A man stumbled across the field, an arrow through his neck. He managed a few feet and then collapsed, blood gargling out of his mouth. Behind him, a tall white skeletal creature. A few white wispy hairs were stuck to it's shiny scalp, and it's eyes an icy blue. It raised it's bow, made of ice, and let out a cry that could burst a man's eardrums, that could break glass. Winter is coming. Setting: In the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, the intrigues and plots of the lords and ladies never cease to accumulate. But, that is not the only trouble. There is talk of wildlings coming down from the north, or worse... (For those unfamiliar with the world of game of thrones, it's basically like 15th century europe. There is one king over the seven "kingdoms", which is only really one kingdom, and it is a merciless world full of betrayal and mistrust.) Gameplay: You will incarnate a character (I'll assume we're all going to want to be at least the rank of knight, going up to lord or even king, since... well, who wants to play a peasant in a Game of Thrones RPG?) There will be a lot of interesting politics. I want to break the fourth wall, and make it more realistic: The lords and ladies will plot by PM and organize betrayals and such, though they'll have to show some things in their posts. There will be battles, I'm not sure if we should use some kind of system or just write the battles. Feedback welcome. If you are unfamiliar with Game of Thrones, read up on it a bit, even if it's just to know the houses. This is basically an alternate history of the Game of Thrones world. The characters will be entirely fictitious (So, no Eddard Stark, but a unique and different character called Robert Stark is fine). It will absolutely not follow events in the books (albeit a few details like the wildlings and white walkers) from the books/series. You may play anything or anyone, though I'll assume everyone wants to be of at least Knight rank (otherwise you'll be farming every day in each post...) RULES -No controlling other peoples characters. -No God-Modding (Though rash decisions may be taken, to show the brutal world of ASOIAF. You may, if you are King for example, order the execution of the whole of Westeros. But that would end this RP rather quickly.) -No killing off others without the players permission. (In fact, in the character sheet it says "can be killed?". So in aforementioned King example, if player has "can be killed" set as YES then the King can execute him. Be warned that this is final, and he will not be brought back (unless someone incarnates a Priest of Rhlorr or something like that) -GM's words are law -If you find yourself having a problem with another player then settle it in PM with said person or a GM -There is only one king to start with (First come first served!), but, as true to ASOIAF, if you so wish you can rebel and become a self proclaimed king. But not at the very start. -Be nice in OCC but in the IC feel free to be as ruthless as you want. -Keep OCC in the discussion topic. -Please post a little "introductory" post for your character and then one about what they are doing. -If you are unsure about a decision or sub-plot, pm the GM. -Please PM a GM your sheet before the character is approved. APPROVED CHARACTERS:
Mychael Lannister took another sip of wine. A fine wine it was, too. Rickard wasn't the type of person to skimp on luxury. He looked around the great hall of the redkeep. Close to two thousand lords, knights and squires, he had been told. Seemed about right. Closest to the king were family, of course. Mychael himself was seated quite near Lord Rickard, and had a good vantage point. After that were other lords, and on the parrallel benches on either side of the hall were the knights and their family, and at the back of the hall squires, sellswords and other invitees. In front of the king, the short and stout septon boomed out his dreary words. Was anyone listening to him? Rickard seemed barely interested himself. After a few minutes, the septon put down his book and the chatter in the hall stopped. Rickard's squires entered the hall with a small velvet cushion, and a magnificent crown on top of it. The Crown was wrought of silver, and was crested with small eagles, a larger one at the front of the crown. The bird's eyes and were set with dark blue sapphires, and a very large square one shone at the front of the crown. Mychael's brother Baldric leaned in and exchanged a jest. Mychael nodded politely and smiled, but did not listen: he hadn't sat here for an hour to miss the bloody crowning. Rickard Arryn rose from the iron throne and walked down the steps, kneeling in front of the steps. The Septon removed the crown and perched it on Rickard's head, and pronounced a few words. The hall burst with applause, and a huge flock of waiters poured into the room, serving the feast. The lords and ladies were shaking hands with the new King. Mychael rose and joined the group. As Mychael patted him on the back, Rickard leaned in. "I thought the septon would never finish." "Well, it's over now, my king." "Say that again and you'll be the first man to be executed under my reign." said Rickard. Mychael grinned as Rickard got lost in the waves of people congratulating him. A new king, a new age.
