration?
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V.1.26 (House of Caecilius Iucundus); 4091: Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.
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The blue light came out of nowhere, blinding Rughoi just as he was about to face a dracon warrior. A loud ringing blasted in his ears, and he doubled over, clutching his head. He felt a hand touch his shoulder, and the muffled voice piercing through the thickness in his head. Then the bright light came back, and his entire body erupted into a burning pain.
For a moment, he felt weightless, like he was made of air. He felt for whatever reason at home, like he's been in such a state before. Even the pain, once the most excruciating thing he had ever encountered, felt like no more than a mild chill. Then, the feeling left all too quickly, and the burning pain returned. He felt the ground beneath him, and looked up through blurry eyes to see the face of three enemy generals. He leapt to his feet, and raised his sword, but his legs would not heed him for long, and he buckled, tumbling back into the dirt.
"Talk?" he groaned, clutching his head. "Negotiations? We're here now. Talk, and talk quickly."
For a moment, he felt weightless, like he was made of air. He felt for whatever reason at home, like he's been in such a state before. Even the pain, once the most excruciating thing he had ever encountered, felt like no more than a mild chill. Then, the feeling left all too quickly, and the burning pain returned. He felt the ground beneath him, and looked up through blurry eyes to see the face of three enemy generals. He leapt to his feet, and raised his sword, but his legs would not heed him for long, and he buckled, tumbling back into the dirt.
"Talk?" he groaned, clutching his head. "Negotiations? We're here now. Talk, and talk quickly."
@Monochromatic Rainbow 300 in old miles, new miles, Welsh miles, Irish miles, Scots miles, Dutch miles, Austrian miles, Prussian miles, or Hungarian miles?
Point is, the definition of "mile" cannot be assumed to be equal to the statute mile used by the British Empire, especially for a setting most closely imitating the 1400s in setting equivalency.
If we go by the oldest definition of a mile, that being 1000 steps, and we approximate one guy's pace as 1 statute yard, then the mile is now defined as a whopping . . . 3000 feet. Nearly half of the statute mile. Then, we take your former assumption that half of the North is uninhabited save a few ME STRONKs, that brings the population density up to a generous . . . 3.2 guys/square mile.
Yeah, I suppose you're right, and that does sound a bit unrealistic. Mathematics, amirite?
Point is, the definition of "mile" cannot be assumed to be equal to the statute mile used by the British Empire, especially for a setting most closely imitating the 1400s in setting equivalency.
If we go by the oldest definition of a mile, that being 1000 steps, and we approximate one guy's pace as 1 statute yard, then the mile is now defined as a whopping . . . 3000 feet. Nearly half of the statute mile. Then, we take your former assumption that half of the North is uninhabited save a few ME STRONKs, that brings the population density up to a generous . . . 3.2 guys/square mile.
Yeah, I suppose you're right, and that does sound a bit unrealistic. Mathematics, amirite?
@Monochromatic Rainbow Well, here's a renegade thought of mine.
We all simply assume, because Westeros fills all the maps we see, that it's gigantic. However, we also see another continent in the southwest, Sothoryos. It's a tiny corner, but it implies that the continent must be quite a few levels larger than the two we can see. There is the possibility that Westeros is smaller than advertised. Maybe it is in fact about the size of Britain or even smaller for all we know.
We all simply assume, because Westeros fills all the maps we see, that it's gigantic. However, we also see another continent in the southwest, Sothoryos. It's a tiny corner, but it implies that the continent must be quite a few levels larger than the two we can see. There is the possibility that Westeros is smaller than advertised. Maybe it is in fact about the size of Britain or even smaller for all we know.
Could I get in on that?
So who's up next?
Having 2 advanced RPs is kind of like juggling Osmium chainsaws. That's why I'm a little slow here at the moment.
