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.
"And I am under strict orders to prevent you. We'll take it from here," growled the kobold guard captain, glaring up at the dracon. "If it's just wood and stone, you have nothing to worry about. Head into the palace and meet with His Might the Emperor . . . without your weapons, thank you very much." He shouted to his troops, and they immediately started getting to work extracting the stone from the wagons. The environment was already getting tense. Sharp stares went around the whole of the two guard teams, and no kobold would turn his back on any dracon. ____________________________________ Kutur was shocked. Stunned in his place. He didn't know what to do. Eventually, a gasp left his snout, and a small claw reached up and touched the place that Kali put her tongue on. "I . . . " he croaked. "Ahh . . . "
The two of them stood there, quiet and rather light on clothing, for a few awkward seconds. Kutur was not a charismatic kobold, not by any definition. He knew not how to wrangle with his words, especially not with beautiful girls. "Uhh . . . ahh . . . " he mumbled, in his head cursing how his tongue would slip up when he thought words would come. ________________________________ "The wagons have arrived outside the city walls, Your Might," came a report from a guard captain. Rughoi took a deep breath and readied himself for the meeting.
"Let them in. Take their weapons, and do not allow any soldiers or guards within the palace walls. I will have to hear what these dracons have to say, despite good evidence to the contrary. Find my magister. I would feel better if Kutur were here."
(Another collab with @MrDidact . What a pal, amirite?)
Lys loomed over the little ship, its spires soaring high above the dinky mast. The sun glinted off the lapping waves, as they washed in and out on its shores of white sand. "This is a waste of time," Artur groaned, scowling at the majestic island. "I should be cleaving the heads of Stone Men, Brightroar in my hands right at this moment. We have no reason to stop here, and neither did we have one at the Arbor nor Planky Town." He stormed over to the far end of the deck and rested his hands on the railing, gazing out to sea with a look of regret.
Clayton stomped up to the railing and scoffed, spitting over the side of the ship, "If we didn't stop in the Arbor or Planky Town, we wouldn't have food and water. And I'd have to eat you. As bitter and unsavory as you probably taste."
He popped the top on the wineskin and drank, "I wouldn't have had this to help me get through all of your whinging too." Clayton passed the wineskin to his friend, offering it brusquely, "And we're stopping here because we need more food and water. And I need a damned woman. A pretty one, unlike you. You can get to killing Stone Men after I get my sword sheathed."
Artur thought about slapping the wineskin from Clayton's hand for a few seconds, but decided against it. Reluctantly, he took the skin and raised it to his own lips. "This will be the last stop," he declared, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "This, and Volantis. My ancestor Tommen was confirmed to be there last. I must know what he saw." His hands gripped the wooden bar separating him from the open water, as if the legendary sword were right there in his hands.
His friend laughed, "I'll tell you what he saw, a whorehouse, before the big trip. That's what I would've done. After getting some food of course." Clayton leaned on the railing and took the skin, back for another drink, "I don't know why I let you drag me into this, Lannister. I could be at home right now, fucking the blacksmith's wife. Or if I did go with you, we could have gone on one of those big crimson-sailed, gold-flaked war galleys your father loves. With a company of armed and armored men. Now it's just you, me, some sea rats, a few of your father's dumbest, and whatever sorry lot you conned into coming."
A big, black hound with cropped ears and black eyes came up, wagging its' stubby tail and Clayton pet the dog, "And Clegane here, course. My point being. We could have been travelling in comfort and style, but no. Had to go off half-cocked, cause you stormed off like a woman on the rag." Clayton drank.
"It is your honor and your privilege to accompany a Lannister on such a noble quest," Artur said, turning his nose up and giving his worst impersonation of his older brother Michel. The aloof airs quickly gave way to a mild chuckle. "You had to be there, I suppose," he finished, returning to his grim demeanor. "Michel was out for me that night. Like every night. I hate it. If that night never coming meant that my knighthood would never be given, I would have taken it till I died." He grabbed the skin out of Clayton's hands and tipped it over, sending the last dregs into his own mouth. "Come. Let's get ourselves some Lysene wine. I grow sick of this Dornish mix."
