[Forum Game] ASOIAF: A Faith In Flames ~ Players Wanted

[BlackBishop]

The Silent Sister​

What sort of man was he? Pondered the Silent Sister. He had a balding crown, a nose, twisted from many breaks, and a jutting jaw. Her hands grasped the fine tunic of Lyseni silk, a sight common in King's Landing but less so in Oldtown. A house sigil was embroidered in stark contrast to the fine embroidery throughout the tunic. It was a bull's skull over a sanguine field.

Death before disgrace.

With deft hands, she untied the tunic, her sisters gingerly lifting the cold body for the tunic to be slipped free from his body. He was a fighter, that much was clear. His shoulders were well defined as was his chest, where his heart was said to burst. His muscles became hidden further down his torso, where a flabby belly laid flat over him. He was a drinker, I'd wager. Too much Arbor Red.

With precision, she made a clean cut straight up from his lower belly, to just below his chest. Without hesitation, she reached inside his torso, and pulled his intestines out, letting them fall into a trough on the floor. A sister placed a sack at the feet of the dead man. Inside, stuffed with fragrant herbs, she and her sisters began pushing the foliage into the open stomach.

The door to the mortuary opened, the sisters ceasing their work when a man in a plain white robe entered. The High Septon. All the Starry Sept talked of the his return to Oldtown, slipping into the city without announcement and on foot like a commoner, no guard to accompany him. He had prophesied the heavy rains and flooding of the Trident, making his following all the more zealous. She and her sisters bowed their heads as he stepped inside, alone.

"Leave me with the honoured dead." Commanded the High Septon. The sisters obeyed, filing out of the room with her trailing after them. With a subtle sweep of an arm, he commanded her to stay. "Stay. I have need of you."

The silent sister remained by the door, waiting for instruction as the High Septon circled the disemboweled corpse. "The stranger works in mysterious ways," he said. "From this noble knight, he robs his life. A thief and a murderer He gives two lifetimes. It is not for mortal man to know His workings." He let a lowered his hand straight before him, two fingers held up in solemn prayer and blessing of the body. "Yet you, my child, must hold kinship of some sorts with Him?"

She remained still, her head bowed. More than you know, holy one.

"Of all of the Seven's calling, it is to the Stranger's cold embrace where you are drawn." His eyes rise up from the corpse, focusing on her. "Death calls for you across different lives, different times. In this instance, you care for the dead, prepare them for their final journey to the Seven. In another, you act as the agent of their demise, acting as if you are the Stranger's will."

Her gaze broke from the floor, and her eyes met his. Her blood runs cold as his eyes flicker in the brazier. He is a slight man, shorter then most and of small frame, his hair in thin grey wisps upon his sallow head, yet his eyes held power. How could he know?

"I am the Avatar of the Seven upon this world, my child," said the High Septon as if he read her mind. "Do you think there are secrets unknown to me?"

Her mind raced. She began formulating an escape plan. He was alone, but there could be others just outside the door, waiting to snatch her. Her knife lay beside the corpse, out of her reach, and between them both. She could dart out, take it, and place it at his neck.

"You have come here for redemption, yet you will not find it." He stepped toward her. "How many of the dead must you clean before your own sins are washed away?" He took another step. It was now or never, or the knife may be lost to her. Her feet seemed laden, and it was as if an unknown will compelled her in place. "Take my hand, child, for I only offer it once." He extended his hand, his eyes afire as they blazed upon her. "You killed against the Seven, and now to atone, you will kill for the Seven."

Her eyes gazed searchingly into his. Was he a man to be trusted? Could he offer her what she seeks? What she saw in those eyes was the glory of Gods. She took his hand, and left yet another life behind.

 

[Deaghaidh]

"Try to find intact skulls, ones that look like they have been here for a while. Deformities are good as well" Trystane Farwynd'said men were walking amid the countless skulls near the beaches of Skull Isle, filling burlap sacks with skulls. For centuries the Corsair have tossed them ashore carelessly. The lower layer had been mostly crushed into pieces the size of sand grains, except for the occasional shard. Tooth Beach his reavers had named the strand. The ruined temple in the forest had better preserved offerings. But for now the Ironborn weren't willing to disturb the strange God of these seas quite that much.

Sacks were already rowing out to the Bonewhale, packed in her capacious hold, cushioned by the unneeded cold weather clothes of hundreds of Ironborn. It was the only boots taken thus far by the fleet. It might fetch a fair price in Oldtown.

In any case the Bonewhale sailing into that city with such a cargo would make an impression not soon forgotton.

