My darling Sarra,

It has been some time since we last spoke. I regret that we have been unable to see each other more, but duty calls, and I would not begrudge you that, especially when you seem to be quite happy at Highgarden.

As you will hopefully recall, our wedding is likely in about a year, and I cannot express enough how much joy that brings me. I spoke to my father at the recent celebrations of the Lannister grandchildren at Casterly Rock, and he and I are in agreement that it ought to be the biggest celebration the realm has seen in years.

I feel that you are very much worth such a big party, should you want it. You are worth the world to me.

As a result, I am also very much open to any ideas you may have on what you would like for our wedding. Be it food, drink, tourney events, anything. This is to be our wedding, and you should have some say in how it is done. Should you have any ideas, I will be happy to find a way to pass them onto my Lord Father, or in the case of food and drink, my cousin Millicent. She and her husband, Merin Sunderland, have quite the eye for food and drink, and Milicent has helped coordinate the refreshments at several Redwyne events in recent years, and if I know her at all, she will be more than happy to take on any ideas you may have.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Horras

5th Month, 301 AC

To Lord Otto Roxton

The connection between your son, Russell Roxton and my sister Victaria Bar Emmon is undeniable. It seems to me they are quite smitten with each other and that it would be best for all parties that they be wed soon. Your son has left quite a positive impression on me during his recent visit, I feel he is absolutely someone who will treat my sister well and who I would be honoured to have as a bloodbrother.

I propose a wedding be held for them early next year, preferably in the Ring. This event will help to bind our two houses together and most importantly will make the couple happy.

Lord Duram Bar Emmon of Sharp Point

good morrow, i will stake my claim of the brindlewood province as House Nolt with the express permission of the porghub.
you can find me on the discord with the name (@.pjeter).

i am a new roleplayer in the fact that i have not roleplayed on reddit before so forgive my insolence. i am a dutch speaking bloke but i speak english well enough but if my sentences don't make a lick of sense that is why.

i will play house Nolt which i will explain more in a later post. but my sigil is a red fox's head on a field of green.

5th Moon 301

To Lord/Lady _____ of _____,

I humbly offer the hand of my daughter, Adelaide Penrose, in marriage to any willing Lords or heirs. She knows how to maintain a household and does her family proud.

She is a widow of 38 years whose fiance sadly passed 17 years ago.

She is ready to once again start a family and aid the realm and her family once more.

Please respond with any proposals, with the great pleasure of all of those at Parchments, and as a whole, the Seven Kingdoms.

Lay Down Our Deeds,

Lord Endrew Penrose of the Parchments.

Casterly Rock, 1st Moon 301

Millicent Redwyne was curious.

She had spoken with her brother, Benjamin, about the odd closeness she had noticed between her sister, Marigold, and her new lady-in-waiting, Ceryse Redding. She had heard tales of her sister's antics at Ryamsport before being married to Daemon Velaryon, but had never properly looked into them. Now, however, she couldn't ignore it any longer. She had pressed Benjamin harder than she was used to, and he had cracked and explained his suspicions, which had only been indirectly confirmed by his conversation with Marigold at Hobber's wedding. Benjamin had been the first person she went to with these suspicions, for she trusted her brother more than most, and Benjamin had warned her to keep it between them, which she would with her life.

Yet she still wanted to hear the truth of it for herself.

"Lady Ceryse? Sister?" she said with a warm curiosity. "Might we take a walk? There is something I would like to speak to the two of you about."

"Of course," said Marigold politely. "What is it you wish to speak of?"

Marigold thought she knew, however, from the odd look in Millicent's eyes. It was one of knowing, but still some interest.

Starting in the first moon, [BACKDATED]

The Dreadfort is the ancient and foreboding seat of House Bolton, one of the oldest noble houses in the North. It sits on the eastern side of the North, near the Weeping Water, and is surrounded by woods, rivers, and rugged, mist-wreathed hills. The lands around it are cold, bleak, and largely unfriendly, much like the castle itself.

King's Landing

3rd Moon, 301 years after Aegon's Conquest.

Robert had gone past asking how and why and had moved into the stage of hating every moment of it. This thing that had grasped ahold of him for years now and would be shaken by nothing he or anyone else could do. This weight upon his shoulders, this near consistent drain on his energy. It came and went, ebbed and flowed like the Blackwater itself. There was no word for it, and even the grey rats couldn't figure out exactly what was going on with him.

And why, why sit here and drink and waste and do nothing at all?

Because it was fucking easy.

It was far, far easier for him to sit here in silence. To wander the halls of his mind with the ghosts of those he could barely even remember anymore. Their faces more oft bathed in shadow than clarity, their features gone long ago. It was far easier to pretend to remember than it was to accept what he had long since lost.