It was a long way down. The head swayed uncomfortably, and Rughoi felt as if he had to tap-dance just to keep his balance. All around were angry rows of needle teeth, snapping at him from all sides. He raised his shield, only to have a head strike it with unnatural force. Still, by a miracle of Arda, he was barely standing. That was quickly challenged when Merat lurched sideways, and it sounds as if the battle cry ringing out from his soldiers was being joined by more. He tried to ignore the constant twisting of his innards as he peered over the end, to find that the dracons have joined the final push. Rughoi wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or angered by this action. He, on his perch, shakily drew his sword, and closed his eyes. If Arda could hear him, she would bless his hand to strike true. He slammed down his blade, entering Merat's eye. That is, the one on the very top of this particular head. It passed through, running down to the hilt. Merat made no noise, but the head slumped over, and Rughoi was now barely hanging on by his sword, stuck in the skull.
The other heads went wild, no longer moving with any semblance of coordination. Rughoi waited for the moment, then pulled his sword from the eye. He dropped, and landed on a head below. Wasting no time, he began hacking at the head, this one not possessing an eye on top. Something changed. Merat was thrashing and shaking, and suddenly he stopped. His body began to teeter, this way, then that, until finally collapsing on the sandy floor. Rughoi leapt off and made a quick and rude acquaintance with the sand. He scrambled to his feet, sword in hand, looking up at the grim faces of the dracons surrounding him. This way and that he turned, but he couldn't find a way out. It would take a miracle of Arda's mercy to allow him to keep his life now.
The other heads went wild, no longer moving with any semblance of coordination. Rughoi waited for the moment, then pulled his sword from the eye. He dropped, and landed on a head below. Wasting no time, he began hacking at the head, this one not possessing an eye on top. Something changed. Merat was thrashing and shaking, and suddenly he stopped. His body began to teeter, this way, then that, until finally collapsing on the sandy floor. Rughoi leapt off and made a quick and rude acquaintance with the sand. He scrambled to his feet, sword in hand, looking up at the grim faces of the dracons surrounding him. This way and that he turned, but he couldn't find a way out. It would take a miracle of Arda's mercy to allow him to keep his life now.
(The second part was not without a generous contribution by @MrDidact . Thanks buddy!)
"Good day," muttered Arak, pushing slowly through another pile of captives. His legs still trembled from the atrophy he suffered in the cells of the pirates, and his head throbbed dully, a continuous reminder of the low blood in his head. In his own little world, he forgot where he was, and stumbled on a foot that came out of nowhere. He blundered into a pirate with shackled arms, who promptly shoved him away with an elbow, growling curses. "Apologies," Arak mumbled, and leaned on his spear with a sigh. The chaos was over, and he was dead tired. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt overtaxed.
A hand snaked out of the crowd and snatched him by his overgrown hair. Arak felt his head get rudely pulled back, and a high-pitched voice began whispering in his ear.
"And where have you been these last days?" came the undeniable voice of an angry William.
"A good day to you as well, Lord Bol-"
"Don't give me that Lord Bolton nonsense. What were you doing? Has soldier life taught you nothing? Perhaps getting curious and wandering is all well and good in the Stark Butterfly-Chasing Guild, but not with me."
"You are not as yet my commanding officer, brother," Arak groaned, feeling the headache flare up with a vengeance in his head. He let his free hand clutch his face, anything to block out the painful thumping. William continued with his whole tirade, Arak catching none of it but the end.
" . . . And from now on, you will not leave my sight. If I have a task, you'd better believe it's yours as well. Do you understand me?"
"As I said, you're no-"
"Do . . . you . . . understand?"
"As you command," sighed Arak. He turned, lazily, nearly tripping over his feet. He watched through blurred eyes his half-brother harassing a field medic and sighed again. Most people would be happy that their elder siblings are so worried about their safety.
__________________________
Once again, Cathay found herself at a bit of a dilemma. She has been at court for but less than a year, and during most of that time, the Mistress of Whispers chose to make herself incredibly scarce to her and just about everyone. Meaning, of course, Cathay couldn't recognize her writing. She isn't stupid enough to blindly accept that it came from the Mistress' hand, and she most certainly isn't trusting enough not to assume it isn't a ploy from one of her enemies. To attend this secret meeting would be a high gamble, one she would never take without at least a bit of insurance.