Clayton rolled his eyes, pitching his voice high, "'Oh my brother was mean to me, nobody in the Seven Kingdoms has it worse than me'" he laughed and followed, frowning at the empty wineskin, "You highborn are hilarious, thinking your problems are so big when you sleep on your warm beds and eat your fine food. But aye, I agree with you. Time to get some wine and women." The crew of the ship saw them in to dock, and the drunken captain they paid to take them was finagling with the port master as the handful of guardsmen and companions they brought fell in line with them. Mostly the outcasts and n'er do wells of Jason Lannister's household, along with some Lannisport scrappings. Including Halfmaester Jorje, a failed Acolyte of the Citadel. He was some Lantell or Lannett or something or other, but was booted from the Order and landed in a winesink. They brought him along in case they needed medical attention, which was likely.
The travelling band set out down the gangplank and entered another world. The streets were noisy, filled with people of every color, filled with music and the tongues of every nation in the known world. Streetwalkers and cutpurses mingling on the streets with merchants and townsmen. The Westerosi had never seen such an exotic place before, even more foreign than Planky Town, and Clayton gaped openly at the sights and sounds, "Where the hell are we gonna find good wine in all of this? You don't speak Bastard Valyrian do you Lannister? Halfmaester?"
"Excuse me?" Artur said, tapping on the shoulder of the first passing person he saw. The man turned and spoke a phrase of Lysene. "Where can we go find wine?" Artur asked, speaking slowly. The man just replied with more of his foreign words, and sauntered off. Arthur huffed, and tried again with the next. " . . . Tavern? Wine?" he asked, miming the tipping of a tankard into his mouth. With animated speech and gestures, the stranger finally pointed down the road, where a sign painted with a blue horse hung above an open door. Conversation and commotion resonated from that point, making the fact that it was a tavern quite clear. "Well I could have deduced that," Artur muttered, before returning to his crew.
Clayton, followed, the mutt close on his heels. The sight of Lannister men-at-arms made some people look askance at them, but at least nobody would try to pick their pockets. Not with Clay's scary mug. He shoved their way into the tavern and pointed at the tavern keeper, holding up several fingers to indicate how many drinks they needed. Clay stepped next to a group of drinking sailors and grunted. He was well over six feet tall and had a mean look on his face. Clegane snarled and the sailors got the message. They vacated and Clay leaned back against the wall. Eventually the serving wench came by with wine and Clay pantomined a spoon near his mouth, for food and she nodded. He gave her a cheeky slap as she went and Clay smiled, "That's what I miss on the sea, Artur. A man gets a thirst for more than just wine."
He raised his tankard in a mock toast, "To Artur Lannister! For getting all of us stupid bastards in this mess!" He laughed and drank deeply.
Artur gave Clayton a playful punch on the shoulder, and raised up his own tankard. "To Brightroar as well!" he shouted. "For getting itself nice and lost, so that we'd have to actually work for once to retake it!" He too drank a large share of his cup, and when he set it back down, he found himself face to face with a young, wide-eyed girl. She gave a sly smile and sat down in his lap.
"Hello, my Westeros knight," she cooed, wrapping her arms around Artur's neck. "I know all about your lords and houses. I know all about your family . . . the Tie Rells, was it?"
"Not interested," Artur growled, pushing her off. He hoped she could see the blood-ropes in his head pulse. Even far from home, the gods sought to deal him a humiliating bad hand.
Clayton smiled and took her into his waist, offering her a drink from his cup, "No not the Tyrells, sweetheart. We are men of House Lannister, the richest and proudest in Westeros. I am Lord Clayton of Casterly Rock, and that's my man servant and squire, Wat. Wat, apologize to the lady!" The pale-haired young girl laughed and took a drink and Clayton roared for another tankard. He smiled at Artur and put his hand on his shoulder, "Lighten up Wat. We have a beautiful woman here and you're still sour as your mother. We oughta get you to a brothel I say, right boys?" The boys concurred.
Clay handed the girl her tankard and said, "What's your name, beautiful?"
Her Lysene lilt flowed, "Tanna, m'lord Lan ster."
He smiled cheekily, "My lord, I like that. Say that again." She did and he smiled. The steaming bowls of stew came and he began to dig in with panache, "So Wat, mayhaps we can visit one of those Magisters? Flash some Lannister gold and we can get silk sheets and a feather bed. Probably some girls. What say you, squire?" He fed Clegane some scraps from the bowl, which he ate happily.
"You're not funny, Clayton," Artur said, trying in rather poor success to fill the wineskin using the tankard.