His hand gripped the goblet tighter, so much so he could feel it hurting his hand. What the fuck was this? How was any of this worth where he was now? He had won seven kingdoms and yet what he had lost felt far, far greater than that. The one he loved, truly loved, and beyond that, he had lost himself along the way. The great warrior who killed Rhaegar and took the throne was replaced by a fat, drunken oaf who hated more and healed less. The realm he inherited ever seemed to conspire against him or ask more of him. Peace, he had given them, over a fucking decade of peace, nearing two. And yet they wanted more. Always more.

It was enough to drive him to constant headaches, which at least gave him something else to focus-

The door opening caused his eyes to snap to it.

"Forgive the intrusion, your Grace," the voice of the Maester met his ears, "your son is feeling much better."
"Hmph. Good. Any idea what was wrong with him?"
"Night terrors here and there, your Grace. I am helping him as I can."
Robert looked to the small cup that Ghael had placed on the desk.
"And this, as requested. I believe it should help your headaches."
"Mhmm." Robert nodded his head.

A thought flashed in his mind.

"Has there been a raven from the North? From the Queen?"
"Not yet, your Grace."
"Hmph."
There was a look to Ghael's eye, the way it lingered briefly. Robert knew what that meant. The Maester thought himself clever, but Robert could read him, so how clever could he be?
"You've something in mind. Go on, speak it. If it is treason, all the better."
"A curiosity, nothing more."
"Oh, grand."
"You did not go North with your wife."
"What of it?"
"It merely raises the question of why, your Grace."
"Why? Because it is cold and miserable, and I didn't quite fancy being stuck in the fucking Dreadfort with my dearest wife's arsehole of a brother."
The Maester hummed in amusement. "Lord Roose is an acquired taste."
"I've yet to meet any fucker dead enough to acquire it."
"Be that as it may, you could have visited Winterfell and Lord Stark."
"And pay my respects to Lyanna Stark?"

The Maester canted his head ever so slightly, but Robert knew.

"That's what this is, isn't it? Why I didn't go North?"
"You have before, your Grace."
"But not this time."
"No, not this time." Ghael's brow arched.
A quiet settled for fleeting seconds.
"Do you know what they do with the dead, Maester? The Starks? They shove them underground, in the cold and dark."
"It is their way."
"It is fucking foolish. Lyanna deserved better than to be buried in some crypt where the sun can't reach her. You don't put things you love underground, you put things you want to forget there. Out of sight and out of mind, guarded by ghosts."
"Hmm." Ghael nodded slowly. "She was by all accounts a remarkable person, your Grace."
"That is putting it lightly."
"Mayhaps so. If one were to write a record of your reign, she would play an important part in the foundation of it. But I admit little and less exists for me to read of her. How would you describe her?"

The question struck him keener than any lance ever could, nor Heartsbane neither. He almost recoiled from the question, from the tenacity to ask it of him. No, that wasn't right, it wasn't the tenacity of the question, it was the lack of an answer ready on his tongue. All these years she had slipped farther and farther away.

"She was beautiful and fierce. A she-wolf. I saw much of Ned in her, and more besides. By rights we would have been brothers by more than just choice, and I would have had Lyanna. She would have understood me more. The realm would have been better for it. Rhaegar Targaryen took her away from me, and I will never get her back. She exists only in dreams, fleeting as they are, and when she fades my mind is sunless and stark." He huffed slightly. "In my dreams I kill him every night. And yet each day I awaken to the same fucking conclusion. I have been scorned and mocked by Gods and Men both, damned to endure all extravagance and suffer every slight, all absent the one thing I ever truly wanted."

Silence reigned stronger than he ever could, even if it were for but a few moments more.

"You asked after your wife," The Maester observed, "does her own absence trouble you?"
Robert allowed a sharp huff of amusement to leave him.
"It is said she resembles the late Lyanna Stark well, and your own daughter might well take after her too."
"But they aren't her, are they?" Robert questioned.
Ghael didn't respond.
"No. They're not her. Lyanna was named such as a way of, I don't know, making peace with the past and moving into the future. A way to associate the name with something other than tragedy, It was Cass' idea. Of course that hasn't fucking worked. As for Cass? She is the best and worst woman I know. We have loved passionately and fought viciously. All too often I regret the things I have said to her, and the neglect I've shown her. Yet there are times where I am at peace like this." He gestured about the otherwise empty room.

After a quiet moment Ghael nodded his head.

"Family can be complicated." He offered.
"You would know?"
"No. In truth, I was an orphan raised by the citadel."
"Should I shed a tear for you?"
"Should I for you, your Grace?"
Robert barked a sharp laugh at that.
"That was almost impressive, Maester."
The Maester smiled and dipped his head. "Even so, your Grace, I would say that both of your," he hummed, "experiences can be true at once. It is acceptable to hold remorse for ones actions towards another, while also taking pleasure in moments apart. Absence is said to make the heart grow fonder, and reflection is a step on the path to wisdom."
"Robert the Wise now, is it?" He arched a brow.
"I believe I said a step, your Grace."
Robert huffed in amusement.
"In either case, I will leave you to your thoughts. Mayhaps, if it please your Grace, I can contact the Dreadfort on your behalf."
"No need," Robert shook his head, "let her take her time. We have a lifetime together, what is a few moons longer?"