The idea came to her when the time of meeting began drawing very close. She contacted one of her many ears within the serving staff in the Red Keep. The plan was simple. First, the serving girl would go down there, under the guise that she was cleaning the grounds, while looking around for traces of Lady Arya, or worse, the Celtigars. Next, Cathay would double check, under one of her disguises. Just a longtime courtier of a landless house, drunk out of her mind. If everything checks out, then the meeting goes as planned. With a couple of stags changing hands, the plan was set.
Cathay's spy went down to the dungeons, where the skulls of the Targaryen dragons were once held before being placed once more in the throne room, and she found nothing. Absolutely no trace of anyone watching. Though of course if Cathay really was meeting with Arya, there wouldn't have been. But on the surface, it seemed as if there'd be no traps waiting for Cathay.
When she heard the word, Cathay donned her disguise. The next person to come down the steps was a dirty-blonde woman, appearing somewhere in her late thirties. She stumbled down the steps, occasionally stopping to hiccup. Cathay's eyes betrayed her outward demonstrations. They zipped about in her sockets, absorbing the entire room back to front and back again. With each confirmation that the chambers looked empty, her paranoia mounted exponentially. Surely it was a plot! She was going to be captured, most definitely! The steps weren't far, but for how long could she outrun all the guards and mercenaries surely hiding behind the innumerable pillars?
A voice rang out among the pillars, in the darkness, a woman's voice, though she could not discern from where it came; at times seeming to come from right before Cathay or from all around, "You can abandon the disguise, Lady Cathay. There is no one else in here besides you and myself. And you have nothing to fear from me."
Something from the shadows seemed to coalesce into solid form and Lady Arya Stark, the Mistress of Whispers appeared before Cathay in a black robe, "Pleased to finally make your acquantince, my lady."
"You as well, my lady," Cathay responded, removing the features of her disguise. People spoke in whispers of the mysterious Arya, who in a single stroke performed a great many political assassinations that turned the tide of the Targaryen Invasion. However, if Cathay was honest with herself, the woman across from her didn't look it. She was exceedingly small and spindly, and completely unkempt. Not what most would think of. "Have you read the Memoirs In the Web, my lady?" Cathay asked, trying to put off the inevitable conversation.
Arya kept most of her face hidden behind her hood, and in the darkness it was hard to see much of anything, but perhaps a small smile touched her lips, "Lord Varys' secret accounting of the reign of the Mad King, King Robert, King Joffrey, King Tommen, and Queen Daenerys as well as his own activities as Master of Whispers? Indeed, I have the original. And very few have even laid eyes on it. Lord Tyrion has read a copy. But not even my brother the King has. How did you chance upon it?"
"I think you'll understand if I choose not to refer to the scribes under my employ by name," Cathay said. She has clashed with the royal intelligence network in the past. They likely know nothing about the original source of their occasional torment, but it was only a matter of time. Business was sounding better by the second. "The bastard baby," she prompted. "You wanted to speak about . . . it?"
Arya reclined her head in answer, "Yes. This child could change a great deal, depending on the circumstances. A prince or princess always has an effect, whether they are trueborn or bastard. My brother proved that. Tell me what you found out. You must have discovered something by now."
"Something, yes," Cathay said. "I, under guise, met with the Captain Ardrian, house of Celtigar. He implied none-too-subtly that the true father of the child has no link with the Targaryen house. Unfortunately, I could not goad him any further. If I recall his exact words were: 'all Jonquil needed was a prince', and I'm hoping you could make better sense of it than I can."
Arya was silent for several moments before saying, "Ardrian is Jonquil's brother. He is likely to know quite a bit of who the father may be. It seems this was not some affair of passion, it was a concentrated ploy. But for what purpose? And those words... they certainly cast the parentage into doubt. But he said, she needed a prince. There are several. Not just Aemon. Viserys, Jahaerys. Rhaegar. Aegon Targaryen. His bastard sons. Viserys' and Daenyra's sons are too young yet. But It seems to me that another dragon may be the father. And Viserys has many bastards already, one more wouldn't have such an effect. The same for Aegon. Rhaegar, too shy for such a thing. But now I believe the father is someone of dragon blood, and someone manipulated it to be so. Either House Celtigar as a whole or members of it, perhaps working in concert with the Faith. And other parties besides, mayhaps. Troubling, very troubling." Arya seemed lost in thought for a moment.