"It's m'lord ta you," said a greasy sailor, giving Artur a slap on the back. The others sitting around the table roared in assent. Even Clegane's bark made its way to the edges of the building.
"Well, if Lys as given me anything, it has taught me the valuable lesson of planning my own voyages from now on. Also, of finding better friends." He sat back, and thought about the sea. It was a silly thought, but he always felt that the longer he stayed idle, the further away Brightroar became.
Jorje interjected, already half drunk, "Well, my lord. This path was chosen to maximize both speed and efficiency of travel, by resupply. We are still well on schedule." He hiccuped and Clayton slapped his back, "Maester's right! We're making good time, and besides who else would be your friends? Beggars can't be choosers."
He gave Tanna a smack and she giggled, Clayton leaning in, "After this, we can take you back to show you our ship, my lady. The Proud Lion it is, the pride of the Golden Fleet. Finest ship in Lannisport. You can see the lord's cabin, my cabin,"
"I would love to see it m'lord."
"Oh, you will, it's a promise."
Clayton turned to Artur, "Well if we're not staying at a Magister's palace, we have to go to one of those pleasure houses. That's what this city is known for, for fuck's sake. How you gonna go to Lys and not visit a whore house?"
"By not visiting Lys, apparently," muttered Artur, only loud enough for himself to hear. He stood up, and motioned for the others to do so as well. "Come, if visiting a brothel is what will get . . . ugh . . . 'm'lord' . . . 's lazy bottom back to the sea, then let us go. Show us the way, Tanna." He reached down and gave Clegane a good rubbing behind the ears. Clegane's throat rumbled appreciatively, and he curled up by Artur's leg.
Clay sprung up, half carrying the woman, "How would you know Tanna is a whore, she's a woman of quality she is." Jorje coughed and sprang off a quick phrase, which she replied to, and the former acolyte said, "She says the best, closest place is a few minutes down the street, my lord." Clayton grimaced and drank before smacking her on the rump once more, "Alright boys, you can stay here and drink. The squire and I have lordly business to attend to. Come on, boy." Clegane sprang up and the two Westermen walked out of the tavern, Jorje staying behind to converse with Tanna after giving them quick directions.
Eventually, they managed to find the place in a much nicer part of the port, with red lamps hanging outside. Clay smiled, "Ah, you can always tell a whorehouse, no matter where you go. Come on, you're buying." They pushed in and they were transported into a clean, elegant space with soft melodic music being played on a harp as several girls danced with silk shifts. Clayton's smile was ear to ear, as they took in the sights and sounds. Everything was soft cloth and the several fragrant scents were in the air.
Clay punched Artur in the shoulder, "Alright, buy me two and you can get one. I want one of those silver haired girls, and one of the black ones. Never been with a dark girl or a silver girl like that. You can get whatever." The madame came up to them with an insincere smile and asked Artur what he desired in bastard Valyrian.
"A bed for myself," he said, pulling out his purse and counting the coins. His words trailed off into a groan when he found the coins to be lighter than he had remembered. He racked his head, trying to remember his calculations, but it was all lost to the wine. "And two girls for . . . " he waited till Clayton was out of earshot before continuing. " . . . the drunken lowborn over there. One in dark skin-paint, the other in a wig of silver." The madame nodded, and Artur saw his precious coins, down to the last groat, handed away.
Clayton rubbed his hands in glee, not noticing in the least and took both of them up to some room, his arms around the two women as they lead him out of sight. Clegane found a cushion to lay on and went to sleep peacefully. As Artur was about to head to a spare bed, he espied a tall, silver-haired man with sharp features and lilac eyes walk down the stairs. His hair hung to his shoulders, long and loose, and he was bedecked in rich silks with a gold ring, a jade necklace, and all manner of rich accoutrements. At his side hung a long, slender blade with an elegantly swirled crossguard, and a golden pommel. It was halfway between a Westerosi longsword and an Essosi rapier, a weapon that could both thrust and slash. The scrollwork on the sheathe was rich, runes inscribed in Old Valyrian across.
It was a weapon recognizable to any who were serious about weaponry. That was none other than the Valyrian steel sword Truth, making the man none other than Aurion Rogare, of the rich and powerful Rogare family, one of the leading houses in the Magister's Council. Aurion saw Artur and nodded in polite greeting, about to pass through without further comment.