 

[baboushreturns]

To the Master of New Ghis,

As you may be able to tell, my fleet has surrounded your city and currently imposes a blockade upon your island. Your merchants suffer at the hands of my reavers as do the population on the island of Ghaen. Should you wish the blockade to end and the raids to stop the city must deliver unto me 20,000 gold pieces within the next four weeks. Should this gold not be delivered the city shall starve to death.

The choice is yours, give me the gold now or make me wait for it.

-Rodrik Greyjoy

 

[BlackBishop]

Masters of New Ghis​

Lord Rordrik of Westeros,

Hail and well met, honored lord of Westeros. Word of your coming, and your settlement of the Basilisks, proceeds you. Pleased we, the Masters of New Ghis, are to treat with you. I am Skahaz mo Kashaq, Master of New Ghis and elected among the masters to the honor of entreating with you, my lord, as an emissary of New Ghis. Allow me to suspend the flattery and posturing that may come as common between two such men, and allow me the luxury of being blunt.

We are not your enemy, Lord Rodrik, nor do we wish to be. Your coming to the Basilisk holds much hope to many of my fellow masters, and it is our wish to work with you in the moons ahead, but that is something that I hope to discuss in person.

Read my words carefully, my lord, for they are not written in ill will. You are a stranger here. Your blockade will not succeed in starving us, for the coasts and hills of our isles are all we need to sustain us, and our army is more then formidable to make any raids on our isles a fruitless effort. I speak only truth. What your blockade will do is rob of us of our trade among the surrounding cities. We wish to avoid this.

We are willing to impart a gift unto you, a sum of ten thousand gold honors. We would also wish to enter in talks of a proposal, so that we may both prosper from your arrival here. I eagerly await your words, and hope to find you willing to enter in partnership.

~ Skahaz mo Kashaq
Master of New Ghis, Voice of the Masters.

 

[baboushreturns]

Master of New Ghis, Voice of the Masters, Shakaz mo Kashaq,

It would be my pleasure to hear your proposal, Shakaz mo Kashaq. I will listen with open ears. However do be forewarned I answer to my people first, whatever you ask of me their best interests must be at heart.

-Rodrik Greyjoy

 

[BlackBishop]

Masters of New Ghis
​

Lord Rodrik,

I am most pleased to hear of your willingness to listen to reason. I am eager to meet with you in person, but some discretion may be wise for our meeting, given the sum to be imparted to you. In the southwest of Ghaes, you will find an inlet. Karak's Cove, we have come to call it. Crowned upon a steep cliff wall before the beach, you will see the ruins of an Old Ghiscari fortress. Below is a cave commonly used by us masters for talks away from prying eyes. I await you there to discuss partnership, that I assure you is to the benefit of both yourself, and your people. I await with ten thousand honors as a token of friendship between us.

~ Skahaz mo Kashaq
Master of New Ghis, Voice of the Masters.

 

[BlackBishop]

Sting of the Harpy​

The waters were calm as the Ironborn rounded the southwestern horn of Ghaes. In the noon sun, Karak’s Cove was easy to spot, the narrow inlet allowing enough space for two ships to enter side by side. Upon the crown of the cliff, shambles of brickwork were barely discernable among the foliage that had outgrown to claim it. What may have stood as a mighty tower in ages past was no more than a ruin, a monument to an empire long dead.

Upon the beach iron braziers were lit in columns leading to the opening of a cave, a narrow slit formed in the black, salt soaked rocks. Banners there were also, depicting a bronze Harpy over afield of white, lightening gripped in her talons.

Rodrik’s crew watched anxiously as they took to their oars, slowly willing their longship into the cove. Rodrik hung off the bow of Blackwind and grinned as the ship drew in on the inlet thoughts of chests laden with gold prancing through his mind. Rodrik was able to make out the banner of the harpy within the cave and shouted “So, what’d you want want Shakaz mo Kashaq and where’s my gold?” Only silence greeted Rodrik, aside from the sea and the crackle of braziers that lined the path toward the cave.

Rodrik grew suspicious and shouted at his first mate to be ready to depart the cave at a moment's notice. Then he stepped off of the ship and onto a smaller rowboat which had been lowered into the water. Rodrik and five of his best warriors rowed to the mouth of the cave and one by one they got out of the boat marching into the cave.

Inside no light penetrated through the thick rockwall, torches and braziers offered little relief from the oppressive darkness within. Giving time for their eyes to adjust, the Ironborn continued on through the narrow passage. The sea air soon gave away to an odor of stagnation, and the passage opened up into a large chamber.

Peering through the dim light, they could see a table, upon it sat a great chest. Before the table sat a man draped in a fine tokar, his back to them. He sat motionless as the Ironborn entered the chamber. Rodrik snorted and spat onto the floor of the cave. Looking around at his men he chuckled a bit and said “Well who greets us?” The figure remained silent. Rodrik stepped forward and moved around the man in order to see his face.

