Of Lions and Dragons IC

[Artemis97]

Of Lions and Dragons

OOC
Characters and Setting

We begin on the day of the Hand's Tourney, celebrating Lord Eddard Stark's appointment to the position of the Hand of the King by King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name. The previous Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, has withdrawn to the Vale, after being thrown out of King's Landing for making accusations against Queen Cersei and her children. Stannis Baratheon, brother of the king, has taken up with foreign worship of the Lord of Light, little known in Westeros. The High Septon has excommunicated him and he has removed himself to the lonely island of Dragonstone.

Danirra
Ironman’s Bay

The sea before you roils around the bow of Lady Bold, the Volantene cog that has been your home for the past three months. It was on this deck that you summoned wind with a prayer after the ship was becalmed off the shore of Lys. It was on this deck that the deckhands Donnoro and Belicho fought to the death for your love. And it was on this deck that Septon Nestor named you a she-demon and vowed to mount your head on a crystal spike.

You have found that septons are often bewitched by your story of divine intervention, although they often cannot grasp the truth that their Seven are merely aspects of the Lord of Light. The voyage has been long, and you have taken on several septons as personal retainers.
The first was Septon Monford, whom you found on the streets of Volantis, completely drunk and
tattooed with flies on his cheeks--the mark of a dungsweeper slave. You saw fire in him and he saw greatness in you, believing you favored by the Seven. The Red Priests bought his freedom and he served you faithfully, introducing you to other septons at every port and singing your praises at every opportunity. The next was Septon Franklyn, who joined you from Lys, claiming you to be the fulfillment of a prophecy about Maiden’s Return.

After him was Septon Nestor from Oldtown, a member of the Most Devout who, years ago, had prayed over your return on behalf of House Sunfyre. When he rushed to the docks to behold you, he fell to his knees and cried tears of joy, holding his necklace crystal before him. With him came Septon Gwin, a scrivener boy tasked with documenting the history of your holy return.

Alas, your septon-admirers have found themselves unworthy of grasping the truth of the Lord of Light. Septon Monford drank himself to death on firewater in an Oldtown tavern. Septon Nestor accused you of heresy, but it was he who found himself impaled under the tongue with Lady Bold’s iron bowsprit. That leaves you just the lecherous Septon Franklyn and the boyish, naive, and terrified Septon Gwin.

Captain Tharaquo puts a hand on your shoulder. The captain is a staunch ally, his voyage to Seaholt bought and paid for by the Red Temple. “My lady, they are gaining on us. We must prepare for battle.” A thousand yards astern, a black-sailed longboat is churning forward in Lady Bold’s wake. Ironborn.

Ser Damon
King’s Landing

Sweat coats your brow beneath your helm. The heat of the day is oppressive, and doubly so beneath the heavy layers of your armor. Midnight whickers beneath you. Ser Hendry always said that a horse can sense his master’s fear, and it’s true that your heart has fluttered more than once, considering the circumstances.

This is the grandest tourney you’ve ever entered, by a long measure. With a winner’s purse of forty thousand gold dragons, hundreds of knights have flocked to King’s Landing to compete in the Hand’s Tourney. The Hand himself is said to be humorless and devoid of guile--perhaps uneasy without his tree-gods and summer snows. You’ve never met the man in person, but you’ve seen him, cold-eyed and dour, in the royal pavilion tent before the jousting lists.

The last Hand, Jon Arryn, served for almost your entire life. Lord Arryn has a reputation for prudence and honor, so it was a surprise when King Robert quarreled with him and stripped him of his chain. Arryn is not in attendance at this tourney, though many of his bannermen--Royces, Waynwoods, Waxleys, and others--are present, lured by the promise of glory and gold.

Beside you, Ser Rupert Brax claps his mailed hands together. “Keep your lance steady, boy. Put him in the dirt.” A handful of others around you murmur their own words of encouragement. Among them are Justin and Gareth Clifton, with fishnets etched in their breastplates, the overly bearded Robar Plumm, and your cousin and squire, Baelor Sunfyre. In a few moment’s time, you’ll be facing Ser Ryam Whent of Harrenhal. He doesn’t have much of a reputation, but you know he’s three-and-twenty, served as a page in the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and loves to drink.