Valkor eyed the proceedings with a keen eye, though his sight appeared glazed over with boredom to the passerby. Why Lord Mychael had thought to drag him along to this when he had plenty of honest guards was beyond him. His time would be better spent on the boundaries, doing the job he had been paid for. Not Baby-sitting a king. A familiar equine scream from outside had one corner of his mouth turning upward. Shadow wasn't happy either if he could be heard from in here. Valkor sniggered when he pictured the faces of the stable boys he had left Shadow with. Of course, the great Shire wouldn't hurt them so long as they didn't get too close, but imagining the stallion's snapping teeth always put Val in a good mood. After the ceremony, Mychael walked up to him and placed the coin on the table in front of him. "Your pay. Now, come. We must act quickly." Valkor grinned behind his helm, eyes narrowing. Now this was something he could do. Following alongside his lord, the sellsword stalked alongside him with long, even strides. But the only attention he drew was due to his princely looks -passed down from whatever nobleman Val had been sired by. He really didn't care much about him other than that. Doubtless the old fool was already dead. "Remind me what we are doing again." he muttered. "I don't like to go over things twice, and if you changed anything i should know beforehand." "Paying our debts," said Mychael, his eyes fixed in front of him, a stern look on his face. They arrived at a corner, where he stopped and looked around. "That guard there.... Please, distract him." Val shrugged and moved off toward the guard in question, muttering beneath his breath that any girl would be better at this than him. But a girl would chicken out, wouldn't she? Sighing, Val pulled off his helm and just managed to conceal a smirk when the guard eyed him, then openly gawked at his unnaturally pale hair and bright blue eyes. "It's a great day to be crowned king, is it not?" Valkor said, leaning against the wall as if they were comrades. Mychael edged behind the guard, and struck him with the pommel of his sword. "Thank you." he said to the sellsword, before opening the door the man was guarding. Inside was a woman, lying on her bed. She was not uncomely, and sported silvery hair and purple eyes. She looked at Mychael as he came in. "Lord Lannister?" Mychael did not reply, but put his hand behind her head and drew his dagger. He stabbed her again and again in the stomach, and she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out: only blood. She rolled on to the floor, blood spilling out of her pregnant belly. Mychael looked at his dagger, red to the hilt, and tossed it out of the window. "A Lannister always pays his debts." He said to the corpse, and left the room, closing the door. He walked over to the guard, still knocked out, and slit his throat Val quickly slipped past his Lord, back to fresh air. Despite all the precautions, his face was a little green. Killing a pregnant woman wasn't exactly one of the most disgusting things he had ever done, but it came close. Following his lord, one hand on his sword at all times Val momentarily longed for the open plains and the bloody battlefields. That was the place he belonged. That was where he lived. With a lance in one hand and a round shield in the other, battling another for control of their mount. As if in agreement, Shadow screamed again, the sound echoing hollowly throughout the room. Though it was faint, and no one seemed to hear it but Val. Gritting his teeth, Val followed his lord outside.
The crowning hall was hot, or at least Ser Edmund Pyke thought so, when he stood guard near the door. The plate armor he wore wasn't the lightest of clothing, but he had a duty. Damn the summer heat. He was a part of the honor guard that had the duty to watch the guests and see that everything went well. He wasn't in the Kingsguard, but he had gone a long way from a petty lord's household on the Iron Islands to the King's court. If only his father was there to see him... But he isn't, thanks to that bastard lord and his brats... The king was about to be crowned, and soon the honor guard would soon escort him from the hall to the door. After that, it was the Kingsguard's job to protect him. The Septon took his time, and Ser Edmund was sweaty. "Ser Edmund?" a voice asked. It was a knight whose name Edmund had forgotten. He was smaller than Edmund. "Yes?" Edmund replied. "How was it in the Kingswood? In the battle where you lead Lord Baratheon's troops against the bandits?" the small knight asked. "You haven't been in a real battle?" "No, I haven't been. I was going to join your war band, but, well, I was elsewhere. You know, with the prettier sex..." he said, and Edmund could tell he was sorry that he had missed a battle. The battle between Lord Baratheon's war band and the Kingswood bandits had been only a skirmish, but it had made an impact on someone, and Edmund was knighted when he came back to the King's Landing. "Oh? No one noticed you were missing, but hey, thanks for the confession, ser. I hope you will earn your spurs someday. The Warrior guide you." "Weren't you Ironborn believing in a Drowned God or something?" "Yes, but He never helped me in anything. I hope the Seven will." He had been on his way to the mainland by a ship when a storm had broken and sunk his ship. A traveling Septon had found and saved him. He had also been a former knight. He had trained Edmund while they traveled together to Winterfell and King's Landing. "Where's the Septon now?" the knight asked curiously. Ser Edmund pointed across the hall and to the throne. "Over there, crowning the King. He's in better shape than he looks, although he's old. The clothing makes him look fatter than he really is." That made the small knight laugh. Edmund also laughed. Good times were about to come, Edmund believed.
"Hail, King Rickard!" "Hail!" shouted Rowen Snow, along with the rest of the gathered Nobles. Which earned her a sharp rap on her neatly folded hands by Lady Stark. "A Lady in Waiting does not shout with her superiors," the Lady said sharply. Rowen rubbed her stinging hand and turned her pale gaze towards Lady Stark. "Forgive me, Milady, I was only expressing my joy at the crowning of the new King. I had thought that all creatures were to bend their knee before him," she said simply. Lady Stark's eyes flashed in annoyance but she said naught else. Allowing herself a small smile, Rowan smoothed out her black velvet dress and turned her gaze back towards the ceremony. Rowan Snow was not the prettiest maiden at the gathering, but she had chosen to wear the black velvet dress to accent her pale skin so she had hopes that she would catch the eye of one of the many Lords. Her raven black hair was braided and coiled behind her head, bound by silver pins. Rowan's discerning eye scanned the crowed with mild interest, taking in all the customary greetings and required courtesies displayed. She also noticed the dark corners of the ceremony, where a man would brush by another and somehow whisper a threat or bribe. Court was full of these kinds of things. "I tire of your presence, bastard," hissed Lady Stark. Rowen gave the Lady a nod of understanding and rose from her seat. A quick glance upwards showed her that the Lady was about to be visited by another Noble and Rowan grimaced slightly as understanding dawned upon her. No matter. Once again, Rowan soothed the wrinkles from her dress. She gazed around for the nearest exit and excused herself from the ceremony. Outside, the stars shown like a million fires and the moon shed it's light upon the ground. Rowan took a stroll down the cobble pathway that led towards the garden. Voices drifted towards her from a tower to her right and she paused. Soon she matched the voices to a young lord and what appeared to be his escort exiting from the tower. Rowan blinked and quickly turned to make her way back towards the ceremony. Mychael got out of the tower, Valkar struggling to keep up with his steps. A black figure was facing away from them, barely visible on account of her black clothing and hair. "Hello?" ventured Mychael. Rowan cursed under her breath. Slowly she turned and dipped into a stiff curtsy, "Greetings," she said in her most polite voice she could muster. A Lady in waiting without her lady is not always the best of circumstances.... "Ah, a daughter of Lord Stark?" he asked, recognising the facial feautures. Damn it, did she see anything? "It's a nice night," he said awkwardly, looking at the moonlit sky. By the gods! It's Mychael Lannister. Rowen rose herself from her curtsy but kept her eyes down from the Lord. "His bastard. Rowen Snow, I serve Lady Stark," she glanced at the sky, once again taking in all the little fires. "Yes, My Lord, the night is pleasing to the eye." Mychael looked at her. She was not hard on the eyes. "Well, I'll be off. It was a long day. Goodnight," he said, smiling as he left. "Send my regards to Lord Stark!" he said, as he disappeared into the distance. Strange, Rowan thought as she gazed after the departing Lord. The sell-sword that followed him looked a bit pale, which only rose her curiosity. Her eyes followed the pair until they were out of sight and then she turned to the tower. She took a hesitant step forward when a mighty gust of wind blew across the ground whipped her voluminous skirts around her legs. "Ah!" she cried, shielding her eyes from the onslaught. She took a step back and the wind died, instantly suspicion rose within Rowan and she gazed sharply at the tower. As if sensing her thoughts the wind stirred some leaves to her right in warning. The old gods wish not for me to enter, she thought disappointingly, Well, perhaps it is for the best. Dusting off her dress once again Rowan made her way back towards the ceremony. After all, how can one find a husband if she goes traipsing off to every suspicious happening. However..... Things like this were best kept in mind in the Games of Court.