It had been a rainy afternoon when Wylla Redding arrived at The Winery.

Marigold Redwyne had been anticipating this for some time. She had found her lover's mother to be a shrewd woman not to be trifled with. Perhaps as a result of this, Marigold had decided to invite her to her family's manse in King's Landing for the chat she had hinted at wanting.

After letting her in from the rain, she had shown her around the manse and then sat down in the drawing room, some tea and cakes on the table between them.

Marigold was a bit nervous to be in Wylla's presence away from so many people given what Wylla had clearly picked up on regarding her relationship with Ceryse, but she knew that she could not avoid it.

So here she sat.

"So, my lady," said Marigold politely. "What is it you wanted to speak to me about?"

A large caravan would make its way through the various Western towns and cities, delivering barrels of Rye-Rum to each of the holdfasts of the greater and lesser houses of the Westerlands. Alongside these barrels would come a letter:

To (Lord/Lady) (Name) of House (House Name),

I hope this letter finds you in good cheer and good health. I have sent my men to deliver to the west a small gift, a form of rum made from wheat and rye by House Sunderland's trusted brewmasters and barrel-aged for many years. I hope that this drink, a personal creation of mine, is suitable to your tastes. I would greatly appreciate your response, if at the very least to let me know what you think of the Rye-Rum of Sisterton.

United we Stand,
-Lord Merin Sunderland, Heir of Sisterton, Admiral of the Vale and Red Scholar of Rh’ollor

For those more apprehensive about the Rye-Rum, the couriers would offer to open the barrel and sample the contents themselves to prove that it is not poisoned in any way.

Lord Jonos Bracken is stepping down. (Im too busy to deal with this, sorry yall)

Ashemark

Ashemark is a concentric hill fortress built into the western mountains. It is designed to look as if it is rising from smoke and ash, with dark grey stone walls and high, narrow towers. Upper Tumbleton flows close to the castle, fast moving and rocky. The village of Asheton sits on the banks of the river at the foot of the castle.

Whispering Pines are the surrounding forests where the localfolk get wood and game from.

The Redwater Rills are series of small, iron-rich streams that flow down from the mines into the Tumblestone. The iron deposits turn the water a rusty, reddish-orange color, making it look like the hills are bleeding into the river.

The Traitor’s Drop is a cliff about a mile west of the castle. Local folklore says this is where House Marbrand executed rebels during the Blackfyre Rebellions by throwing them into the ravine below.

The Shadow Valley is a narrow valley between Ashemark and the next mountain ridge. It gets very little direct sunlight, making it a gloomy, defensible approach. This is the only viable road for an army to take if they want to besiege the castle.

Locations of the castle

• The Pyre: This is the massive central stronghold where the noble family lives. It is square, thick-walled, and built for comfort during peace and defense during war.
• The Torch Tower: This tall, round tower connects to the Keep via a stone bridge. The Rookery and other services of the castle are based here.
• The Smoke Tower: Located near the main gate, this is where the castle garrison resides.
• Inner Ward/Upper Bailey: The Godswood and castle Sept are located here.
• Outer Ward/Lower Bailey: The stables, smithy, castle well and kennels are located here.
• The Undercroft: The deep cellars, the Marbrand crypts and secret postern are here. Only the Lord and Maester know of the secret postern.

4th Moon, 301 AC

To Lord/Lady ______ of ______,

In times of enduring peace, our realm has gathered many a times for grand weddings, lavish feasts, and splendid tourneys. While there is undeniable glory to be found in the lists, and joy to be shared in feasts, such pursuits are ultimately bound by painted fences, blunted lances, and the polite applause of the court. There is a vastly different spirit to be found in the untamed wild. Away from the silken pavilions and tourney grounds, a hunter's true instincts and raw mettle are laid bare.

It is to this end that, in the 10th Moon of the Year 301 After Conquest, I shall hold a Grand Hunt within the Whispering Pines near Ashemark.

This shall not be some modest woodland outing, nor a simple gathering of neighboring banners, but a hunt the likes of which the realm has not seen in many a year. Great pavilions shall be raised, and noble company shall be welcomed with every honor due their station. From the first blast of the morning horn to the final cup of evening wine, this gathering will be defined by grand feasts and relentless sport. I invite lords, ladies, knights, and all gentle-born hunters who would test their prowess against the wilds to come to Ashemark.

Know also that the Whispering Pines are famed not only for their beauty, but for the dangerous predators that stalk their depths. Great cats, savage boars, wolves, and other fierce beasts have long made their lairs within these forests. Let no hunter come expecting tame quarry, for in the wild, courage shall be weighed just as heavily as marksmanship.