A roar goes up in the crowd and you hear the sound of a lance’s impact, distant in your helm. The knight before you, Ser Lothor Brune, spurs his mount forward to take his position at the north end of the lists. You’re next after him.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

When you’re ready to tilt at Ser Ryam, go ahead and roll a Fighting test, taking into account a mandatory Charge action (-D) and your lack of proficiency with the tourney lance (-D). Also roll an Animal Handling (Ride) test to keep your seat should he strike you, and another Animal Handling (Ride) test to avoid taking damage if you fall.

Torbin
Seaholt

Maester Lymond lets out an involuntary groan. The old man is laying flat on his bed, naked except for the chain about his neck. His flesh, alternately puckered and swollen with age, is feverish to the touch. For the last week, he’s been steadily worsening--first a cough, then a slowness of the joints and fluid humors, and now full incapacitation of the senses. Because of the man’s damnable pride, he hadn’t allowed you to tend him, even as he worsened.

This is the first you’ve been able to enter the chamber since Lymond retreated within yesterday, meaning to cure himself in solitude. The room looks largely as you remember it--musty bookshelves full of tomes, a shelf of pickling jars, elixirs, and other humors familiar and strange, an ink-stained table by the window with a chair, a chest full of written correspondence, and a modest bed trimmed with cotton summer sheets. A trio of lanterns sit cold beside the bed, unnecessary in the light of the day that comes streaming in the seaward window.

Many a time you’ve come to this room for old man hold court, lecturing you as if he were an Archmaester and you were his Novice. Lymond’s lectures are well-meaning, but have much the same character of an aggrieved exile ranting and raving. More than once, he had let slip that he was almost chosen for a ring, rod, and mask of copper, but Perestan (“that showboating fabulist!”) was elevated to Archmaester instead, and oversaw a hundred copper links forged in the likeness of his own. However, such lectures were small punishment in return for Lymond’s good graces and therefore, Lord Daeron’s continued stipend to you as “junior” healer. In truth, your own abilities far surpassed the old man’s, and doubly so when his hands took to shaking so badly.

Davos Goldstag
King’s Landing

The sky is clear and the sun mercifully behind your back. You’re standing in a long line of archers of all stripes--highborn lordlings such as yourself, guardsmen in service to a lord, common game wardens, and no doubt a fair share of poachers. After waiting an hour, your collar is damp with sweat and your grip questionable. Nobody has yet loosed a shot, but there’s been a delay in starting the tourney’s archery contest on account of some knights competing in both the joust and the archery contest. Rumor down the line has it that Ser Balon Swann in particular keeps winning jousts, thereby delaying the start of the shooting. This is no surprise to you. Ser Balon is the pride of the Stormlands--one of the finest knights in the realm, as chivalrous as Garlan Tyrell and a rival at arms to the likes of Jaime Lannister.

Downrange fifty yards are the butts--bales of hay wrapped in canvas and painted with a large stag’s-eye. All that’s required in the first bout is to hit the target twice from three arrows. Those marksman up to that task will then help push the targets back some distance and the competition resumes. Your competition looks fierce but you are confident you will make a good showing. Perhaps you’ll show them all and win the whole thing! That purse, while small compared to the joust’s prize, was still quite a fortune. Ten thousand gold dragons!

Just then, you hear a distant call of “AAAAAAAARCHERS! NOCK!” It’s time.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Roll three Marksmanship (Bows) tests for your three shots.

Orwen Umber
King’s Landing

You walk through the warm streets of King’s Landing, so different from the cold wintery forests you once called home. At your side is Daella, light of hair and eye, as different from your own daughter in likeness as she is similar in character. They still have their sweetness, their wonder with the world at large. Daella has grown very attached to you, since that day you rescued her from the bandits who meant her harm, and you have been there to protect her ever since.

“Tell me about the new Hand, Orwen. He’s a northerner, like you!” Daella says, looking up at you with bright blue eyes.Today, you are on your way to the jousting lists, to hopefully find a seat in the stands, to watch the knights in all their finery tilt against one another in honor of Lord Eddard Stark, the new Hand. Daella has been so excited to see the horses all draped in their caparisons and the shining armor the knights wore that she labored all morning, studying the heraldry of houses great and small, to know who was who when it came to the jousts. Under normal circumstances, you’ve never seen her sit before a book for more than ten minutes. Her command of heraldry is strong, but she relies on your insight, especially with the northern houses.

It seems half the city has turned out for the tourney, but the streets are still choked with all manner of urchin and ruffian. Here, a quick-finger charlatan making a cloth snake undulate across the top of a barrel before a brace of men. There, a sailor with a garishly dyed beard is thrusting his finger into the chest of a fat pie-vendor. Everywhere, shoeless wild children rush about with matted hair, always nearly underfoot. A knight in mail is walking in the same direction as you, a hefty Dornish melon under his arm.