Artur returned the nod with one of his own, and added a wave. "Magister Aurion?" he called. This made the man stop. "I've been informed that you are an associate of my father's. Artur Lannister, at your service." He bowed, and awaited response. "My father had many good things to say about you. He tells me your wisdom with coin rivals that of the greatest Sealords of Braavos." This is an outright lie, of course. Lord Jason had in fact multiple times loudly proclaimed that the Rogare bank loses money through the coins slipping through their fat fingers.
Aurion turned, with a pensive furrow in his brow then a look of recognition, "Lannister? Ah, Artur Lannister. I've never had the pleasure, but I've met with your father and uncle a few times, for business. The Lions of Lannister are always a welcome sight in a port." He smiled and extended a hand for shaking, "What brings you to our humble city, Ser Artur? Touring the local color?"
"I seek to do what none have done before, and brave the Smoking Sea of Valyria," he said. His goal he kept silent. There was something about the magister that festered doubts in his mind, stray thoughts that perhaps this man was not the best person to give too much information to. The magister's eyes bored into his own, as if peeling back the skin on his face and seeing into his mind. "I am here with my friend . . . where is he? I've lost him, I'm afraid. Uhh . . . good day to you. I'll give my father your best."
Aurion's brow arched, "The Smoking Sea? Trying to find some Valyrian treasure eh? Did your father sanction this or is this some youthful fancy?" Aurion was perhaps at most ten years Artur's elder, it was hard to tell with his Valyrian features, "Well, either way, I can't let Jason Lannister's son go on the way to the ruins of Old Valyria without some aid. Why don't you join me for dinner at my manse? You look like you've been travelling a bit ragged. I can have your ship's supplies refilled, and make sure you set off once more fresh rested. As a sign of my regard for Lord Jason. You can bring your travelling companions as well. What say you?"
Artur could not believe his luck. In one act of proper respect, he netted himself a meal, supplies for his voyage, and a bed to rest in, all without spending a penny! "I would be honored to my core!" he exclaimed, kneeling before the magister. "Oi, Clayton! Get out here, you've played lord for long enough! We're off to the Rogare manse!"
Kutur shied away from Kali's touch. He was home now, with his own people, but some foreign habits he cannot shake. He remembered embracing everyone he met, the moment he reached the magical academy. That turned out to be rather unnerving to the human folk that the archmage had to explain to him the cultural differences. Now he felt those differences, but on the other end. It felt strange, being so different and yet so alike.
"I suppose," he squeaked, slowly trying to maneuver Kali's hand off of his shoulder short of brushing it off.
History: The Lannisters are a majestic, aloof family, sure in their strength. They can arguably trace their roots back to the figure of legends, Lann the Clever, who outmaneuvered the Casterlys and stole their keep, built atop a mountain filled with gold, right out from under them. Since then, if that had ever happened, the Lannisters, as much sons of the First Men as the Starks, ruled in the Westerlands as Kings of the Rock. This continued all through the Andal invasion, with a slight hiccup involving House Lydden, and ending with the Targaryen invasion from Dragonstone.
When Aegon Targaryen and his dragons swooped in from the east, the Lannisters had the glory of defeating the Valyrian army in open battle, but was thrown back by the combined might of the three dragons. They called that tragic battle the Field of Fire, and the Lannisters, fearing retribution on their homeland, gave up the fight. They were offered by Aegon the title of Warden, to guard the west, which they accepted, and still hold that office with pride.
Now, as conflict looms over the kingdom, threatening to boil over in all-out war that would ravage the continent, the Lannisters are faced with a difficult decision. Inner conflicts have broken out between members of the family, and there has been talk of brother killing brother within the walls of Casterly Rock. The Lord Jason Lannister is the last figure trying largely to keep his family together, for the House Lannister must stand together if they are to survive the impending Dance of the Dragons.
Name: Jason Lannister Age: 40
Name: Johanna Lannister Age: 44
It was by circumstance that the two met. The Westerlings, ambitious as they were, sought to press the little advantage they had over their peers by asking for a hopeful marriage prospect to the Lannisters. The Lannisters, by sheer coincidence, were themselves looking for a marriage. Jason's elder brothers had died in a sickness that threatened the castle, leaving only the twins left. This hasty match was decided on, made, and quickly followed through.