"And I believe that until the child is born, anyone can pay a field worker a stag or two to put a bastard in a lady, but arguing philosophy won't get us far," Cathay said. "Point is, as the Memoirs kindly put it, 'it is because people love their masters that the verdict is surest. Truth plays only a second hand to authority'. The Celtigars want to start trouble, no doubt about that. We can deny it all, like in the Tyrionic Trials. People will listen more to the king than dissenters roosting near Dragonstone."
"Indeed, someone in House Celtigar is plotting something. Against us? Possibly. For their benefit? Certainly. Lord Ardrian has no answered any missives, he's preparing the Claw Isle Fleet for battle. But Ardrian the Elder may know something of this as well. We will have to send an Inquisitor to the isle. Not that much will come of it. But they wouldn't have gotten these ideas on their own. Someone is in league with them. And we can't be sure who in the House is in on it. For all we know, there are several different ploys at work here."
Arya paused, "The throne has offered no official word yet. It has been determined that we shall wait until the babe is born and Aemon returns before we can offer any definitive judgements. For now, all that we have acknowledged is that Jonquil Celtigar is mothering a bastard. If the babe comes out dark or gold of hair, then the question is settled. But if they are silver haired or white haired... then it becomes much murkier. Jonquil has already been dismissed from the Septas, however."
A moment passed, "Hmm, perhaps someone was counting on it. But if the child is truly one of the King's kin, he has decided they will be acknowledged and brought up in comfort, like all the others. That is why we must wait to determine the parentage. But we still need to investigate who is doing this."
"Do you have any theories on what is happening here? You're obviously much more than a mere lordling's daughter."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cathay stammered. Bad move. She quickly recovered, and composed herself. It wouldn't do to have someone like Arya going to Starks, or worse yet, the king himself, and blab all of her plans to them. She can't let her Bolton ancestry get out before the time is right, or her chance at power is lost. "What I meant to say was that we cannot wait until the babe is born to make a decision. The longer we let it lie, the more the smallfolk talk, and suddenly the king no longer has any authority over his people. I cannot speak for the king, but the best action would be to take a stance, preferably within the fortnight."
Arya made no overt reaction and finally said, "Your words will be considered. But my brother has never been one to think too highly of gossip and opinion. Neither is my sister in law. But if you want us to take a stance, it would be helpful to get to the bottom of this. You have another assignment. I want you to talk to Ser Gaemon Celtigar, he's a captain in the royal fleet. And he's Lord Ardrian's nephew. He may be more pliable than Captain Ardrian. Do you think you can do this?"
"As you task, my lady," Cathay said. She dropped into a quick curtsy and ascended the stairs, berating herself. Obviously, her disguise was on some level off. If the Mistress of Whispers could see through it, then it obviously wasn't good enough.
Arya watched Cathay leave the dungeon and she stared after the young woman, until long after she was gone. She was hiding something. Arya did not think she was involved in this plot. But Cathay Whitehoof was trying to keep Arya from finding out something about her. And she was going to find out what. Arya melted away back into the shadows, to continue her work.
"Good day," muttered Arak, pushing slowly through another pile of captives. His legs still trembled from the atrophy he suffered in the cells of the pirates, and his head throbbed dully, a continuous reminder of the low blood in his head. In his own little world, he forgot where he was, and stumbled on a foot that came out of nowhere. He blundered into a pirate with shackled arms, who promptly shoved him away with an elbow, growling curses. "Apologies," Arak mumbled, and leaned on his spear with a sigh. The chaos was over, and he was dead tired. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt overtaxed.
A hand snaked out of the crowd and snatched him by his overgrown hair. Arak felt his head get rudely pulled back, and a high-pitched voice began whispering in his ear.
"And where have you been these last days?" came the undeniable voice of an angry William.