THE NEXT DAY Mychael awoke in sweats. He had been having nightmares again. The wrath of the Dragon. "My lord!" As his eyes adjusted to the light, he looked at his squire. The poor boy looked beside himself with angst. "What is it, Jon?" "Julena Targaryen... she's dead, my lord. A trial is being held." "What!" Michael feigned shock, got out of bed and dressed hurriedly. "We must go at once. Come!" They walked at a brisk pace down the stairs towards the throne room. "Who is the suspect?" Mychael asked, dreading the answer. "Your brother, my lord. Baldric Lannister." Shit. Mychael rushed down the stairs, nearly knocking people over in his haste. He burst into the throne room, but was not noticed amongst the other lords and ladies and other people present. In the middle of the room knelt Baldric, the poor sod. King Rickard was seated on the iron throne, he looked tired and rather unaware of what to do next. Next to him, the queen's throne and the hand's throne, both empty. To his left stood a large group of Gold Cloaks, and to the right his members of council and the Kingsguard. Maester Hosman cleared his throat again. "And thus, in these terms, you, Ser Baldric Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, stand accused of the murder of Julena Targaryen." Mychael was glad to see the public angry at this verdict, but then he caught Torgon Targaeryan's face. The man had obviously drunk too much, and looked awful, a complete wreck. He looked ready to kill Baldric. "And so," continued Hosman's dreary voice, "with no witnesses, you have only one option: confess." The crowd roared in protest, the Gold Cloaks holding them back with all their efforts. Mychael caught his brother's eye: Baldric winked. Bloody hell. "No, you are wrong," What the hell is he up to? "Wrong?" repeated Hosman. "I demand... Trial by combat." Hosman opened his mouth to protest, but Rickard interrupted him. "So be it." Hosman nodded at his King and turned back to Baldric. "Who will cham-" Torgon stepped from the crowd and drew his axe. "I shall champion against him for my wife." "Very well, and for you, Lannister?" Baldric turned to his brother and looked at him. Seven Hells.
Val sighed and stood up, bowing toward the lords who glared at him. A smile filled with guile and no little bloodlust filled his face, and despite his dainty, almost feminine features, the sell sword suddenly looked a lot more like a cat about to pounce. "I would like to fight. It has been too long since I have stretched my legs and had a good bout. How about we joust to determine the winner?" Valkor grinned, showing more teeth than was pleasant. Recognition dawned on a few faces finally, and his grin only grew wider. "I would say best of three, but I doubt that either of us will remain alive for much longer than one."
Mychael grinned. He was safe. I should remember to knight this sod after this is done. "So be it!" exclaimed Rickard. "Just get on with the bloody action." They all moved to the jousting next door. The King moved in next to Lannister and Lord Stark. "You know, I've been thinking of holding a tournament for my crowning. But after all that's happened. "It could bring in some money for the capital. Money we need." said Mychael. "But it would not be honourable to do so after Julena's death." Bugger your honour, Stark. Rickard sighed. "I pardoned them just to have someone slit their throat behind my back." Mychael darted his eyes away uncomfortably. "I do not believe my brother guilty." "Nor I." said Henry Stark. "Though I'm afraid it's up to the Gods now." The old ones or the new ones, Henry? He had only known Henry's brother, the late Lord Horas Stark, but Henry was much like him. A grim, though pleasant enough person who liked the cold inhospitable weather of the north and saying "Winter is Coming" every five minutes. A typical Stark.
Rowan could feel the malicious intent from both men; she had almost felt sorry for the Lord Targaryen, who was so obviously drunk, when the younger man stepped forward. Always a lady, Rowen kept her poise as she kept the place of Lady Stark who disliked such affairs. Rowen's eyes betrayed her excitement however, especially considering it was one of the few instances her Father acted as a father towards her. "Gods have nothing to do with skill and a clear head," she said absently to the men around her. Her eyes alighted on Lord Lannister, "I fear for the grieving husband. He hath no chance in the condition he is in, a pig to slaughter."