Illuminated by the fiery flicker of a nearby brazier, Rodrik could see that the face was sunken and sallow, black pits where the eyes should be. The flesh long rotted and peeled back to reveal a toothy smile of decaying teeth. The man had been dead for some time.

The lord reaper motioned for his men to open the chest. As he suspected, its contents were empty. He had walked into a trap. A sound of shifting sand within the cave could be heard. Rodrik and his men began backing toward the exit. The sound persisted, coming from every direction. One of his men let out a pained cry. He fell to his knee, then backward, his mouth frothing and entire body convulsing.

Rodrik strode to the cave wall, grasping a torch free from it’s hoist and throwing to the sand before his party. His men followed suit, one tipping over the brazier, letting the flaming coals spill out over the sand, illuminating the ground at their feet. It seemed the sands were shifting, like they a blanket over water. The sound of scurrying over pebbles drew Rodrik’s gaze. The reaper caught sight of a shape in the sand, appearing to be a small face moving toward him, held up with many wiry legs.

The Ghiscari lead them into a manticore nest.

“Get out!” Bellowed Rodrik as he backed toward the narrow passage, swatting at the creature with the flat of his sword, a high pitched squeal meeting his strikes. Another of his men cried out, collapsing to the ground. One tried to grab him, drag the fallen man out, but was stung himself, and met the same fate.

Rodrik was enraged as he strode out of the cave into the noon day sun. Climbing up onto the Blackwind, he envisioned his retribution against these fools who thought they could be so easily rid of him.

 

[BlackBishop]

The Great Slaver Fleet

A Fleet of galleys departs the slaver cities, bound for the Gulf of Grief​

The coming of the Ironborn to the Basilisks was forewarned by the Iron Throne, fearing reaver presence within the corair nest might hinder relations with the Free Cities. Word spread across the Summer Sea, to the Basilisks themselves, and to Slavers Bay. Once the kraken reared it's head in the Gulf of Grief to extort the masters of New Ghis, it was clear that this fleet would pose a threat to the balance of order built by the Slaver Cities.

The Masters of New Ghis lured Lord Rodrik into a trap, attempting to slay the head of the kraken in order to disorganize the tentacles, buying time for reinforcements from Slaver's Bay. The plot failed, and Rodrik returned to the blockade of the New Ghis harbor, and the Ghiscari fleet of fifty ships is trapped within their port. The stand off continues, an enraged Rodrik demanding a greater tribute or see their city in ruins.

Word soon reaches the Iron Fleet that a fleet of galleys have set sail from Slaver's Bay, seventy five in all, no doubt intent on challenging Rodrik's presence within the gulf. The Slaver Cities are linked by their proud history, built upon the ashes of the Ghiscari Empire. New Ghis relies upon Slaver's Bay for trade, and likewise they rely on New Ghis for grain and patronage. To threaten one is to threaten all.

Let them come, was the cry of the Ironborn. They bow readily enough to the horse lords of the Dothraki, willing to submit to anyone of strength. It is time for them to learn the strength of the Iron Fleet.

((A special mini for the Ironborn in the Summer Sea, submit orders ASAP. There is a Ghiscari fleet of 50 ships trapped in the New Ghis Harbor, surrounded by 125 Ironborn warships, with 2000 troops. A fierce looking army of 10,000 troops defend the city. A fleet of 75 ships, dubbed the Great Slaver Fleet, sail from Slaver's Bay, bound for New Ghis.))

 

[BlackBishop]

((Stats are up to date. Check them out here. Any problems, catch me on IRC or pm me.

It is clear that treasuries are growing far too fast for my liking as well, something that occured in the last game too. Expect orders to become more expensive.))

 

[LightsShadows]

Guarding the Sea
House Mallister

​

"Bloody pirates," Lord Jaeremy Mallister swore after his brother told him of the corsairs in Ironman's Bay. Jaeremy had assembled his advisors to address the issue. His brother, Harden Rivers, was there as the Marshal of Seagard. Also in attendance was his maester and uncle, Damon Mallister, his wife and nominal castellan of the day to day activities of Seagard, Eliza Mallister, his naval adviser, a man named Kevan Seaborne, and his economic adviser, a bastard from Highgarden named Ethan Flowers.

"Do you have any identifying information about the pirates?" Maester Damon inquired. In front of him sat a massive book detailing the various houses of Westeros.

"They fly a green banner covered with a school of trout," Harden replied, holding a set of notes he had taken about the pirates.