"A good day to you as well, Lord Bol-"
"Don't give me that Lord Bolton nonsense. What were you doing? Has soldier life taught you nothing? Perhaps getting curious and wandering is all well and good in the Stark Butterfly-Chasing Guild, but not with me."
"You are not as yet my commanding officer, brother," Arak groaned, feeling the headache flare up with a vengeance in his head. He let his free hand clutch his face, anything to block out the painful thumping. William continued with his whole tirade, Arak catching none of it but the end.
" . . . And from now on, you will not leave my sight. If I have a task, you'd better believe it's yours as well. Do you understand me?"
"As I said, you're no-"
"Do . . . you . . . understand?"
"As you command," sighed Arak. He turned, lazily, nearly tripping over his feet. He watched through blurred eyes his half-brother harassing a field medic and sighed again. Most people would be happy that their elder siblings are so worried about their safety.
__________________________
Once again, Cathay found herself at a bit of a dilemma. She has been at court for but less than a year, and during most of that time, the Mistress of Whispers chose to make herself incredibly scarce to her and just about everyone. Meaning, of course, Cathay couldn't recognize her writing. She isn't stupid enough to blindly accept that it came from the Mistress' hand, and she most certainly isn't trusting enough not to assume it isn't a ploy from one of her enemies. To attend this secret meeting would be a high gamble, one she would never take without at least a bit of insurance.
The idea came to her when the time of meeting began drawing very close. She contacted one of her many ears within the serving staff in the Red Keep. The plan was simple. First, the serving girl would go down there, under the guise that she was cleaning the grounds, while looking around for traces of Lady Arya, or worse, the Celtigars. Next, Cathay would double check, under one of her disguises. Just a longtime courtier of a landless house, drunk out of her mind. If everything checks out, then the meeting goes as planned. With a couple of stags changing hands, the plan was set.
Cathay's spy went down to the dungeons, where the skulls of the Targaryen dragons were once held before being placed once more in the throne room, and she found nothing. Absolutely no trace of anyone watching. Though of course if Cathay really was meeting with Arya, there wouldn't have been. But on the surface, it seemed as if there'd be no traps waiting for Cathay.
When she heard the word, Cathay donned her disguise. The next person to come down the steps was a dirty-blonde woman, appearing somewhere in her late thirties. She stumbled down the steps, occasionally stopping to hiccup. Cathay's eyes betrayed her outward demonstrations. They zipped about in her sockets, absorbing the entire room back to front and back again. With each confirmation that the chambers looked empty, her paranoia mounted exponentially. Surely it was a plot! She was going to be captured, most definitely! The steps weren't far, but for how long could she outrun all the guards and mercenaries surely hiding behind the innumerable pillars?
A voice rang out among the pillars, in the darkness, a woman's voice, though she could not discern from where it came; at times seeming to come from right before Cathay or from all around, "You can abandon the disguise, Lady Cathay. There is no one else in here besides you and myself. And you have nothing to fear from me."
Something from the shadows seemed to coalesce into solid form and Lady Arya Stark, the Mistress of Whispers appeared before Cathay in a black robe, "Pleased to finally make your acquantince, my lady."
"You as well, my lady," Cathay responded, removing the features of her disguise. People spoke in whispers of the mysterious Arya, who in a single stroke performed a great many political assassinations that turned the tide of the Targaryen Invasion. However, if Cathay was honest with herself, the woman across from her didn't look it. She was exceedingly small and spindly, and completely unkempt. Not what most would think of. "Have you read the Memoirs In the Web, my lady?" Cathay asked, trying to put off the inevitable conversation.
Arya kept most of her face hidden behind her hood, and in the darkness it was hard to see much of anything, but perhaps a small smile touched her lips, "Lord Varys' secret accounting of the reign of the Mad King, King Robert, King Joffrey, King Tommen, and Queen Daenerys as well as his own activities as Master of Whispers? Indeed, I have the original. And very few have even laid eyes on it. Lord Tyrion has read a copy. But not even my brother the King has. How did you chance upon it?"