"He brought it on himself," he said to the young lady-in-waiting. "I just hope Valkar knows what the hell he's doing." He took another swig from his wine flask. This could go well, aye. But it could cost the Lannister's honour, and more importantly his brother's life. His thoughts flashed back to his younger brother... but he chased them away and looked at the proceedings. Valkor had yet to appear from the equipping room, but Targaeryan was sitting lopsided on his huge destrier. He wore the colours of his house, a red three-headed Dragon on a field of black, as black as his horse and mood. He wore red armour with intricate black scrollwork, and his pauldrons lookes like Dragons. As a helm he had donned a lightweight armet. The fool, one blow to that and his head will be unattached to his shoulders. Valkar would probably win, but when you give matters into the hands of the Gods they oft played cruel jests. He turned back to Lady Rowen and offered some wine. "Is Lady Stark not attending?"
"Milady Stark does not take pleasure in such affairs," Rowen said simply. She took the offered wine and brought it to her lips, barely letting the pungent drink touch her mouth afore returning it to Lord Lannister. "However, were she not to know how the battle progressed she would have nothing to talk about with her lady friends who do. Thus, she gives the task to me," Rowen glanced up at her father but his grim scowl told her nothing of what he was thinking. A sad smile graced her lips before she turned back to Lord Lannister. "I seek only to please the House of Stark,"
"Fair enough. You're not like them, you know. Not so bloody grim," He took yet another swig of wine. As he waited for the opponents to arrive. ---------------------- Henry looked vaguely at Torgon, who was patiently waiting. In fact, he had a suspicion that he was sleeping, though his helmet masked his face. He turned to Rickard. "It would perhaps be good to host a tournament after all, your Majesty," he said. "Rickard." he corrected hastily, as the King gave him a sour look. "Yes. I'd rather like to see who I can match with a lance. This Valkor chap seems quite strong with a lance." "Indeed, but his opponent isn't so fiercesome. He's better with a sword then a lance, and I should imagine alcohol dulls both skills considerably." He noticed Rowen glancing at him. He started to think about her, but the King brought him back from his thoughts. "And here comes our Lannister's champion." he said, a glint in his eyes betraying his excitement. "Two dragons Targaryen wins!" yelled Remus Tully, Lord Tully's son. "I hope you have two dragons." replied the King. Henry glanced at the master of coin. He looked rather sad. He'd be paying for this wager if Rickard lost. Then his eyes found Valkor.
The good times didn't come, as ser Edmund had hoped. The Targaryen woman was killed during the crowning ceremony, and the city was in a uproar. The trial was held and now those nobles and their champions were about to hack each other to pieces. Ser Edmund was in the crowd that was gathering to watch the duel. There were both nobles and smallfolk, artisans and others. A drunk Targaryen would fight a sober sellsword. Everyone knew how that was going to end, but the gods often made men dance and stumble, and then they laughed. Edmund had seen worse odds. The small knight he had met in the ceremony was with him. He was ser Raymond Tarly from the Horn Hill, the second youngest lad of a bunch of eight children. "So, they're going to do the trial by combat?" Raymond asked, to start a conversation. They hadn't talked since last night. "Yes, and it seems that the Targaryen lord has had more than his share." They wore their armor and weapons. It was a cooler day. Ser Edmund didn't have any ornaments, but ser Raymond had a green-colored armor and his house sigil etched to his chest. The sellsword came to the dueling ground. They were about to ready themselves. The Warrior guide them.
Valkor stepped out, wearing plain steel armor. The chestplate had a high collar, protecting his neck, and his helm lay low over his skull, and the only thing seen of his face were his brooding sky-blue eyes. A fur cape billowed over his shoulders, white as snow but stained at the hem with the blood of past battles. Yet it was not these things that caused the assembled people to gasp. The symbol etched onto his breast was not a lion, nor wolf, nor any symbol seen in the courts for a great many years. His was the blue horse of Orion. Valkor grinned behind his helm at the wide-eyed stares of the ladies and the instantly suspicious glares of the lords. Stepping further out into the open, he spread his arms wide and laughed. "Yes, I am a son of Orion. Though I would have preferred to keep it a secret that I am the only member of my House left alive, I thought it fitting that my opponent meet an end at the point of a noble's lance rather than at the end of a common sell sword's. Do you not agree?" his voice sounded hollow, coming out from behind his helm, and his eyes seemed to glow with amusement. He made a show of bowing to his lord, who looked a bit paler than usual. "I hold no loyalty to any other, my leige. Nor am i interested in ruling land just like my father. As you have seen, my interests lie only on that of the battlefield." That done with, Valkor clucked behind his helm, and Shadow trotted out from beneath the awning he'd been stationed at. The great Shire's nostrils flared, and his red eyes rolled in his head. Mad for battle, mad for blood, the stallion let out a terrible scream and tossed his mane. Streamers of blood red and yellow had been threaded through each hair until it seemed he was in fact the Nightmare of legend. That he was aflame with battle rage. Valkor swung up into the saddle and waited for two boys to bring his weapons, but instead of taking the offered shield, he grabbed a second lance. He would hold no defense in this fight, and give his foe every chance he might earn in order to main him. But that only allowed Valkor double the chance to bring his lord victory. The two jousters readied themselves. Valkor didn't even touch the reins, instead guiding his mount with a tap of the heels. The stallion reared once, letting out a shrill cry and moving as if to charge instantly, but he landed with a loud thunder of hooves until the ground shook. One moment passed in tense silence, and then they were off. Dirt and mud went flying as Shadow gathered his haunches, and launched at the other horse. Valkor leaned low over the saddle, his cape flowing out behind him. Like fire and ice, they flowed together. Darkness and light, they sent fear quivering through the ground. His lips curled back in a battle cry, and when the two jousters drew near to each other, he lunged. Number Generator: Aim (1) Head Blow (16) Well done The clang of metal and the snap of bone rang in his ears. But Valkor did not slow down until the end of the line, where Shadow skidded to a halt, carving deep furrows in the earth. Blood stained the length of his right arm and lance, the once silvery weapon gleaming crimson.