"That sounds familiar. Let me see..." Damon muttered as he flipped through the massive grimoire. "Ah, yes, here it is. House Botley, bannermen to the Greyjoys. Their seat is Lordsport."

"I knew it. Father was right, never trust a Greyjoy," Harden swore.

"I doubt the Greyjoys had anything to do with this. And no, I'm not defending them," Jaeremy said as he saw his the anger about to flare on his brother's face. "What I mean is that these Botleys are likely taking advantage of Rodrik Greyjoy's absence to conduct some piracy. Or perhaps he sanctioned it, but in the end it makes little difference. I'd be willing to wager we could send a thousand ravens to Pyke and nothing would come of it. No, we need to show these Ironborn that we're not afraid to defend our trade."

"We could send out our warships, scare the bastards back to Lordsport," Kevan Seaborne proposed.

"But they'd simply wait until our ships left before conducting their raids again. No, I want to deal with these Ironborn for good. And that calls for something a bit less direct," Jaeremy said, stroking his beard. "We need to lure them into a confrontation, and they will only start a fight they think they can win..."

"So we give them what they're looking for," Harden finished for his brother, the two of them grinning at each other.

"If you two could stop grinning like idiots and tell us what you mean, that would be much appreciated," Eliza Mallister told them.

"We hire a merchant ship, but instead of filling it with goods, we fill it with men and weapons," Jaeremy explained. "We let the Botleys think that they are catching a merchant, but in reality they are sailing right into our trap. Once they board, we turn the tables and strike."

"A dangerous plan, but probably the only chance we have of actually catching these Ironborn," Seaborne mused.

"With enough luck, we could add another ship to our fleet and perhaps even take the captain of this ship captive. If they're flying a Botley banner, then the captain must either have a connection or a vendetta against them," Harden said. "Jaeremy, let me let the attack."

"Now hold on a moment. This isn't some fight with bandits in the woods. On the open sea, there will be no where to run if things go wrong. It will be them or us, no middle ground," Seaborne replied harshly.

"Seaborne, my brother is probably the best fighter in Seagard. And his sea legs are good. But you're right, this will take more than just a knight, which is I would ask you to captain this Wolf in Sheep's Clothing," Jaeremy explained. "My brother and thirty-five of his best men would accompany you and thirty-five of the men you think best for the job."

"I am honored, milord, but that would be an awfully tight fit," Seaborne replied.

"You won't be hauling goods, so you can fill the hull with all of the food and water you need for the journey. I'll provide whatever you need," Jaremy assured him.

"Well, at the very least I'll be forced to make some new friends," Seaborne chuckled to himself. "I accept your proposal, milord. What route were you thinking of having us take?"

"I want you to sail through Ironman's Bay to a nearby port where you can resupply before returning to Seagard. If at any point along the journey these pirates attack you, put up enough of an attempt at escape to make it look like you are trying to flee. Once they board, strike. Take what prisoners you can and feel safe about, especially the captain if possible, but otherwise show these pirates no mercy. I will suffer no Ironborn raiding the routes to Seagard," Jaeremy promised, a fierce light in his eyes.

"And what will Rodrik Greyjoy think of this? The Botleys are his bannermen," Eliza asked, always level-headed.

"We can tell him that we had no idea who these pirates were, just that they were attacking merchants making the journey to Seagard," Jaeremy explained. "He will never be able to prove otherwise. And he won't be able to react for a very long time. His entire fleet is across the Narrow Sea. The best time to do this is now, before they can return."

"Agreed. We must show the Ironborn we are not to be triffled with," Harden said, backing up his brother's position.

"If this is what you think is best," Eliza replied, although she still looked apprehensive.

"Seaborne, can I trust you to find a merchant ship for us to use? You can pay from the Mallister treasury," Jaeremy told him.

"You can count on me milord. And I will start selecting my men immediately," Seaborne said.

"Good. You do likewise, brother. The sooner these pirates are dealt with the better," Jaeremy instructed.

"Aye, brother. I already have some men in mind," Harden replied, standing up and preparing to leave.

"You are all dismissed. Seaborne, stay safe. I need you to watch over our ships," Jaeremy ordered. "And you too, brother. I need you. Stay safe," he said, embracing Harden.

"I will. I swear by the Seven, I will return," Harden told him, before the two stepped away from one another.

"May the Seven guide you and give you a swift victory and return," Jaeremy said, before his brother and master of ships departed.