"I think you'll understand if I choose not to refer to the scribes under my employ by name," Cathay said. She has clashed with the royal intelligence network in the past. They likely know nothing about the original source of their occasional torment, but it was only a matter of time. Business was sounding better by the second. "The bastard baby," she prompted. "You wanted to speak about . . . it?"
Arya reclined her head in answer, "Yes. This child could change a great deal, depending on the circumstances. A prince or princess always has an effect, whether they are trueborn or bastard. My brother proved that. Tell me what you found out. You must have discovered something by now."
"Something, yes," Cathay said. "I, under guise, met with the Captain Ardrian, house of Celtigar. He implied none-too-subtly that the true father of the child has no link with the Targaryen house. Unfortunately, I could not goad him any further. If I recall his exact words were: 'all Jonquil needed was a prince', and I'm hoping you could make better sense of it than I can."
Arya was silent for several moments before saying, "Ardrian is Jonquil's brother. He is likely to know quite a bit of who the father may be. It seems this was not some affair of passion, it was a concentrated ploy. But for what purpose? And those words... they certainly cast the parentage into doubt. But he said, she needed a prince. There are several. Not just Aemon. Viserys, Jahaerys. Rhaegar. Aegon Targaryen. His bastard sons. Viserys' and Daenyra's sons are too young yet. But It seems to me that another dragon may be the father. And Viserys has many bastards already, one more wouldn't have such an effect. The same for Aegon. Rhaegar, too shy for such a thing. But now I believe the father is someone of dragon blood, and someone manipulated it to be so. Either House Celtigar as a whole or members of it, perhaps working in concert with the Faith. And other parties besides, mayhaps. Troubling, very troubling." Arya seemed lost in thought for a moment.
"And I believe that until the child is born, anyone can pay a field worker a stag or two to put a bastard in a lady, but arguing philosophy won't get us far," Cathay said. "Point is, as the Memoirs kindly put it, 'it is because people love their masters that the verdict is surest. Truth plays only a second hand to authority'. The Celtigars want to start trouble, no doubt about that. We can deny it all, like in the Tyrionic Trials. People will listen more to the king than dissenters roosting near Dragonstone."
"Indeed, someone in House Celtigar is plotting something. Against us? Possibly. For their benefit? Certainly. Lord Ardrian has no answered any missives, he's preparing the Claw Isle Fleet for battle. But Ardrian the Elder may know something of this as well. We will have to send an Inquisitor to the isle. Not that much will come of it. But they wouldn't have gotten these ideas on their own. Someone is in league with them. And we can't be sure who in the House is in on it. For all we know, there are several different ploys at work here."
Arya paused, "The throne has offered no official word yet. It has been determined that we shall wait until the babe is born and Aemon returns before we can offer any definitive judgements. For now, all that we have acknowledged is that Jonquil Celtigar is mothering a bastard. If the babe comes out dark or gold of hair, then the question is settled. But if they are silver haired or white haired... then it becomes much murkier. Jonquil has already been dismissed from the Septas, however."
A moment passed, "Hmm, perhaps someone was counting on it. But if the child is truly one of the King's kin, he has decided they will be acknowledged and brought up in comfort, like all the others. That is why we must wait to determine the parentage. But we still need to investigate who is doing this."
"Do you have any theories on what is happening here? You're obviously much more than a mere lordling's daughter."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cathay stammered. Bad move. She quickly recovered, and composed herself. It wouldn't do to have someone like Arya going to Starks, or worse yet, the king himself, and blab all of her plans to them. She can't let her Bolton ancestry get out before the time is right, or her chance at power is lost. "What I meant to say was that we cannot wait until the babe is born to make a decision. The longer we let it lie, the more the smallfolk talk, and suddenly the king no longer has any authority over his people. I cannot speak for the king, but the best action would be to take a stance, preferably within the fortnight."
Arya made no overt reaction and finally said, "Your words will be considered. But my brother has never been one to think too highly of gossip and opinion. Neither is my sister in law. But if you want us to take a stance, it would be helpful to get to the bottom of this. You have another assignment. I want you to talk to Ser Gaemon Celtigar, he's a captain in the royal fleet. And he's Lord Ardrian's nephew. He may be more pliable than Captain Ardrian. Do you think you can do this?"