“Does the Hand have his own Giant, just like I have you?”

Lady Marielle Sunfyre
King’s Landing

Your position in the viewing stands is good, even if it is outside the royal pavilion. There’s a thin cloth hung above to keep the sun off your skin, cushions beneath you, and you’re up high enough to see the full depth of the jousting lists, as well as the true entertainment: the less fortunately-placed spectators. A few minutes ago, you spied one of Lord Gawen Westerling’s daughters watching from the commons--the commons!

Your handmaid Victaria hands you a cup of fine Dornish red, with a chunk of ice floating in the center. Of course, buying ice blocks in winter is expensive--they cut the things out of lakes somewhere in the North--and the damn thing took up its own litter on the journey from Seaholt to King’s Landing. But the taste of envy is sweet indeed; just the thing to balance out the Dornish sour.

“--and so I told him that I shan’t be giving my favor to a man who’s never won a ransom in war. And he was very cross, let me tell you.” Liane Yarwyck takes a pause for effect, her eyes glancing to the cool wine in your hand. The others on the bench with you, Jeyne Banefort and Emma Vikary, chime in with polite laughter. Liane is bragging again about how she turned down three knights who wanted to wear her favor, and how Ser Andar Royce, heir to Runestone, accepted it instead. You’re sure that Ser Andar was merely being polite--he’s married, and Liane is late to betrothal at twenty. Emma Vikary might be foolish enough to find this story genuinely amusing, but if Jeyne’s laughter is anything but ironic, she has no business being Lord Quenten Banefort’s first daughter. Any Royce and Liane Yarwyck would be a cruel joke, much less the heir to Runestone.

Over to the side, you spy Damon sitting on his horse, trimmed in shining armor and awaiting his turn in the lists. Across the field, you count an equal number of knights back until you spy his opponent. Ser Ryam Whent is his name, though you’ve never heard of him until today. There’s little about him to distinguish from all the others, although you notice that his helm boasts a black horsehair crest running from front to back.

The Imposter
King’s Landing

Your every step is dogged with exhaustion from the perils of the road, and yet, your spirits are light.You made it through the King’s Gate, despite being harassed by gold cloaks, thanks to the letter in your hand. The girl didn’t need her letter anymore, just like the Myrish merchant didn’t need the stags sewn into his burial clothes, and the dead knight of Stokeworth didn’t need the gem in the pommel of his sword. No woman or man needs such things to face death. Her name was Elia Lonetower, and she was--is--a lesser daughter of Dorne.

It was luck that brought you here. Good luck that made you travelling companions on the road, bad luck that brought the bandits down upon you all, but good luck again that you--no, she--survived and were clever enough to come here with the letter. Where you once wore a veil, you feel the wind on your face. Where you once were lashed for whispering and laughing, you can now speak freely. You exchanged your thick, grey robes for the lighter silks of the southern lands of the Seven Kingdoms, took up all of the things from the saddlebags you could carry, and started walking. Behind you, ‘neath the simple stone cairn she lies--Sera Hill, they call her--shrouded in silence, stifled in death. Elia Lonetower, on the other hand, she only needs to find the noble lady Marielle Sunfyre and show her the letter, and it will be nothing but posh food and company and laughter.


Magnor Kergyn
Ironman’s Bay

The oar-beat is slow and steady as Midnight Sun breaks free of the fog. Your sails are brailed due to the unsteady wind, but the oarsmen keep you moving forward, the iron beakhead slicing the water before you. The faint smell of charred wood tickles your nose, as it often does at sea. Midnight Sun may be rebuilt to functionality, but here and there, the scars of Prince Mand’khal’s cruelty remain--a blackened board here or a fire-smoothed rail there. Be that as it may, beneath your feet lies a hard deck, and atop it, a hard crew. Rolfe Half-Drowned stands at the till, steering to nor’west, glory, and death.

It’s been a month since Lord Sunfyre ordered Midnight Sun put to sea, to hunt whatever fate met two missing merchant ships expected at Seaholt three moons past. The lord is old and grey, and like many greenlander lords, never commanded a ship. Most ironmen would scoff at serving such a man, and at paying the gold price for provisions and goods. But you learned in the east not to measure a man only by the salt in his beard or the blood on his sword. In the east, the most powerful men were not men at all, but fat sucklings to be carried about in palanquins, brushed and pampered by their slaves, and fed all manner of sweetened delicacy. And yet, they were brilliant in their administration of vast webs of trade, navies larger than the Iron Fleet, and the politics for leagues around. Lord Sunfyre in somewhere in between, a soldier in war and a leader in peace. A man worthy of service, unlike most of the lords of the Iron Islands--too weak to return to The Old Way, but too drunk on past tales of glory to learn how to rule instead.