​

​

 

[BlackBishop]

Battle of Grief

Ironborn fireships assault New Ghis harbor.
​

The Ghiscari gambled that Rodrik would succumb to their trap, buying them the time needed to link up with the Great Slaver Fleet. The negotiations did succeed in stalling any Ironborn offensive, but their allies were slower to arrive then they hoped. A fleet of fifty Ghiscari ships were now trapped within their port, hemmed in by a large fleet of 125 ironborn longships. The Ghiscari galleys drifted out from their piers into the harbor, bracing for the Ironborn advance. It never came. Instead, Lord Rodrik Greyjoy instigated talks of tribute, demanding 30,000 gold, over his original demand of 20,000.

The renewed peace talks ceased at dusk, however, and under the cover of night, small support ships of the Ironborn fleet advanced into the harbor. Manned with skeleton crews and piled high with straw, the ships were set alight and abandoned, set to drift toward the enemy fleet as soon as they were close. First Rodrik steered a mere five ships into the harbor. They succeeded in burning two of the galleys, but once they were alight, the galleys were able to avoid them easily enough. It became clear to the Ironborn that more of their ships would have to be sacrificed.

Rodrik ordered a small fleet assembled, many of their smaller support ships and five of the large warships packed with straw. The cumbersome galleys had difficulty outmaneuvering the armada of fire they now faced. Rodrik's blunder early on, however, had alerted them to what they now faced, and ships had begun to make a break out of the harbor, oaring headlong into the Ironborn fleet.

As the harbor burned, Greyjoy ordered the Iron fleet to depart, heading toward the incoming slaver fleet. Beyond the thick smoke of burning timber, the sight of the escaping ships came too late. Lord Stonehouse turned the ships under his command around, and attempted to give chase, but it was a fruitless effort and he soon turned about to continue formation with Greyjoy's fleet.

Some twenty-five Ghiscari galleys escaped the attack on the harbor, there whereabouts unknown.

Approaching the enemy slavers, Lord Rodrik had his armada break up into three fleets. Rodrik and a fleet of fifty of the Iron Fleet sailed in the center. The Drumms and Goodbrothers divided the remaining fleet between the two, and sailed on Rodrik's flanks. Lord Greyjoy's plan was simple. His fleet would charge in first, engaging the enemy with conventional naval warfare, firing arrows and ranged missiles. Drumm and Goodbrother would then advance along each side of the slaver fleet, and commence ramming their ships and beginning boarding actions.

The battle opened with Greyjoy's flagship, the Blackwind, leading his column against the slaver fleet, closing the distance fast against the slower galleys. The first hour of the battle took a hefty toll on the Ironborn. The galleys excelled at ranged warfare, and the larger ships offered a raised platform for archers to shoot, and many ironborn fell to those first volleys of arrows.

It was a necessary sacrifice however. Rodrik's plan counted on keeping his foe occupied against him whole his flanks got into position. The longships of the Ironborn were faster, able to outmaneuver the larger galleys with ease, but the slaver marksmen were deadly. The galley's attempted to ram the Ironborn ships, but to no avail. The longboats were simply to fast for the galleys to catch, and their crews too cunning. The slaver galleys soon abandoned their attempts to ram Greyjoy's ships, and fired great missiles with heavy crossbows mounted upon their decks. Ironborn ships were shredded into splinters by the great arrows. Nevertheless, Greyjoy's assault served it's purpose, and before long his secondary fleets were closing fast upon their enemy's flanks.

The fleets of Drumm and Goodbrother lowered their sails and dipped their heavy oars into the water, their lead ships careening into the galley's with great speed, set to ram the larger ships into oblivion. Clearly the captains of the larger galleys did not think the longboats were such a threat, some even heard chortling as the stempost rams lodged into their hulls. Perhaps the damage was indeed minimal, but they soon realized they had an Ironborn vessel lodged into their hull, and rope ladders and slings were quickly thrown over and packs of bloodthirsty reavers were assaulting their decks.

Lord Greydon Goodbrother had cut a deep swath into the slaver fleet, but soon became alarmed to find his ships too deep within their formation, and in danger of becoming encircled. He had taken an enemy galley and set it ablaze, whipping captured slaves to bloody stumps until they were at a suitable speed to crash into enemy ships. Greydon and his men jumped out at the last moment, soon scooped up by a friendly ship.

The slaver fleet assaulted on three fronts, Greyjoy closed in upon them, the larger warships of the Iron Fleet at his back. His strategy working to scatter and disorganize the slaver fleet, Greyjoy could now isolate and surround groups of galleys, and board them and take their ships at his leisure. As the day wore on, however, they found that some of the galleys were manned with highly trained soldiers that seemed to hold no fear of pain or death. The reavers excelled at this form of warfare, however, and though the toll was great, they managed to cut down these few elite soldiers and capture their vessels.