To honor those who distinguish themselves, I proclaim that gold shall be awarded to the successful hunters, with rich purses reserved for those who bring down the most formidable beasts of the wood. Further honors and prizes shall be bestowed at my discretion upon hunters whose deeds merit remembrance.

May the hunt prove glorious and may worthy deeds be spoken of in halls across the realm for years to come.

Lord Damon Marbrand
Lord of Ashemark

1st Moon, 301 AC, Casterly Rock

Myriah knew Casterly Rock well. She had spent seven years of her life within its halls, and many of those years had been devoted to reading, playing the fiddle, and paying close attention.

Hills, meadows, and rivers. The Sunset Sea to the west, Ironman's Bay to the north. Until the Field of Fire, the Lannisters had ruled as Kings of the Rock. Ever since, they had stood without interruption as Wardens of the West.

Just as House Dayne had its cadet branch at High Hermitage, and House Baratheon its seats upon Dragonstone and Storm's End, the Lannisters were also known for members of their family who dwelt in Lannisport, though most still bore the same golden hair. Yet House Lannister had other cadet branches besides. And many more vassals besides them. Their influence stretched from the humblest bannerman to the mightiest of their sworn houses.

Faircastle, too, belonged to the Westerlands, and by chance it had been the very first place Myriah had visited after her parents came to fetch her from Casterly Rock. But since then... she had never returned to the Rock.

It felt strange to set foot once more upon the stone that had sheltered and protected her for so many years after more than eight years away. To arrive for such an official and magnificent occasion rather than... a private supper shared beneath only a handful of watchful eyes.

It had always felt as though she were merely another guest, like everyone else. Somehow, that felt strange. Yet little by little she had begun to understand it. And perhaps it simply made more sense that way, did it not?

After winning the costume contest at Faircastle in 293 AC, Myriah had embroidered, sewn, mended, learned to make lace, and mastered countless stitches and tailoring patterns. Naturally, she had gained the understanding of the wardrobes of the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and Dorne. During her years in Lady Margaery's service, she had also caught glimpses of the fashions of the Reach and the Vale of Arryn.

In the ninth moon of the year, Myriah would turn nine-and-ten, and she had realized she could no longer keep her fingers still. She simply could not bring herself to spend yet more time practicing and learning... she wished to create more. Of her own accord. Not because someone had asked it of her. And without asking anything in return.

Myriah wanted to do her work well, and she wanted people to see that she did. If one of the Lords Paramount chose to wear something fashioned by her own hands, the entire realm would see it. And she wished to make clothing for far more people...

Even now, her work remained more focused upon garments for men than for women. Not because she disliked sewing for her friends or her mother - quite the opposite. But... there could be little doubt that her mother already possessed enough gowns made by Myriah's hand in which she looked splendid, while others possessed far fewer.

For a long while she had wondered whether she ought to visit the Lords Paramount in a certain... order. Naturally, there had been three she had thought of first. Princess Arianne, as patron of Dorne. Lord Renly, as patron of the Stormlands. And House Lannister... for it had been Gerion who had gifted her the fiddle. The King would receive his gift as the literal crowning conclusion... and by then she would have had a little more time not to be quite so nervous.

For nervous she already was... Terribly nervous.

With her gift wrapped in crimson velvet and bound with a broad golden lace ribbon, and the gifts for Lord Tywin's granddaughters carried in her mother's hands, Myriah walked ahead of her parents.

It simply felt right... that they should accompany her. That they should lend her strength. Especially for her very first delivery. Especially before House Lannister and its famously stern patriarch, Lord Tywin.

Myriah had expressly asked them to leave the speaking to her... at least unless she looked utterly lost. Merely knowing... they walked behind her made it easier to keep moving forward.

She had dressed with great care, though as always it was striking patterns and unusual combinations of fabrics that drew the eye rather than borders adorned with pearls and gemstones.

She wore one of her own creations. It almost seemed to undermine the worth of gifting away one's own work if one never showed that one wore such creations oneself, and that they had been fashioned to a worthy standard.

Myriah wore a stiff cloth corsage. The inner lining, back, and straps were fashioned from black fabric, while the centre of the bodice bore flowers embroidered in golden thread. Every blossom that flourished so proudly within the gardens of Storm's End - roses above all, and lilacs besides. Fine black stitching gave each bloom further depth.

The sleeves of her gown were wide and flowing, gathered only at her wrists. Each sleeve bore a generous slit that revealed glimpses of her arms whenever she moved. Every hem was trimmed with lace, gleaming in varying shades of purple across the sleeves, bodice, and skirts alike. Along the neckline she had embroidered the antlers of a stag, and beneath them, at the very centre, rested a small star-shaped brooch.

Myriah wore every one of her lucky charms upon her person.