This decision turned out to be rather fortunate. Johanna, as it turns out, was quick, determined, and unforgiving to the enemies of the house. In the early years of their marriage, when she was but sixteen and Jason was but twelve, it was she who handled the many tasks of administrating the castle and its surrounding lands. She was also the one to teach Jason much of the skills of ruling, and when he took the reigns at his own sixteenth year, the two were an inseparable team.
It was with pride, then, that their first child was born. A healthy Lannister, who was quickly proving to become the best of his two parents. A daughter followed two years later, as bright and full of energy. In those years, business was booming all throughout Lannisport, as if the gods themselves were celebrating the young children.
Disaster would swiftly strike the family, threatening to sever the ties of familial bond. A child, born of Johanna, but quite apparently not a Lannister. This was a child of bad spirit, a bawling, aggressive creature that few septas would touch. His hair taunted the family, showing that even in the happiest households could there be wanting of those outside the marriage. The relationship between Jason and Johanna quickly grew tense, with him accusing her of siring a bastard and she refusing. It was fortunate that they did not separate, but the doubts still lingered.
Still today, however, the family has stuck together. Jason keeps the land and the children together, and Johanna still stands close at his side. Together, and only together, would House Lannister continue to sound its roar to all corners of Westeros.
Age: 24
Lannisters were notorious for their pride, and Michel most of all. His hair was golden as the sun and hung low around his face, as if shouting to all his ancestry. He walked with a swagger and talked with a sneer, as if he were already Lord of the Westerlands, or even a king. However, his pride is not completely unfounded. Michel is bright, and confident in his decisions, a capable leader to rule the Westerlands. However, he tends towards stubbornness and rashness, especially when it comes to family.
When he was born, he was celebrated at every turn. He was the golden boy, the son of the Lannisters, and apple in his parents' eyes. But when his sister came, suddenly that was all gone. His parents attention, the constant lauding of the servants as he passed, it was as if a light had gone out of the castle, moving away from him and landing on the little baby girl. He resented this sudden loss of attention then, and even well into Genna's older life, he would still resent her.
Worse still was the bastard. The Brownmane, who sauntered around the castle like he owned the place. Michel would never admit it, but he saw in that younger son all the things he didn't have. Strength, agility, skill with horse and sword, those were things Michel had found little skill in, and rather disliked. Of course, everyone loved the Brownmane better. The two of them quarreled day and night, culminating in one when he up and left, vowing blood on his own family. That night would haunt Michel nightly, filling him with fear and anger.
However, his integrity as a Lannister could never be broken. The heir to Casterly Rock is one that can never be forgotten, for better or worse.
Age: 22
Genna could never live up to the prim and proper expectations of her mother. When she was young, she would frequently visit the city, against the wishes of the family in general, and speak to the sailors working at the docks. When she returned home, day after day, covered in dried dirt and scrapes, she would have to face the ire of both her parents and the relentless mocking of her brother. Thus, her relationship to the rest of the family is rather distant, to say the least.
When she got older, her associations became in many ways less innocent. She started frequenting taverns, drinking herself into a stupor, and spending time with radical thinking visiting merchants who always have opinions on the current situation of government. Slowly, their ideals got to her, and she would find herself thinking opposite to rulings made by her father.
Because of this, and because of her history, she spent long periods of time far away from Casterly Rock. She would make frequent tours across Westeros and Essos, anything to get away from her family. This, more often than not, included Dragonstone and the Vale, and she could count many a Black as one of her friends.
When the time comes for war, she will have to make a choice that will decide her standing with her family and her liege forever.
Age: 17
Artur was branded from birth. He came from his mother's womb, thin wisps of hair clinging to his head. Chestnut hair. Brown, like that of his mother's. Rumors swirled about the circumstances of his birth, many that implicated Johanna's infidelity. Such was his childhood life, pushed around by his siblings and peers as much as they push around each other. Bastard child, they called him. Brownmane, or Shithead, if they were in poor spirit. But he knew that he was a lion. He knew his destiny.
Armed with these thoughts, he threw himself into squirehood, starting at an inordinately early age, and most would say he was a bit too eager with the sword. As early as fifteen, he almost daily picked fights with sailors twice his weight by the docks, and came home day after day, face swollen and purpling. This did little to silence the thoughts of his bastard heritage. However, by seventeen, nobody could deny his skill with the sword, and he finally achieved his knighthood from his father, if a bit begrudgingly.