As day turned into night, what remained of the slaver fleet broke free from the Ironborn's grip and raised their sails, cutting across the Gulf of Grief toward Ghaen. Greyjoy gave chase, leaving Drumm and Goodbrother to mop up what remained of the broken fleet. Greyjoy followed the remaining slavers to the shore of Ghaen, where a reserve of galley's were anchored and a camp was made, no doubt the slaver command post for their operations in the gulf.

Barely discernible in the night save for a hundred torch lights upon her deck, Greyjoy spied the greatest ship he had ever seen. A galley thrice the size of the largest within the great slaver fleet. No doubt this was the flagship of their admiral. The war horns sounded from the Iron Fleet, and they oared toward the shoreline bellowing a war song honoring the Red Kraken. The massive galley oared out to meet them, with her escort before her. Once again the rams of the longships found their marks.

The reavers boarded the flagship and eagerly cut down her crew. Their urging for the slaves aboard the vessel to rise up falling on deaf ears, none knowing the tongue of the Ironborn, nor trusting of the bloodthristy murauders. The warships of the Ironborn easily outclassed this behemoth upon the sea, sailing circles around the ship, tying lines aboard her hulking decks and coming aboard to pay the iron price.

The fight aboard the vessel was fierce. Elite slaver soldiers fought to their dying breath, and with such ferocity never before seen by the reavers of the Iron Isles. It is likely that the fight would have ended in route for the Ironborn, for all efforts to gain control of the forecastle of the might ship failed, so impenetrable was the defense put forth by the soldiers. Many of Rodrik's own men were cut down like green boys who never felt plank beneath their feet. Lord Rodrik himself taking a wound trying to turn a spear only to have his sword notch and break upon their steel.

They would have fled, if not for the folly of the enemy admiral. Before the forecastle, where a great iron gate held a mysterious purpose, it raised and out stepped a man draped in flamboyant finery. A gawdy and colourful mess of armor that seemed to be many colours depending on how the light of the fires hit it. He rode upon the back of a great beast, tusks protruding from it's mouth and great ears fanned out in fury. It was a maddening sight that compelled the ironborn to withdraw. But the monster it rode was struck mad. It reared up on it's legs, a great trunk for a nose bellowing an awful note, and proceeded to trample through the lines of the slaver soldiers, crushing them to death.

The admiral was thrown off and captured by the reavers, the few soldiers left slaughtered after the mad beast slipped into the drink and drowned. Victory belonged to Greyjoy, and yet, espying the coast with forlorn eyes, all the reavers could see the great army that had landed upon the large island. These men they faced seemed a breed apart. War was their creed and to face them in battle, Rodrik knew, would only mean defeat.

((Greyjoy is victorious. Farwynds arrive too late to join the battle. After captured ships and losses are tallied, 105/125 Greyjoy ships remain. Fifteen Greyjoy warships, and ten of his banner's ships are lost in the battle. 800 Greyjoy levies die in battle, and 200 reavers are slain. House Drumm loses 100 men, Goodbrother loses fifty. An unsullied army of unknown strength has landed on Ghaen. Of the 75 ships of the Great Slaver Fleet, only 20 escaped. 25 of the 50 Ghiscari ships escaped the harbor.))

 

[BlackBishop]

A raven arrives in Riverrun, bearing a message with the seal of House Hawick of Saltpans...

House Hawick​

Lord Ryman Tully,

I write you with grievous news inflicting the town of Saltpans. The mouth of the mighty Trident is flooded, and the devastating effects felt all over the Bay of Crabs, but nowhere more so then in Saltpans. For generations, Saltpans has been my family's charge, and my house mourn the flooded state it now stands. I have led my people further inland toward high ground, and a rudimentary camp has been established to the south near Godseye, with the permission of Lord Lothston.

My lord, funds are needed to stem the tide of disaster my family and my people find ourselves in. Our homes are in ruins, our livelihood washed by the will of the Gods, so deep is their mourning for Baelor the Blessed. My stewards have calculated the costs of setting right this disaster. No less then 10,000 dragons are required. I implore you, my lord, come to our aid. It is most dire.

~Lord Hosteen Hawick,
Lord of Saltpans.

 

[Deaghaidh]

((Damn, I was hoping for a Big Damn Heroes moment, with my men sailing in throwing skulls dipped in pitch at the enemy.))

 

[BlackBishop]

((Saving that for the update ))

 

[Sneakyflaps]

Unhappiness In Highgarden​

It had rained a lot, and it didnt look like it would halt any time soon. The weather however did little to change the mood in the Tyrell household in Highgarden, Janna was as content as ever, and it could be seen on her smug expression as she sat and ate a songbird. Across her sat Raymund Flowers, he was the new Master-At-Arms in Highgarden, following Desmond Redwynes dismissal by his sister, Janna. Raymund was a knight in his mid forties, his hair had already begun to go grey, especially at the sides in contrast to his dark brown hair at the top.