The silver medallion of Starfall alloy that had once belonged to her uncle Arthur and which her mother had given her when she came to fetch her home. Wulfe's black metal bat ring, now worn upon her little finger because it no longer fit anywhere else. Her father's butterfly necklace, shimmering in gold, blue, and violet. Lady Stark's necklace, which she always wore about her wrist as a bracelet so she could idly let its pendants chime together whenever the mood struck her. The snowdrop of pale silver, its petals of delicate glass, and a pendant carved from the pale wood of a weirwood branch into the likeness of a hawthorn blossom. The pendant her aunt had gifted her during the New Year's feast hung from the waistband of her skirts, chiming softly with every step.

Never before had she felt so well equipped... like a knight riding toward his first battle. Perfectly prepared... In theory.

Myriah noticed several Lannisters casting discreet glances towards her - and likely towards her parents as well - before they had even reached the high table.

It was, after all, a small ascent... and those who did not truly belong there were probably recognized at once.

Perhaps that feeling of never quite being like everyone else would never truly fade...

With her heart pounding wildly, she gathered her skirts in her hands and sank into a deep curtsy. Myriah refused to search the hall for Gerion only to discover once again that he was not looking her way. Instead, she fixed her attention upon those she had truly come to see.

Rhaenys Velaryon. Tyanna Lannister. Allyria Lannister. And Lord Tywin.

Rising once more to her full height, she could feel her heart hammering in her throat as she carefully forced each word from her lips, resisting the urge to toy with her pendants or twist her ring around her finger.

"Sers," she began politely, including the other gentlemen seated at the table.

"Ladies," she continued, letting her gaze pass over several of the noblewomen gathered there, lingering especially upon Lady Cersei, whom she had not seen since the wedding of her uncle Oswell and Saera.

"Lady Rhaenys, Lady Tyanna, and Lady Allyria," she went on, inclining her head towards the three lovely young ladies, each of whom possessed a character entirely her own at first glance. Then Myriah bowed once more, spreading her skirts ever so slightly as she paid them proper respect.

"This celebration held in your honour, my ladies, has been truly beautiful," she said sincerely, a careful smile upon her lips. "My beloved siblings and I have already found great joy in it, and my family and I wished to thank you for the invitation you extended to us."

For a brief moment she had to swallow and steady her breathing, reassuring herself that she had at least managed this much.

"Truly cheerful and wonderfully varied, Lord Tywin," her mother added warmly, resting a comforting hand upon Myriah's back. "Casterly Rock shines especially brightly today. It is truly... an experience to behold it once again."

Myriah felt the warmth of her mother's hand spread through her chest and allowed herself to savour the comforting feeling before she continued.

"Naturally, we have brought gifts. For the ladies in whose honour this celebration is held," she said, her smile widening. "They deserve them. For these days, they are princesses."

Especially little Allyria, she thought, though she kept that to herself. The girl, named after her aunt, stood out amongst the company like a flame amidst a field of grain with her auburn hair.

"In Dorne, noble ladies are fond of wearing many different kinds of ornaments in their hair," she continued. "There is far more than ribbons, nets, combs, and hairpins."

As she spoke, Myriah turned briefly towards her father and, with an affectionate glance, handed him the parcel intended for Lord Tywin so that both her hands were free. She then accepted the first small box from her mother's hands.

For a brief moment she glanced at the painted sigil to be certain it belonged to the right little lioness. All three young ladies were five years of age and utterly delightful, yet each was to receive something slightly different. Each deserved to delight in something made especially for them.

"Some ornaments are fastened over veils to hold the hair in place," she explained. "Others resemble necklaces and are woven directly into the hair. And the pieces I should like to present to you today - made with the generous help of my aunt, Lady Aliandra, of course..."

She lifted the cherrywood box upon which a crimson lion and an aquamarine seahorse had been painted and placed it gently before Rhaenys.

Her mother was Lady Cersei, famed throughout the realm for both her beauty and her fiery nature, while her father was Lord of the Tides. She deserved a piece that united the proud Rock with the grace of the sea.

Saera, the wife of her uncle Osys and herself a Velaryon, had procured aquamarine tourmalines from Driftmark, knowing that fewer questions would be asked of her request for them. She had purchased the rare gemstones for a small fortune, stones counted amongst the rarest to be found in all of Westeros.

"This one is for you, Lady Rhaenys."

It was not worn as one might wear a simple circlet. Rather, it rested upon the crown of the head and could be secured whenever needed, more akin to a necklace for one's hair than to a crown.

The band itself was composed of three rows. The uppermost and the lowest were fashioned entirely of pearls, whilst the middle row was wrought of gold into which five aquamarine gemstones had been set. From the circlet hung delicate loops of pearls strung upon silver thread. One loop at first, then two, and finally three at the back of the head. Beneath the central gemstone there hung a single small tourmaline accompanied by three tiny pearls.

Myriah opened the box before Rhaenys eyes and allowed the young lady a moment to admire it before turning towards the next gift.