The crowd gasped as Targaeryen nearly fell off his horse, but the Lord seemed to come out of his drunken folly and let out a roar. Blood seeped out from under his helmet, and he grabbed his second lance furiously. "One lance for Valkar, none for Targaeryan." "He needs either to unhorse Targaeryan, or win three lances against him." he explained to Rowen, who seemed excited by the joust.
Ser Edmund saw that Lord Targaryen's head took a hit from the opponent's lance. He heard somebody fainting and falling to the ground. Most of the crowd sounded that they were out of breath after their gasp. Ser Raymond's face was wide open with amazement, like a canyon. "Please, shut your mouth, ser Raymond. Someone will be scared to death of your teeth if you keep that hole open" Edmund jested and then looked to the duelists.
The two jousters rounded, gathering themselves for another charge. Valkor struggled to keep his mount contained; the stallion wanted to charge again before Tageryen had even hit the end of the straightaway. Stamping his hooves and kicking up dust, Shadow plunged over and over again, foaming at the bit. The their opponent had finally turned and grabbed a second lance for himself. Val felt his heart begin to race. Somehow he knew that this would be the last charge. One would fall, and one would rise to becom champion. But who it would be, he could not tell. Bowing his head, Valkor began to hum to himself, and amidst the chatter of the crowd, his deep tenor voice rose: "Run oh run you sons of Orion, for the clouds crackle and shoot down the sun! A storm is brewing, our song is hewing, down the sons of our foes, the sons of our foes." "Run oh run you bloody sons of Orion, a curse has arisen, and there will only be one! Cursed is our bloodline cursed is our land, but we do not fall without a lance in hand!" The old, forgotten hymn quavered in the air, and Valkor hunched low over the saddle, the stallion suddenly still. Too still. His blue eyes glowed bright under his helm, and Val felt nothing, heard nothing but the pulse of his heart. The rasp of his breath. Now, he would live or die. Now, he would strike or fall. Targaryen yelled out a curse and charged, and a Thunder-Clap raced to meet him. Drunk and enraged after the loss of his wife, Valkor could not help but pity the man. But to go into battle and risk his entire bloodline was foolishness. He should have sent out a lesser man like himself, and preserve what little honor he had left. Their lances flashed in the sunlight, red to black, silver to gold, and when they drew close enough to strike, Targaryen lashed out. Number Generator:(Tagaryen) Aim: 6 Blow: 9 His blow was hampered both by his drunken state and the fact that his horse shied away in that exact moment, frightened by Shadow's snapping teeth, and so the point just scored Val's thigh and carved a thin line into his armor. He may have a battle horse, but it had never met the demonic rage of the Nightmare. Taking his chance, Valkor 's lance skimmed across his opponent's and struck once more. Number Generator: (Valkor) Aim: 1 Blow: 18 There was a muted crunch as his lance went striaght into the helmet, and the Lord was torn off his saddle, blood trailing the body where it fell. Valkor had triumphed.
Rowan's eyes glittered with mixed amusement and pity for the fallen Targaryen. She cared not much for fighting herself, but watching others foolish play for their lives amused in ways that many other things could not. The sell-swords song was the pinnacle of his performance, adding a terrifying look to himself. Not many would sing while they kill their foe. "Well, I suppose this means the Orion won. He certainly knocked Lord Targaryen of his horse," she said callously towards Lord Lannister. She was annoyed how he had tried to explain the rules to her when she was fully aware of them. "Even a bastard can tell who wins a joust." Her eyes flashed towards Lord Lannister, daring him to say something else, "I am a Stark Lady-in-Waiting. I know just as much about court and it's games as any other pure-blood,"
Mychael laughed. "Fair enough! My brother's arse is saved in any case. This," he said, raising his now nearly empty wine flask, "is the bane of powerful men." Lord Lannister's laughter surprised Rowen and she found herself blushing with mixed indignation and embarrassment. Quickly she turned her head back to the jousting field where undertakers were busy with the buisness of cleaning of the late Lord Targaryen "Indeed. That still leaves the murder of Lady Targaryen unanswered, however. Her husband will not be the only one to seek revenge and i'm afraid. A women of her blood has many friends." "True, but ever since the overthrow of the Targaryen throne a few months ago their supporters are dwindling. Already the Boltons have become bannermen to some other House, and the Tyrells have sworn their allegiance to us. They have friends... and enemies." he replied. A short man came up to him. "Lord Lannister?" he asked, his voice quite low. "Indeed." "Your brother has arrived." Mychael glanced to the corner of the field, where his brother was cheering and embracing his wife. "He is over th-" "Your other brother." "Oh." Mychael turned pale and rose slowly. "You must excuse me, my lady. Thank you for your company. I must go." He turned and followed the envoy. Rowen's brow furrowed in suspicion at Lannister's reaction to the envoy and hasty retreat. Glancing back at her father who was engaged in conversation with the king, she too excused herself from the rest saying that she needed to return to her Lady and tell her the outcome of the joust. Rising from her seat, Rowen pressed her arms against her sides to make sure her throwing knives were in the correct place up her sleeves. Lord Stark had commissioned special sheaths to be made on her name-day, specifically stating that they should be invisible underneath her clothes yet allow easy and quick access to the weapons they held. He told her often that not even women should go unarmed for "Winter is Coming". Rowen followed Lord Lannister from a discreet distance and kept herself within crowds as much as possible to avoid being seen herself. Lord Lannister is up to something, I can feel it. It was no mistake he was at the tower of Lady Targaryen that night. The Lady was no friend of the Starks but I'd rather be sure he doesn't come after my father next. Mychael picked up the pace as they entered a small empty street and a voice echoed: "And so he spoke, and so he spoke That lord of Castamere," "And now the Rains weep o'er his hall, with not a soul to hear," finished Mychael. A man dressed entirely in red robes stepped out of the dark. "Mychael." "Jeremy." The two men hugged. "It has been too long, brother." said the red man. "Too long." agreed Mychael. "What brings you from the Free Cities?" "A new king is here. I was authorised to come here, as it coincided with my recruitment period. I've been sent to find new brothers of Rh'lorr." "Ah?" said Mychael. "You know, at my request Rickard re-legetimised