“You are pregnant.” Raymund started as he began breaking a wing off his bird.

“And how do you know, dear?” Janna asked as she cut off a piece and began chewing on it.

“Third day you had songbirds, you always have them when you get pregnant. Now, with our last child, the one before that and the one even before that: I bet you also ate them back when you expected Leo.” He said as began eating the wing.

“And if I am, its of little matter.” He said looking at him.

“It’s a matter to me, its my child. Are you planning to take another one of the Maesters flasks?” He asked curiously.

“I am.” She responded, caring, at least seemingly less about him.

“I thought you said that last time would be the last one, and that we would keep the one after it.” He said, looking rather annoyed.

“Yes, but I wasn’t expected to be with child so quickly again, we can keep the next one, after Leo is of age.” She said firmly, she didn’t care much for another child. Certainly not while her son was no yet of age, it could create unfortunate rumours, romours that no house needs.

He just sighed. “Why dismiss Desmond, it served for nothing but to spite him, we both know that Leo will reappoint him when he come of age. Its his uncle, I am a stranger.”

“He wont, he is my son and he will see sense, or I will make sure he does by sending Desmond away.” And it seemed that Janna’s wonderfully planned night was turning sour by each bite.

“He hasn’t been your son since he was six. With his recent show of skill, he becomes even more independent.” Raymund responded as he emptied his glass, he didn’t particularly like this. He was getting sick of his relationship, and even more so of her blatant lack of clarity. “Lord Baratheon trained him well.”

Janna sent a stare that could kill him. “Aemon trained him well.” She said as she stood up. “Don’t question me about my son.” She said before she left the room. She went down the many stairs of Highgarden, eventually entering the place where their new smith had been settled. He was surrounded by Tyrell guards, the most loyal they had. The room was warm, very warm, the fires were lit and both chest had been opened. Janna went over to him. “Will it be ready?” She asked as she looked at the fire. The smith nodded as he picked up Nightfall and set to work, as Janna looked on.

 

[BlackBishop]

Across the septs of Westeros, a declaration is posted from the High Septon...

The Faith of the Seven​

Faithful of Westeros,

As the Gods weep for the passing of Baelor the Blessed, so do We, and the Most Devout, weep for those effected by the unrelenting rains shed from the heavens. We ask for prayers for the suffering bore by the people of the Riverlands, where the effects of the Gods' grief is at its greatest. We have convened with the Most Devout and have deemed it a worthy cause for all the faithful to bring aid however they can to the Riverlands.

We have commissioned a large scale relief effort to ease the burden of those displaced by this disaster. Followers of the Faith, Septons, Septas, Contemplative Brothers, Begging Brothers, and Silent Sisters have taken up this holy call and travel with vast quantities of food, blankets, clothes and dry timber, to help those in need. Mother Above teaches us compassion and mercy, and it is by Her will that we are compelled to act.

As the Mother guides us to compassion, so to does the Crone guide us to wisdom.

It is in this vein that We have commenced a widespread effort across the Narrow Sea. In order to gain knowledge and understanding, the Contemplative Brothers shall travel to the Free Cities in order to study and learn from the queer customs and gods of Essos. Pray for these intrepid learners, and may wisdom never elude them.

~The High Septon

 

[BlackBishop]

((We have a player opening in the Iron Isles. Ferraria is too busy to play, sadly, and resigned. Here's hoping he can join us in the future if possible. For now, we have an opening in the Iron Isles, and some pretty bad ass reaver houses to play as, such as House Drumm, the wielders of the Valyrian blade, Red Rain; House Harlaw, a mighty house that rivals the Greyjoys, or how about Saltcliffe, who rule their very own island, plus many others to rule the sea with. Stake your claim here if you're interested.))

 

[Plutonium95]

A raven delivers a message to Highgarden, bearing the sigil of House Baratheon.

Dear Leo Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and all of the Reach,

It is good to hear from you again. When you had left so soon after father passed I must admit that it made my sadness even worse. Mother said that in Lys they have a saying about how friends are like roaring fires in times of darkness, and when you left and I was here with girls like Brienne Tarth it seemed as if I only had a candle lighting the way. I do not write this to shame you, or to make you feel as if you did me wrong, but only to show you how important a friend you are to me.

On a happier note, Stannis did in fact attend the tourney at Lannisport, along with Aunt Myrcella and a small group of knights led by Ser Wagstaff. Mother seemed quite pleased to see her away from the Stormlands for a while. I am writing this letter now, still waiting for him to return to Storm's End. I would have thought he would look for you, but perhaps something else came up, you know how he can be distracted.