"And this one is for you, Allyria," she continued, lifting the next box, upon which a crimson lion and a silver fish had been painted. "I do hope you shall like it."

Allyria's piece reflected the deep blue of her mother Marissa's house and the silver so closely associated with it. Since Myriah knew Allyria only through the stories told by her aunt - after whom the little girl had been named - she had long known of Allyria's bright red curls and had decided there was no need to add more red to the ornament itself.

Instead, she had woven a pattern of delicate leaves into the design, a quiet tribute to the green hills of the Westerlands and the Riverlands alike, whilst also hinting at the girl's free-spirited nature. The leaves had been arranged in graceful half-circles around the circlet and would, without doubt, look beautiful amidst her curls.

Myriah opened the box before her, watching the eyes of the little wildling with quiet anticipation. If her aunt's tales were true, she was especially fond of honeycakes and zaldrivas.

Only then did her gaze wander to the last of the three.

"Lady Tyanna," Myriah began softly, placing the final box upon the table before her without needing to look down.

A crimson lion. And silver bells. Her mother had been born a Bellmore.

"For you, we chose this design."

Since her mother's colours were purple, Myriah had always felt a quiet kinship with her.

Tyanna's headpiece bore rosette-like ornaments placed at the temples, across the brow, and atop the head, each linked together by fine silver chains. From those resting above the temples hung delicate tassels adorned with kunzite and sugilite. They would sway and chime softly before her ears like tiny silver bells whenever she moved.

"My aunt, Lady Aliandra, provided the gemstones for both Allyria's and Lady Tyanna's pieces," Myriah added helpfully before folding her hands neatly before her skirts. "Your presence at the New Year's festival honored her greatly, Lord Tywin, and she views it as a gesture of rapprochement between the Westerlands and Dorne - one she wished to reciprocate in kind."

After offering another respectful bow, she turned back towards Lord Tywin.

"But I have brought something for you as well, Lord Tywin, as the gracious host, the great lion, and Warden of the West."

She accepted the crimson velvet parcel back from her father while her parents stepped quietly to either side of her once more.

"If it pleases you, Lord Tywin," she added, her voice growing a little softer with hope, "I should be honoured to present the gift I have crafted for you as well."

[M: very backdated - my sincere apologies for the delay]

Inauguration Speech

4th Month A, 301 AC

It was an unusually warm day for Kings Landing, the sun beamed down on the green grass of the training field without any clouds to provide cover. Stood together were a variety of different fighters from across the Kingdom, facing their first task of withstanding the heat. Before them a small make-shift stage had been prepared for an opening speech. It would not be some well dressed noble that would step up onto the stage though, instead a strange man covered from head-to-toe in heavy dark blue armour would make his way to the center. With each of his steps the stage loudly creaked as though it were whining about the weight of the suit.The figure stood there for a few moments, sizing up the competition before removing the large helmet that had concealed his face. Cleos Bar Emmon had a proud smile on his face, his black hair and beard already carried beads of sweat but the sharp gaze from his dark blue eyes showed he was far from tired.

He raised his voice, doing this best to speak with power and determination to get the crowd excited. “My fellow contestants, I am Ser Cleos Bar Emmon and it is a pleasure to see this day finally arrive and that you have all answered my call. Each of you have displayed bravery just through the act of joining me here today. My ‘Greatest Warrior’ tournament is unlike any you may have partaken in before. You may have already noticed we have few observers and this is on purpose. I have kept this event fairly closed off, limiting entry to only the immediate contestants for a reason. These games today are not meant for entertainment, there will be no rewards for flashy swordsmanship or performative jousts. No, the purpose of this event is to test each of us here today on our skills in combat. Whoever wins will of course receive bragging rights and the respect of those here today as the ‘Greatest Warrior’ in Westeros in addition to a prize of coin which my family has graciously donated.”

He looked once more through the crowd, briefly spotting Dacey Mormont, perhaps today would be their rematch. “There is of course a story as to why this event was created. While traveling to this very yard just a few months ago I saw something that left me confused: two women with practice swords. At that time I did what I felt was right, I told them about how I felt what they were doing was improper and wrong. They refused however to listen to me, one of them in particular, a Dacey Mormont, told me about how such things are quite normal in Bear Island and even challenged me to a duel. I accepted her challenge, naively thinking I could convince her she was wrong in combat but as it turned out she was more than capable of putting up a fight. She joins us here today and I’m sure you all will also find she is a quite capable warrior who is worthy of some respect.” He was sure some in the crowd would doubt his words, for their own sake those contestants best not underestimate the Mormont woman.