you as heir." "Really? Didn't know it was in his power." "The king's power is almighty." Rowan pressed her back against the wall on the front side of the little street Lord Lannister had entered. Her hands clasped her voluminous skirts tightly against her legs to prevent them from being seen should the wind blow the wrong way. Thank-fully the street was short enough that she did not have to enter to hear what was being said, albeit it was still hard to do so. She was able to identify one other voice besides the Lord and the verse he spoke sent chills down her spine. After the greeting the men's voices had quieted and she strained to hear more. They walked back the way they came. "Anyway, you'll be tired, no? I can arrange you to sleep near my quarters in the castle. When are you due back to the Free Cities?" asked Michael. "A few months," replied his brother. "They've given me quite some time to find recruits, though truth be told I'm not sure we will find many. Not enough people support the Lord of Light." "Including our father." "Too true." Jeremy pulled back his hood. He had let his hair grow, and it ended at his shoulders. He had grown a scraggly beard and earned a few scars. "Distressing times are coming. Rh'lorr has been oddly powerful as of late, giving us greater power. Greater then you can imagine," his voice lowered into a whisper. "There is talk beyond the wall..." "Yes! Talk. A mummer's tale." Rowen's eyes narrowed. Talk beyond the wall always concerned the Starks, though this is the first she had heard anything about it for a long time. Their footsteps came nearer and she quickly moved away from her place and into a group of people, cursing her luck. She would of liked to hear more but she could not do so without suspicion, perhaps another day. Once again Rowen filed away the little piece of information she had gotten for later use. She was glad she had a good memory.
Lord Edgar Baratheon was alone in the crowning hall, admiring the Iron Throne. He had no interest to watch the joust, as his weapons and armor were of different kind. They called him the Late Lord of the Sea. Almost a fitting name, since Edgar Baratheon hadn't the intention of joining the dead anytime soon. The nickname came from the fact that he had supported the triumvirate of the Arryns, Starks and Lannisters against the Targaryen rule after the war had begun. Lord Edgar had given them ships to battle the Targaryen fleet and cut their supply lines across the Narrow Sea. And now he was in the small council, watching over the money flow from the realm to the crown's coffers. And to his coffers, of course. He could make money like none other in the Seven Kingdoms. That was because he ruled the trade from the King's Landing to the nine Free Cities. One dragon is lonely, add one, and you can have a third one. Well, most of the trade, to be precise, but he could tax the merchants and their galleys. Trading and investing in galleys were much more interesting than buying brothels and land. Thanks for the trade and his inheritance, Edgar Baratheon, the Late Lord of the Sea and the Stormlands, was one of the most powerful lords in the post-war times. His spies in the harbour had told him that a golden-haired man in red had come to the capital. The red Lannister. Edgar had heard rumors about him. Would there be an ally for him, or a threat to him? He had to take the red Lannister into account in his plans. He was going to sit on the Iron Throne. The Targaryens were gone, the new king would be weak and the realm divided for a while, and the lady's death was well-timed to draw attention from him. He should thank the killer had he known him. But until he went forward with his plans, he had to put the mask on and play this mummer's farce to the end. One of his knights, ser Edmund Pyke, came to him and told him about the joust. A sellsword had revealed himself as a noble, a last child of some distant House. The Targaryen had fallen, and so, Edgar Baratheon had one enemy less to face.
Valkor quietly led his mount back to the stables, keeping a wary eye out for his Lord. But the man seemed to have vanished as soon as he had won. Well, it was probably all for the better. He was just a sell-sword, nobleborn or not, and didn't deserve the added attention. He still couldn't escape some of the knights who kept asking him about his technique. It was almost as if he hadn't just slain a lord right in front of them! And an innocent one at that! But i was defending an innocent man as well -albeit the innocent brother of the guilty one. The last of the battle craze had passed, and Val slumped into the stable, fumbling with his armor and Shadow's in order to get it off. Then he dumped the load on a poor stable boy to get it cleaned. He'd done what was expected and what he was paid for, but weariness dragged at him. Whenever he got to this state, it was usually best to move on before he made any powerful enemies. But then it may already have been too late. Valkor had never killed a lord, even out on the battlefield. If he had, he certainly hadn't known of it. In the icy plains of the north, no one was lord but the one of Winterfell. Valkor sighed, sliding to the floor and rubbing at his eyes while Shadow munched on his oats. It probably would be better to go off on his own now. It would draw attention away from Lord Mychael, a thing that might please his lord and keep that man off his tail. But it would also arouse suspicion and make the others think that it had been he who had killed the lady. Debt or not, I will never do such a thing again. Valkor bit his lower lip until he drew blood, shaking from the memory. Being a mercenary wasn't all fun and games. He was meant to be hired to defend land as a whole -not to be some petty Lord's assassin. But the fact that he never even touched the woman or her guard made him feel all the worse. Standing up abruptly, he brushed down the stallion while the beast finished eating, then snatched the reins and saddle from where they hung on the door. His armor could be sent for, or new could be made. It wasn't all that valuable to him. In his line of work, it didn't take much more than a good job to replace things. Then again, the Lannisters have paid double any lord has ever given me. Life may not be so easy after this...Valkor groaned and slid off the saddle, pulling it off his horse again and throwing the tack in the corner. He stumbled outside, ignoring the surprised glances cast his way, and headed out to the city. A good drink aught to fix him up. He was thinking too much. A sell sword wasn't supposed to think. It wasn't what they were hired for- "Oomf!" Valkor stumbled back with an oath and looked up, then his eyes widened when he saw Lady Snow steadying herself a few feet away. "M-my apologies, milady. I didn't see you there." he stammered, then mentally winced at how he must appear. Without his armor and cloak, he wore nothing but a plain white shirt and leathers. It wasn't exactly the attire a noble's son was expected to be found in.