It pleases me greatly to hear that you did so well in the melee though, I remember seeing you practice for hours in the yard, no doubt you deserve your success and father would be so proud. In truth had I known you would be competing I would have assured myself a position right at the fence, as close as possible. Perhaps next time, and after I can show you the things mother has had me reading.

I will be sure to show your letter to Stannis and I fully expect it will brighten his week when he reads it. Until then, know that we both miss you as well and that you are always welcome at Storm's End.

- Shiera

 

[Brettles]

((Finally got a family bio and a scene setting IC done. Christmas and all.))

House Sunderland, Lords of the Sisters, Vassals of the Eyrie
The Sunderlands rule the Three Sisters from Sisterton, its castle forming their ancient seat of power. The islands were the cause of a long and between war between the North and the Vale, which stripped the islands of wealth. Long before then the islands were once independent, and worshipped their own gods, and they wear their oaths of loyalty to the Arryn’s lightly.

Lord Alethor Sunderland
Lord Alethor Sunderland is the current Lord of the Sisters. He is an old man of greying hair and small stature and at 73 is losing hair, teeth and wits to time's grasping claws. However, it is the grasping claws of his heir that worries him most, as year on year his son seeks to accelerate the transfer of power by becoming de facto Lord of House Sunderland. Bar this eldest son, he has no remaining children, though from time to time he will throw out empty threats of disinheritance and intent to leave the Sisters to some no account family in the Reach he claims distant relation to.

Peter Sunderland
Peter Sunderland was named for his father’s overlord in an uninspired attempt at flattery. He has the salt and pepper hair of his family (though it too is thinning), but none of the financial skills of his namesake. Instead, he is more comfortable dealing with spies, plots and people. He is now 46, and waging an unsubtle attempt to make himself Lord of the Sisters by gradually usurping powers from his aging father under the pretence of offering aid.
He is a tall man, though this is not enough to disguise that his figure has gone slightly to fat. He has a son and daughter of 20 and 18, but no bastard children. Both his children wish to travel beyond the damp confines of the Sisters, but Peter has yet the make any concessions to them.

The Sisters: A Stormy Night
Out through the warped window and the battering rain, Peter Sunderland, Heir of the Sisters, watched a wavering candlelight ascend slowly up the floors of the Lord’s Tower opposite. Each window it passed it threw out fingers of weak yellow light into the storm.
Peter knew it would be Maester Wenlock’s candle climbing the Lords Tower this late at night, hurrying to deliver the raven’s letter to his father.
The bird had brought news from the mainland. Peter Arryn, the Eagle himself, had left the Eyrie and left for a small council post in Kings Landing. Evidently the honour had not gone unnoticed by the Lords Paramount either; a marriage had been arranged between the Vale and the Reach. The letter spoke some of a great ceremony in the Westerlands.
Peter knew all this by way of Maester Wenlock’s apprentice. Whenever a letter arrived in the rookery, the boy would have to read it to the half-blind measter. When Wenlock tottered off to the Lord’s Tower, the boy would run up to the Heir’s Tower and relay the contents before old Wenlock’s legs could carry him to his destination. In exchange, Peter doubled the boys meagre wage. It was probably the quickest way to learn the raven’s words, but Peter’s slow assumption of the de-facto lordship was not aided by this skulduggery. Wenlock’s obstinate insistence on only reporting to his father weakened his position.
It was to be expected however. Wenlock’s age and lack of political standing had seen him shipped off to the windswept, rainy Sisters, and Peter’s contacts in the Citadel said his dogged obsession with protocol (that had in no small part in earning him that exile) had calcified with age. Contrast his father’s steward, who had long since ceased trying to get through to his disinterested Lord, and now resolved much of the island’s administration with the heir. Between the two of them, and Peter’s network of “contacts”, many of the incessant feuds that characterised life on the islands had been papered over.
The wavering light had reached the top of the tower. Wenlock’s wheesy voice would now be relaying the letter to his father’s failing ears, and the two would plot on what to do next. And this tiresome, petty cold war between father and son, lord and heir, between the two towers, would drag on.

 

[aedan777]

Lord Donnel Arryn, Heir to the Eyrie and the Vale,

I have received your letter, and am most pleasantly surprised. Lyanna's unusual talents and temperament has discouraged many, and I began to lose hope for her. Your proposition is thus greatly appreciated, and my sister is most willing to accept. A joining of our houses is thus to be secured. I will journey south with my sister and an entourage for the wedding, taking with me a dowry of 800 gold dragons. I eagerly await the fateful day that we may be as brothers.

Lord Jonnel Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Protector and Warden of the North