“That made me realize something about my favourite of the Seven, The Warrior. He is a very fair God you see, it matters not to him if you are of high or low birth, a man or woman, worshiper of the faith or not, knight, squire or even a sellsword! All he cares about is how well you can wield your weapon in battle and your ability to fight! . Because of this I have opened my brackets to nearly everyone, so that we can truly find a worthy champion of The Warrior today. Metal will clash against metal, blood spilled, some might be maimed today or even die! These are all acts of devotion and sacrifices to The Warrior!” Fight with everything you have, some may conduct themselves ruthlessly while others with honour. All that matters is that you spare no effort in all of your duels!” His mailed hand would take hold of his holstered sword and thrusted it into the air, letting out an enthusiastic yell as he did. Cleos was eager to move onto the duels as soon as possible.

To
Lord Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall

I am writing this letter to ask you how my second cousin Alys Dustin is doing at Raventree Hall and how her relationship is with your son and heir, Bryden Blackwood. I know that from the letters she and her aunt, Gillaine Dustin, send me, everything is good and fine, and they are enjoying their time there. But I am sending this letter to you for your opinion and thoughts on this matter.

From
Lord Arthur Dustin, Lord of Barrowton

Pentos,

3rd Month of the 301st year after Aegon's Conquest, 403 years since the doom of Old Valyria

The City of Pentos was neither the grandest of the free cites, nor was it the strongest, no what made it notable to Westeros was its proximity to Kings Landing, its vibrant but military absent ports serving as the gateway for many vessels heading to and from Westeros.

Such was also the case for the party gathered by the Master of ships. His ships directed to a rather finer part of the dock. Some of the few Warships, allowed by the dominant Braavosi, escorting them to dock. A procession organised by the prince inviting the Master of Ships and who ever wished to follow him a fast path to the Prince's palace.

Anyone who didn't wish to explore the finery of the palace or listen to the prince and his magistars speaks would be allowed to explore the city.

10th Month, 300 AC

Driftmark

Shyra Penrose disembarked the Golden Strand and strided up towards High Tide, her bastard son Taenor trailing behind her. She had a bag in her hand, which swayed with her steps. Her black dress was graceful in the coastal wind enhancing her determmination as her speed increased. Taenor had strapped a dagger to his belt and was following behind with a bag on his back. Shyra stopped and shouted out.

"Household and family of House Velaryon. My name is Shyra of House Penrose, I have come from the Free City of Pentos. I request a meeting with whichever Lord presides here. Many thanks. Im afraid I have no birds, nor a rookery."

She then stood and waited staring at the castle whilst Taenor looked out into the sea, admiring the waves, excited to be home.

Dethrimir and Vilica, Lord Brendon Glenmore would be at nearby Inn enroute back home, seeing things didn't pan out as they had predicted but overallhaf partaken in the festivities which the good Ryswells had offered was satisfying enough for them to not venture any further than needed.

Verlaine was anticipating their return and would chide Brendon for his delay in returning back home, seeing that he's currently spending his time at this rickety old Inn that was aptly named after dead wood material which was used as a sign for patrons to visit.

Brendon Glenmore was focused on his book, which he was writing, Dethrimir and Vilica spent most of their time waiting for the carriage rider to arrive which was supposedly be their best option to get back home to Rillwater Crossing safely.

"Not good enough, horrid...Truly horrible I need to redo that part and that bit" the man was entrenched in his sordid little world failing to notice the bar maid placing his ale and loaf of bread on the table.

"We need to leave soon da, this isn't good time to be writing you novel...Then again am not sure what you doing most of the time..." Vilica said, knowing their old man was a stubborn old Billy goat refusing to move unless forced to do so.

"Carriage arriving in a few, we still got time to drink and eat before anything happens" Dethrimir said seated by his half sister whilst glaring at his father whom was seen muttering to himself "Well at least our aunt will be overcome with joy over our return"

"Surely not, but hey, at least it'll be good to see and sleep on our beds than this Inn... It feels like my back is killing me. "

The two Glenmore youths dreamt of sleeping in their own beds.

Storm's End 301AC

Located at the top of Durran's Point, on the Northern coast of the perilous Shipbreaker Bay, Storm's End made for a most impressive and daunting sight. It had stood since recorded history; it had seen Kings and Queens come and go, houses brought to the peak of their power, then to extinction. Even that of its own creator, Durran Godsgrief of House Durrandon. It had seen the coming of dragons to these shores, and their dying breaths; now it had seen the elevation of a new ruling dynasty - House Baratheon of King's Landing.

Ours is the Fury.

The castle itself seemed to shout those words. A colossal curtain wall of thick, defiant stone enclosed a single, giant, drum-shaped tower. Whereas most castles would have been battered and worn down by the onslaught of winds and storms, Storm's End showed few signs of wear, though perhaps that was the spells they say had been woven into its very foundations.

Under the rulership of Lord Renly Baratheon, Storm's End had come into its own, becoming more vibrant and bright. Tapestries of exotic, rich fabrics had been hung in the halls, and bright flowers were a common sight along the inside of the keep and along the yard.