By the Hells! Lannister's bodyguard was the last person she wanted to she her out here. He would be sure to tell his Lord he had seen and Lannister is not a fool, he would know she had followed him. That being the case, because she didn't hear all of what they said she didn't know whether to fear for her life or not. Luckily, the sell-sword seemed flustered so she decided to take advantage of that fact. "It's no matter, a bastard daughter is supposed to be invisible. You have simply shown me once again my station in this life," she said smugly. She dusted off her black dress and held her head up high so that her gaze might meet his.
Mychael showed his brother off to the Red Keep's quarters where he was sleeping. As he turned around, he noticed Lady Rowen, who he had spied in the corner of his eye several times. He pondered on why she had followed him. Did she suspect him? Or was it something else... He walked up to her and Valkor. "Ah, Valkor. Bloody well done. I have asked the King to have you reinstated as Lord of your lands. They happen to be owned by the Tyrells in fact, who of course, especially in these times, refuse them to yield them back to you. They're quite meager, but do knot you the title of Lord Orion." Val couldn't help but smile when he learned of this. A Lord? It would be quite the step up, but it would be a good one. Or so he hoped. His throughts immediately turned to how the Lannisters would try to manipulate him. But they were probably better as allies than enemies. And he would have little to offer them, at least in the beginning. Well... I won't be as foolish as my father was. he decided. Mychael smiled, and turned to Rowen. She looked beautiful in her black dress, and her pale eyes looked like water running over ice. Beautiful eyes, though uncommon of a Stark. Who exactly was her mother? "Black suits you, my lady." Bloody Hells. Dipping into a curtsy she bowed her head before Lord Lannister so she could hide the flashing anger and fear that she knew her eyes revealed. "I thank you My Lord," she said politely. She looked scared, even sad. She kept bowing down so that he could not see her face, what was she hiding? "You seem afraid, what is on your mind?" Rowen pulled out of her curtsy with all the graze she could manage but still kept her head down. Let us see just how well I learned the Games of Court. "I have not often traveled the streets. The suffering of the people makes me sad and afraid for them," she pointed down an alley towards some street-rats digging through a pile of rubbish. "I have come close many times to being no better then they." "I doubt it. Those people would betray you, kill you, for a piece of bread," said Mychael. "And besides... Valar Morghulis" Valkar winced when the street urchins were noticed. "It is probably better that you wouldn't have been brought up in these mean streets, Lady Snow. I was forced to flee from my home as a boy, and spent many years in this state before I became the man you see today." a sheepish smile tugged at his mouth. Damn. Why was he so skittish around her? They were the same, both bastards. He just had a better chance at growing in power. "The Starks have too much honour for that, surely." Mycheal said. "You forget, My Lord, that I am a bastard. Lord Stark may have honor, but it takes a strong man to go against his wife. As it would seem however, we are the lucky ones, My Lord Orion," she curtsied again, this time to the sell-sword turned Lord. A commotion erupted near a small crowd of beggars who were flung to the ground by three men advancing. The first of them had long locks of silver, and two eyes set like amethysts. "You f-ing Lannister scum!" "Oh dear." was all Mychael managed, beckoning the other two to back away. If Rowen got hurt, he wouldn't forgive himself. "Lannister! You're going to die like all your family for what you've done." "Please, get ahold of yourself." What was his name. Laerys? Malerys? Targaryen's nephew. "Men, he's mine." Mychael smiled, though he could not hide the actual fear on his face. Both his brothers had always bested him at swordfighting, him preferring to read books and play the Game of Court with a different sort of weapon. "So be it. Valkor, you've had your fun, let me have this one." Targaeryen charged in and swiped in longsword in an arc. [RANDOM GENERATOR] Body part hit: 1.head 2.shoulder 3.arm (1.2 left right) 4. hand (1.2 left right), 5. leg, 6. torso 3 AND 2 /Right Arm Damage done: 1-20 1 His blow was clumsy, and in his rage it barely scraped Mychael's doublet, who quickly counter-attacked with a blow to [RANDOM GENERATOR] BP hit: 4+2/ Right Hand DMG: 6 Targaeryen's hand, scratching it a bit. Mallerys stepped out of the way and brought a kick up, [RANDOM GENERATOR] BP hit: Right Leg DMG: 9 making the Lord wince and stumble backwards. Rowen hurried and positioned herself slightly behind the sell-sword, well out of harms way. As she turned to watch the duel she was instantly dubious about the outcome. Her right eyebrow shot up in a doubting expression and she looked up towards her impromptu shield. "What do you believe the outcome will be My Lord?" Valkor watched the ensuing battle, tense. His hand rested on the pommel of a thin rapier, and Val mentally cursed the fact that he had left his broadsword back at the stables. If Shadow were here these men would run screaming once they saw what he really was... Then he smirked. "I have worked for Lord Lannister for quite some time -he's handy with a blade usually. Did he happen to touch any wine during my joust though?" he answered, then quirked an eyebrow at Rowan. He already knew the answer. Lannister would not like to admit it but even he could be foolish at times. Dragon and Lion circled around each other, daring one another to strike. Mychael leapt and brought his sword above his head, bringing it down upon Mallerys' leg. RANDOM NUMBER GENERATOR BP hit: 5/ Leg DMG: 19 Mallerys staggered and put his sword down as a crutch as blood poured out of the slash on his leg. The cut was deep, so deep one could see his flesh underneath it, and his black leggings soon became drenched in red. "You bastard... You stupid piece of shit!" "The crow calls the raven black," jested Mychael, before grabbing the blade of his sword and stabbing at Lannister's RNG BP hit: 2/ Shoulder DMG: 6 shoulder, but didn't even touch him as Lannister fell to the ground from his wound. "Kill his friends," he managed. Mychael saw his henchmen draw up their crossbows. Valkor shoved himself in front of Rowan at the same moment. No, no, no. No one comes to harm under my watch ever again. Never. He ran quickly to their side, though it seemed to take an eternity, he whirled around, his red cape beating in the wind, and put himself in a protective pose in front of the two others. A quarrel flew into his Random Number generator: BP hit: 2 /shoulder DMG done: 13 shoulder sinking in deep. He grabbed a the wounded shoulder with his hand and winced. "My Lord!" Valkor yelled. Another quarrel flew through the air and RG BP hit: 4+2/ R. hand DMG:19 slammed into his hand, piercing through it and into his shoulder and nearly back out again. He yelled in pain this time, and dropped to one knee.