Then, on that very eve of his knighting, he gets into a quarrel with his elder brother Michel. Michel had approached him, and demanded he take his own surname, now that he had a knighthood. Artur had refused, saying he already possessed one. This led to shouts, curses, and threats. "You will never be heir!" Artur remembered shouting, as he stormed from Casterly Rock. "The Lannister heir will wield the ancestral sword of Brightroar! I will return and sully its edge with your blood!" That was the last the two brothers saw of each other. With the last of his money, Artur went to the docks, and pooling the paltry contents of his and his friend's purses, purchased a run-down little water glider, in the desperate hope that a ship like that would take them to Valyria. Valyria, where Artur's last hope of redemption lies.
Now Artur sails towards the ruins of Old Valyria, with a skeleton crew at his back, awaiting the challenges that will no doubt come his way.
Age: 12
The young one. Deathly shy, and afraid of most things. Most afraid of being married off to an older man and forgotten by her family.
Shi hopped off the barstool and waddled after Annie, hoping that his stature was not attracting any looks. The basement was a dark, musty place, with corners well built for hiding things in the shadows, should any city guard feel the need to inspect anything. When he looked around, he found the team to fit the room perfectly. All arrogant and vicious, they were, no more and no less. No different from the last team he worked with. "Goodings day," he mumbled quietly. It can't hurt to get a little familiar with the member dynamics.
"Thanking of you for letting you of use me your inn," Shi stuttered, tripping over some of the words. He has yet to master this language of this foreign land, far from home. "I of wishing there was to pay you back. Unfortunate, business is slow. Too many of guarding, no money to take. If I am to returnings your generosity, I must have good team." He slumped in his barstool, waiting for Annie's response. She had taken him off the street, out from wallowing in his dishonor, and allowed him to use his skills to best effect in this city he didn't understand. He owed everything to her, and was thankful to all the deities that may exist that he had such a friend. She even took time out of her day to teach him the common local language. "Money becoming very little. I cannot make payment to many guard anymore, or give many loan. If you having business I may assist, I would be grateful to my death."
The water enveloped Kutur, soaking straight through his robes. He gasped, sputtered, and shivered as he splashed around in the shallow water, squawking like a chicken. When he righted himself, he found Kali standing where he used to be, bent double and laughing. Kutur glared up at her. Time for payback.
Kali's laughing soon stopped when two lengths reached out from the water and grabbed her by the waist. A vague form of a head and torso followed, resembling to an extent the form of a human. The elemental then tossed Kali down the river into the deep center with a flick of its arms, sending her into the water with a splash. Kutur peeled his wet robe off of himself and set it down by the shore, chuckling a bit to himself.
History: The Lannisters are a majestic, aloof family, sure in their strength. They can arguably trace their roots back to the figure of legends, Lann the Clever, who outmaneuvered the Casterlys and stole their keep, built atop a mountain filled with gold, right out from under them. Since then, if that had ever happened, the Lannisters, as much sons of the First Men as the Starks, ruled in the Westerlands as Kings of the Rock. This continued all through the Andal invasion, with a slight hiccup involving House Lydden, and ending with the Targaryen invasion from Dragonstone.
When Aegon Targaryen and his dragons swooped in from the east, the Lannisters had the glory of defeating the Valyrian army in open battle, but was thrown back by the combined might of the three dragons. They called that tragic battle the Field of Fire, and the Lannisters, fearing retribution on their homeland, gave up the fight. They were offered by Aegon the title of Warden, to guard the west, which they accepted, and still hold that office with pride.
Now, as conflict looms over the kingdom, threatening to boil over in all-out war that would ravage the continent, the Lannisters are faced with a difficult decision. Inner conflicts have broken out between members of the family, and there has been talk of brother killing brother within the walls of Casterly Rock. The Lord Jason Lannister is the last figure trying largely to keep his family together, for the House Lannister must stand together if they are to survive the impending Dance of the Dragons.
Name: Jason Lannister Age: 40
Name: Johanna Lannister Age: 44
It was by circumstance that the two met. The Westerlings, ambitious as they were, sought to press the little advantage they had over their peers by asking for a hopeful marriage prospect to the Lannisters. The Lannisters, by sheer coincidence, were themselves looking for a marriage. Jason's elder brothers had died in a sickness that threatened the castle, leaving only the twins left. This hasty match was decided on, made, and quickly followed through.