Crombos the Myrmen cries out from atop the nest. “An eighth west! There she is again!” A pang of excitement runs through you as you look to where he points. You’ve been chasing a black-sailed longship, itself pursuing a merchant cog. Rolfe adjusts the till, putting Midnight Sun on course for the longship’s wake. At this distance, you have no ken of her berth, except that she’s too small to be of the Iron Fleet. Most like, some Ironborn lord has grown desperate enough in his poverty to pluck the fruits of the Ironman’s Bay behind the westermen’s backs. A grievous mistake, for these lions now have Iron claws.

[Ra_Va]

Deep breathes. This was Davos' first tourney he's ever participated in. He's far more nervous then he expected and the waiting did nothing to help. He tries to size up is opponents without drawing to much attention. None of them seem to unfamiliar with a bow though some do seem to come from more 'casual hunting' stock then true marksman, though just as many who could give Davos a hard time naturally and not by some act of the Old Gods, The Seven, or then the 'Red God' he's been hearing about as of late. Archery is hard enough on skill alone and rumor mill around the tourney is that at least one Melee fighter is claiming some kind of divine favoritism. He thinks to himself to keep his mind occupied and calmed.

'Just my luck right, gods decide to show favorites my first time out.'

Ser Balon Swann alone is nothing to sneeze at without divine intervention on his side. Among the most skilled and courtly of anyone in Westeros, The Marcher-Knight of Stonehelm was likely the favorite as well the most likely to win. Must be interesting for the true heir of House Swann to be shadowed by his younger brother. Davos hypothesizes the Kingsguard or Night's Watch will be on the will be in Balon's future.

Davos loosens his moist collar, its the first time he's warn his house regalia in quite some time, the crownless golden stag on his chest seemingly burning into his chest and weighing on his heart. A far more emotional moment then Davos realized it would be; The insignificant moment that would mark the return of House Goldstag to its former prestige. He composed himself.

'You don't need to win just put on a good showing.'

A distant call interrupted Davos' thoughts

“AAAAAAAARCHERS! NOCK!”

'Here we go.'

Spoiler: Test Rolls

Show

(5d6b4)[19]
(5d6b4)[16]
(5d6b4)[19]

[BananaPhone]

Magnor Kergyn

The Mammoth stood at the bow of The Midnight Sun, one foot up on a seat as if he were posing for a dramatic oil painting that would capture only his most heroic mien. Towering well-above the tough men that surrounded him and blessed with a crown of sandy blonde hair that was caught in the swift sea-winds of the Suns direction, Magnor gave a toothy grin and tasted the sea-spray as his eyes remained focused on their target.

Nodding once in acknowledgement of Rolfe's words, Magnor turned his massive body around to address his first mate.

"Keep the weapons holstered for now. Signal them when you sure they'd see it," were his instructions, before he turned back to gaze down the bow of the ship - the two decorative Mammoth tusks that jutted forward from the ram acting like a cross-hairs between which the Ironborn longship sailed.

"Rather take her than sink her," was his only explanation.

[Sahe]

Her feet were sore from walking day and night, but she wouldn't stop now, she had almost made it to her, to Lady Elia's destination. The ambush had happened a bit more than a days marsh away from the capital. Her eyes fell on the Great Sept of Baelor towering over the city on Visenya's Hill, a feeling of disgust and unease overcame her. Screw the Seven! Sera thought and touched the seashell on her necklace. Alys, she was the main reason, why Sera hadn't already dived into the streets of Flea Bottom to get lost or sold what valuables she had to book passage to Braavos or another Free City to get somewhere where the Light of the Seven didn't shine so bright. The main reason why she took the risk of impersonating a dead noblewoman, was so she could get justice for Alys. There was a big tourney underway, the biggest the Kingdom's had seen in a while and all the finest knights would be here. She just had to find Lady Myrielle and tell her story, righteous knights would surely gather and hunt down the highwaymen.