"As you task, my lady," Cathay said. She dropped into a quick curtsy and ascended the stairs, berating herself. Obviously, her disguise was on some level off. If the Mistress of Whispers could see through it, then it obviously wasn't good enough.
Arya watched Cathay leave the dungeon and she stared after the young woman, until long after she was gone. She was hiding something. Arya did not think she was involved in this plot. But Cathay Whitehoof was trying to keep Arya from finding out something about her. And she was going to find out what. Arya melted away back into the shadows, to continue her work.
Lindsay
Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Rightful Queen of Westeros, of the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar. Rightful First Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Heiress to King Viserys by right, Protector of the Realm hereby declares War upon the Usurper, Aegon Hightower, his Lady Mother, Alicent – the former Queen and upon her House who have sought to steal my birthright.
Upon any and all that would stand with the Usurper and his ‘green thieves’. Upon any that will not bestir themselves to join my cause and restore to me the crown that they have stolen so that I might defend and protect your rights and honour in the years to come as I ask of you to protect mine today.
Rally your troops, ready your ships and garrison your homes. Saddle your horses and sharpen your swords. Bend no knees for this false king and his vile schemers and I vow that we will sweep this blight from history and your sacrifices, bravery and honour shall be rewarded in perpetuity.
Fire and Blood
Rhaenyra Targaryen- Your true queen.
Lindsay was lucky this time. Most days, Uncle would attend to the ravenry at around this time in the eve, but she got there first. Uncle said nothing, but she wasn't stupid. He was noticeably more tired, and when he made that false move pulling up his front piece from its defensive position, she knew something was up. There was something on his mind, no doubt, something that he either didn't want to worry her about, or something he didn't want her acting on. Lindsay hummed, lost in thought. Well, if this is the answer to her questions, it had better get answering.
The old servant was right. He was croaking to another of the castle staff, with worrying thoughts of war and crisis coming to the doorstep of the Ring. They didn't know, but Lindsay was hiding around the corner, snooping on their conversation. She remembered that day, how she ran to Uncle Frados, gasping with breath, words coming out of her mouth not entirely within her full control in an incoherent jumble of letters. He took her aside, soothed her with his ever-calm presence and soft words, and promised to have the two servants disciplined for spreading lies about the court. They never were.
Lindsay clutched the wet parchment in her hand, contemplating the words for a few seconds. Then, realizing the time, quickly rolled it back up and stuffed it into the pouch it came from, then tied it haphazardly on the leg of a random raven. The jangling of the raven-keeper's many keys was starting to get louder, and she had to run.
The front doors leading into the main room were always creaky. This annoyed her on most days, but this one most of all. Not only that, but they also had a tendency to shut with a booming slam. Lindsay froze where she stood. There was no way half the castle didn't hear it. The clattering of groggy footsteps pounded through the walls, and Uncle Frados burst in not more than a minute later, dressed in nothing but his shorts and sleeping cap. Orphan-Maker's dark blade gleamed malevolently in the sparse torchlight, as if some evil spirit had possessed the already frightening side-sword. Ser Haraway was next, nearly bumping into Uncle as he charged through into the main hall.
"Lindsay, what are you doing awake at this hour!?" Uncle demanded, lowering the sword with a sigh of relief.
"I . . . was thirsty, and went down to the kitchens to find water . . . and then I got lost," she mumbled, already realizing how silly that sounded. Judging by Uncle's expression, he was as convinced as she would be in the same situation.
" . . . Ser Haraway, a word, then escort Lady Roxton to the kitchens, then straight back to her chambers. See that she finds her way better this time," Uncle said, before exchanging a few more words with the scrawny knight. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but judging by how Ser Haraway seemed eager to take her away from the main hall to where she 'wanted' to go, no doubt it wasn't kind. Lindsay could feel the gloom settling in the stone walls, the castle itself bunkering down in preparation for the war to come. She felt a chill in her spine, that ran up and down her back and refused to jump off. There is a war, and it's coming for the Ring.
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