This decision turned out to be rather fortunate. Johanna, as it turns out, was quick, determined, and unforgiving to the enemies of the house. In the early years of their marriage, when she was but sixteen and Jason was but twelve, it was she who handled the many tasks of administrating the castle and its surrounding lands. She was also the one to teach Jason much of the skills of ruling, and when he took the reigns at his own sixteenth year, the two were an inseparable team.
It was with pride, then, that their first child was born. A healthy Lannister, who was quickly proving to become the best of his two parents. A daughter followed two years later, as bright and full of energy. In those years, business was booming all throughout Lannisport, as if the gods themselves were celebrating the young children.
Disaster would swiftly strike the family, threatening to sever the ties of familial bond. A child, born of Johanna, but quite apparently not a Lannister. This was a child of bad spirit, a bawling, aggressive creature that few septas would touch. His hair taunted the family, showing that even in the happiest households could there be wanting of those outside the marriage. The relationship between Jason and Johanna quickly grew tense, with him accusing her of siring a bastard and she refusing. It was fortunate that they did not separate, but the doubts still lingered.
Still today, however, the family has stuck together. Jason keeps the land and the children together, and Johanna still stands close at his side. Together, and only together, would House Lannister continue to sound its roar to all corners of Westeros.
Age: 24
Lannisters were notorious for their pride, and Michel most of all. His hair was golden as the sun and hung low around his face, as if shouting to all his ancestry. He walked with a swagger and talked with a sneer, as if he were already Lord of the Westerlands, or even a king. However, his pride is not completely unfounded. Michel is bright, and confident in his decisions, a capable leader to rule the Westerlands. However, he tends towards stubbornness and rashness, especially when it comes to family.
When he was born, he was celebrated at every turn. He was the golden boy, the son of the Lannisters, and apple in his parents' eyes. But when his sister came, suddenly that was all gone. His parents attention, the constant lauding of the servants as he passed, it was as if a light had gone out of the castle, moving away from him and landing on the little baby girl. He resented this sudden loss of attention then, and even well into Genna's older life, he would still resent her.
Worse still was the bastard. The Brownmane, who sauntered around the castle like he owned the place. Michel would never admit it, but he saw in that younger son all the things he didn't have. Strength, agility, skill with horse and sword, those were things Michel had found little skill in, and rather disliked. Of course, everyone loved the Brownmane better. The two of them quarreled day and night, culminating in one when he up and left, vowing blood on his own family. That night would haunt Michel nightly, filling him with fear and anger.
However, his integrity as a Lannister could never be broken. The heir to Casterly Rock is one that can never be forgotten, for better or worse.
Age: 22
Genna could never live up to the prim and proper expectations of her mother. When she was young, she would frequently visit the city, against the wishes of the family in general, and speak to the sailors working at the docks. When she returned home, day after day, covered in dried dirt and scrapes, she would have to face the ire of both her parents and the relentless mocking of her brother. Thus, her relationship to the rest of the family is rather distant, to say the least.
When she got older, her associations became in many ways less innocent. She started frequenting taverns, drinking herself into a stupor, and spending time with radical thinking visiting merchants who always have opinions on the current situation of government. Slowly, their ideals got to her, and she would find herself thinking opposite to rulings made by her father.
Because of this, and because of her history, she spent long periods of time far away from Casterly Rock. She would make frequent tours across Westeros and Essos, anything to get away from her family. This, more often than not, included Dragonstone and the Vale, and she could count many a Black as one of her friends.
When the time comes for war, she will have to make a choice that will decide her standing with her family and her liege forever.
Age: 17
Artur was branded from birth. He came from his mother's womb, thin wisps of hair clinging to his head. Chestnut hair. Brown, like that of his mother's. Rumors swirled about the circumstances of his birth, many that implicated Johanna's infidelity. Such was his childhood life, pushed around by his brothers and peers as much as they push around each other. Bastard child, they called him. Brownmane, or Shithead, if they were in poor spirit. But he knew that he was a lion. He knew his destiny.
Armed with these thoughts, he threw himself into squirehood, starting at an inordinately early age, and most would say he was a bit too eager with the sword. As early as fifteen, he almost daily picked fights with sailors twice his weight by the docks, and came home day after day, face swollen and purpling. This did little to silence the thoughts of his bastard heritage. However, by seventeen, nobody could deny his skill with the sword, and he finally achieved his knighthood from his father, if a bit begrudgingly.