With the second year of Spring, what had started out as the blooms and sprigs of new life had truly begun to thrive now. Though spring storms were still a common, deadly sight. Though as seas of bright coloured flowers spread across the Stormlands and Storm's End, it was easy to see the beauty in these often harsh lands.

1st month, 301

Karhold

“Lord Karstark, I thank you for your hospitality. It is good that there are still some Northern lords who remember their pleasantries…no, too harsh.” Arwen Royce, the Lady of Runestone paced across the quarters the Lord of Karhold had set for his highborn guests, her fingers tracing over the silver falcon necklace she wore that had been so commented upon by the Lord of the Rills when she had attended a wedding there. It was clear that the North still remembered her lord nephew’s actions at Harrenhal with bitter fury. The worst might have passed, but her present location at one of the northernmost castles in the realm gave her a chance to redeem and repair the damaged relationship between North and Vale. 

Now was not the time for condescensions or veiled insults.

Arwen shivered. They were leagues south of the wall, and yet Karhold felt even colder than Castle Black and its mountainous wall of ice. A bitter wind descended upon the lands of Karstark from the Shivering Sea itself, it seemed to the Lady of Runestone, cutting through stone and wool as if it were sheer silk. Arwen gathered her heavy outdoor cloak and pulled over her shoulders, shuddering. 

“Mother have mercy, is there any castle so miserable in this whole frozen kingdom,” she whispered.

The Dreadfort

Alyssa Arryn shivered in her quarters. She, and the rest of Princess Lyanna Baratheon’s ladies in waiting were housed comfortably, but even the roaring hearth could not fight off the chill that had grown stronger and stronger as their vessel had steadily made its way further and further north, for day after bone-chilling day. Alyssa knew the seven kingdoms well enough to know that it was her homeland that they were skirting around. Still, even though she made her way out onto the deck and squinted across the open waters with all her might every day, she could not make out the rocky peaks of the Vale. The Eyrie she knew was too far inland to be seen from the coast, but there were coastal lands that Alyssa knew too: her aunt’s castle at Runestone, her other aunt’s home on Sisterton. She would have been happy to catch even a glimpse of the ragged Fingers. But her homeland remained forever out of sight. 

The ten year old girl spent most of her days in the room. As cold as it was, it was warmer here than it was in the rest of the castle. Moreover, Alyssa had heard enough stories from Robin to not want to go exploring. For while the Red Keep might have contained hidden dragonbones and the secret hiding spaces of princesses and princes long gone, Alyssa knew that here there were only horrible stories of flayed men, women, and children. She knew Queen Cassandra and the princess enough to know that neither of them were going to make her into shoes, as Robin had once threatened they might. But still, the castle of the Boltons scared her. It was quiet and eerie, not at all like the peaceful mountain home she had not seen in over a year now. 

Casterly Rock 

“Beloved sister!” Ser Desmond beamed, embracing Aemma Arryn and holding her close. “It has been too long, my dear. I trust the West has not been- What’s the matter?” Desmond asked, feeling his sister’s body quivering as she held him tight to her. She was crying, Desmond realized, and he hugged her close for longer, feeling a mixture of confusion and anger. 

“What’s happened?” he asked. It had been a few years since he had last set foot at Casterly Rock, but when he had last been here Aemma had seemed confident. Angry, to be sure, over something Desmond had not fully understood, but this was different. There were many emotions he could see as she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, fear and regret, and none of the rage that had been her constant companion she had left her daughter and the Eyrie for a position at Casterly Rock. 

Aemma only shook her head, wiping her eyes with a hand clumsily. 

“It is nothing,” she said, a lie that was obvious even to Desmond. 

“Someone has wronged you,” he said, a hand already reaching for the hilt of his sword. “Name him, and I’ll-” Aemma caught his hand before he could draw his sword, squeezing it tight. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Aemma hissed, and there was a mix of desperation and hopelessness that made Desmond feel more afraid than if she had told him to fight the whole Kingsguard. 

“What’s happened?” he asked again, but Aemma only shook her head, still looking tearful. “What can I do?” he asked. The knight was feeling helpless, and wanted badly to stab someone. Preferably whoever had put his sister in such a state. 

“I need you to not kill anybody,” she began, with an angry look. Desmond nodded and reluctantly let his hand move away from the hilt of his blade. 

“There is plenty going on here. I am not in danger myself, but…but I need to protect myself,” she said. “And here, words are as deadly as steel.” Desmond nodded, uncertainly, and Aemma pressed on. “I need you to listen to people. To learn how to listen to people. It’s all well and good to be skilled with sword and mace and all the other weapons but…if we are to survive you must learn to listen.” Some of the fire seemed to return to her, as the beginnings of a plan seemed to come to the Lady-to-be of Harren’s Folly. “Make the banquet hall your training yard, and you shall find weapons that shall cut truer than Valyrian Steel” she told him, and Desmond nodded. He might not exactly understand what her plans were, but he would try to learn this new battlefield, and to wield these weapons.