"My Lord!" Rowen screeched. Forsaking her place behind Lord Orion she dashed to the fallen Lannister's side, her hands fluttering over his wounds but knew there was nothing she could do about it now. Her platinum silver eyes sparked with rage and she drew herself up to full height, which compared to the men around her was not very tall at all. With simple twist of her wrist the latch on her throwing daggers released and they fell into her hands. Bringing up her right hand she whipped the small dagger into the air and... RG: BP: 7 DMG: 15 Managed to hit one of the crossbow men his left leg, slicing through muscle and lodging deeply within the soft inner part of his thigh. She then raised her left hand and flung her next dagger.... BP: 6 DMG: 11 Hitting the second cross-bow man in his right leg. Due to throwing with her left hand she only hit the man in the fleshy part of his leg and didn't cause over-much damage. Probably still hurt like hell though. The gold cloaks rushed in and beat the men. A man dressed in black and gold plate walked up to Lannister and helped him to his legs. "My lord, you need a Maester." Mychael tried to move his hand and blood gushed out with each movement. It was pinned to his shoulder. "Fool! Don't rip it out, you'll lose the use of that hand!" Valkor hissed and stopped the man before he could try again. "Best he should come to me..." he said, panting. As the captain of the Gold Cloaks left, Mychael sat on the ground and gave his wineflask to Rowen. "Please, my lady. Pour this on my wounds when I'm done." He grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand out of his shoulder. The pain was so excruciating his vision went blurry, but he did not utter a sound. A Lannister always pays his debts. But despite Val's warning, he grabbed the arrow from his shoulder and yanked it out, and snapped the end of the arrow in his hand before pulling the rest out. His arm and hand were soiled with blood, a dark brown against the crimson of his doublet. Valkor's mouth set in a grim line, and he looked after the retreating backs of their enemies. "'Look to your nightmares', foolish dragon hatchlings." he spat, eyes filled with rage as he quoted his family's motto. Rowen knelt down beside Lord Lannister. "You fool, what ever gave you the idea you can stop a flying cross-bolt?" she asked him patronizingly. Unlike most women she was unfazed by the sight of blood and had no problem with helping the bleeding man. Without any hesitation she ripped open the shoulder of his doublet and poured the wine over it. She heard Lannister suck in his breath and bite back a curse but she ignored him. She then lifted up her velvet skirt to reveal the mass of white petticoats underneath and ripped off several strands from their hems. Taking the strands she bound his shoulder best she could and administered the same therapy to his hand. For a moment, her hands lingered on his wounded one and sadness flooded her face. Quickly she shook her head and gave him a reproachful look. "You owe me another set of knives." Mychael laughed, which turned into a cough. "Ah, playing the hero is best left to better men..." Pity she had taken her hands off, it was not unpleasant. He tried to lift himself up, but grunted at the pain. Mychael put his arm around her shoulder. "May I?" Rowen simply nodded, she was used to this sort of thing with her Lady who seemed to have an increasingly hard time rising from her bed in the mornings. She got up and walked over to his good side and replaced his arm around her shoulders, and then assisted him to his feet. He was heavier then the Lady Stark and she struggled to keep him steady but once he was on his feet he took most of his own weight using her only to steady himself. "Thank you. For everything," he said. "Most ladies would run at the sight of blood." "Well, most ladies are not Starks. Your senses are dulled when faced with the wrath of the North, Winter is coming." Rowan glanced around for a place where which the Lord could rest, noticing the stares they were drawing by staying in the middle of the street with blood-soaked clothes. "You're excellent with those throwing knives," said Lannister, groaning as Rowen brushed against his wound. "That was good thinking, the bandages. You're too smart for your own good." "Indeed." Valkor commented, still looking over his shoulder. "Were those... your first kills?" "They were not kills, I simply bought us some time. I've gone hunting with Father before so no, death is not new to me. What are humans but more sophisticated animals? Frankly, I'd be more scared of a man then a boar any day." "Wise words. Worthy of a Stark." A maester of the Red Keep arrived and looked at his wounds. "They seem well enough, you applied alcohol to clean the wound, and it is staunched by the bandage. Would you like milk of the poppy?" "No. The pain will be a pleasant reminder of our good guests the Targaeryens." As the maester left and dissapeared, he turned to look at Rowen. Her pretty face was the last thing he saw before collapsing onto a bench and fainting. Valkor caught the Lord's head before he could hit it, then stalked a few feet away, shoulders trembling with rage. "Look to your nightmares." They'd pissed off the wrong man, and his hands clenched when he imagined the terror on their faces when he next caught up with them.