Then, on that very eve of his knighting, he gets into a quarrel with his elder brother Michel. Michel had approached him, and demanded he take his own surname, now that he had a knighthood. Artur had refused, saying he already possessed one. This led to shouts, curses, and threats. "You will never be heir!" Artur remembered shouting, as he stormed from Casterly Rock. "The Lannister heir will wield the ancestral sword of Brightroar! I will return and sully its edge with your blood!" That was the last the two brothers saw of each other. With the last of his money, Artur went to the docks, and pooling the paltry contents of his and his friend's purses, purchased a run-down little water glider, in the desperate hope that a ship like that would take them to Valyria. Valyria, where Artur's last hope of redemption lies.
Now Artur sails towards the ruins of Old Valyria, with a skeleton crew at his back, awaiting the challenges that will no doubt come his way.
Age: 12
The young one. Deathly shy, and afraid of most things. Most afraid of being married off to an older man and forgotten by her family.
Cathay knew, well enough, the dangers of putting too much trust in anything. In her early experiments with the court of nobility, she had a close friend who sought information for her. She was small and dextrous, with quick ears and an even quicker mind. Cathay had thought they would be joint plotters, fighting in the dark against enemies of the Whitehoof family. A romantic thought, that was soon proved false, as tends to be when dealing in such dark corners. However, the lesson was taught well enough, and Cathay took the necessary preparations for the next meeting with the Mistress of Whisperers. Lady Arya certainly seemed the type for ruthless vengeance.
Cathay would find the Mistress of Whispers in the exact same spot as she had before, with a hood covering her face and not a soul to be seen elsewise. There were a few torches to light the area, and the infamous spymaster seemed content to wait until Cathay showed herself.
She arrived, alone, as usual. Cathay took a ginger step into the room, then another, keeping a close eye on the door and a safe distance from Arya. If the rumors are to be believed, the Mistress could kill with a look in her eye, and practiced evil sorceries. Cathay was never put large faith in the arts of magic, but it never hurt to be more careful. "My lady," she called out, curtsying at her place near the stairs.
It might have been a trick of the mind, or else Arya really did laugh, a low amused sound that echoed through the room, "I don't think anyone has curtseyed so far away from me before." She removed her hood and revealed her youthful, pale face. She also opened her robe to reveal the lack of obvious weapons.
"Come, Cathay. There is nothing to fear from me. As long as you do not betray us. Now, tell me, what you have learned."
Arya was a thing of horror tales told by old spinsters. Despite being over ten years older than Cathay, she looked younger, almost like some sort of child. Cathay tried to ignore the fear climbing up her spine, choking her of air. "The Celtigars, my lady. They sent for a stranger a few months past. Gaemon knows not for what purpose, but the implications are clear. This stranger, who he may be, is the father of Jonquil's child-to-be. It sounds as if we may have to find out who this mysterious figure is to reach our conclusion. That would be close to impossible."
Arya inclined her head, "The father, or someone who knows who it is, most like. Well, this supports other leads we have dug up. It seems we must send an agent to Claw Isle. Lord Ardrian is most like on his way to the Stepstones by now. But I will dig deeper into this. In the meantime..."
"My nephew is conducting his own little investigation. Jaeherys sent that Lysara woman into the Great Sept. And now, Alerie Tyrell is running around with Tommen Lannister for some purpose. I have it on good authority that Catelyn Tully will soon be in the capital as well. The children are starting to play the game with us. I would know more."
Arya looked into her eyes, "First, with Jaehaerys and Lysara, she is most likely his agent on the inside. You will make contact with her, she will be some new arrival at the Sept, and you will tell her to hand over any findings to you. You will tell her that you are working with Jaeherys. You will deliver them to me. Sealed. I don't want you getting overly curious now. Clear?"
"As Braavosi glass, my lady," Cathay said. Seals were easy to forge, and one envelope was as similar as another. She could easily take a look at what the contents, if it were her intention. Best not to think too hard on it in the Mistress' presence, however. She had an air that suggested that she knew what one was thinking without saying. Cathay curtsied again, and left through the stairs, far quicker than she intended.
Arya watched her leave, and a cat darted from the darkness, ascending the stairs a few minutes after Cathay had gone. Arya pulled her hood back up, and soon the room was dark once more.
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