It was not difficult to find the tourney grounds, all one had to do was to follow the stream and the distant cheering. Soon Sera found herself at the stands for the Commons. It was tightly packed, the people where distracted by the spectacle. Sera spotted countless poorly secured purses and if she hadn't been so laden it would've been easy to bolster her purse a bit. But that was a thief's thinking, she was a noble Lady now and had to adopt that mindset. She tried to spot Lady Myrielle, she surely was sitting somewhere with the nobles, but she had never seen her. How was she supposed to find her?

After a few more moments of pointless scanning the faces through the spectacle of clashing knights and splintering lances, she decided for the direct approach. She made her way through the crowd towards two guards that where guarding the access to the noble stands, maybe the letter-trick would work once more. "Excuse me, I need help! I need to talk to Lady Myrielle Sunfyre."

[McStabbington]

"Yes ta tha first question, ma Lady, ana 'yes' an' 'no' ta tha second. He is a northman, like me. And he's got a giant, fer sure, but not as I am."

He was grateful for the question, as it allowed him to escape the memories of the last time he had been in King’s Landing. As an old man, memories were increasingly what he was left. But little Daella always drew him back to his favorites.

He had met Eddard Stark of Winterfell only five times before, and to be honest, he doubted the Ned would remember him at first glance. But he had known the Lord since he was just the somber, determined younger brother of the wild Brandon, sparring as children in the courtyard as his father talked with theirs. Eddard was surprisingly like the Lord Rickard he remembered: quiet, cautious, cool as ice upon first meeting, but nevertheless a man of surprising kindness and generosity if you knew what you were looking at. The next four times he had met the man had not changed Orwen’s estimation of the Lord.

He swung gently around the little Lady as he walked, gently counterposing his still-formidable bulk between Daella and the knight in chain. Given the heat of King’s Landing, he had forgone his full brigandine and shield, but he had kept the underlying chainmail and his sword and dirk on his belt, making him a match for his Dornish counterpart. He was still sweating beneath the soft leather undertunic that kept the chain links from catching in the coarse hair that covered his stout frame, but it was at least tolerable. And while he had a purse on his hip as well, he knew the reputation of Flea Bottom well enough that said purse was full only of flour and some coin-sized bits of hard bread, the better to spot a sneak thief that attempted to filch a silver. His actual coin pouch was hung around his neck by a leather thong, tucked underneath his chain.

”Lord Eddard has a stableman at Winterfell, must be nearin’ forty now. Seen ‘im thrice as I passed down the King’s Road through Win’erfell. Strong and sturdy as an Umber, tha’ one, an’ as big as I was in me boyhood before ol’ age shrunk me. But he took a nasty kick in the head from a horse as a boy, an’ now he’s simple. Sweet as your southron Maid, an’ couldn’t hurt a flea, but simple.” He looked down at little Daella’s wide, trusting blue eyes.

He knew one of his jobs was to introduce her gradually to the hardness and darkness of the world. Still, it was difficult, and a job he was always delicate with, always choosing to sweeten it where he could.

”This tells ya a lot ‘bout the Ned, as we call ‘im in the Wolfswood an tha Frostfangs, if’n you have tha wisdom ta see. ‘Cause the North is a hard land, breeding hard men. An’ the worst thing about havin’ ta be hard is that it canna make ya callous if ya let it. Most northern lords? They’da let tha sweet simple fool wander off inna snow storm ta die. In a land with such long win’ers ana so li’l food, they’d see it as their duty ta their people not ta let food pass ta a man tha’ canna earn his keep. The Boltons mighta not even waited fer win’ner ta do for him, ana snicked his head off just ta save tha granaries.”

”But the Ned is not just a better sort than the Boltons, but smarter too. He knows tha’ ya have ta temper yer hardness, ana always judge a man fair, even if he seems like nothin’ but a load come win’ner. Tha’ stableboy canna pick up an ox an’ carry it up tha King’s Road ta Last Hearth if’n ye asked, and would never ask fer nuthin’ but apples fer the ox in exchange. He does hard work every day with no complaint, an’ no more pay than his food an’ the kindness of his Lord. An’ in the process, Lord Stark su’tly reminds e’eryone in his House tha’ he repays loyalty, ana tha’ he’d plan ana prepare fer win’ner, even fer a simple stableboy. It’s why when ya cross tha Neck, ye’ll meet men who rightly fear tha Boltons, but ya canna’ throw a stone without hittin’ a Northman that would die fer a Stark.”

He looked down again at Daella’s eyes. ”Do ye un’nerstan’ the Lord an’ the lesson, li’l Lady?”

[Destro_Yersul]

Damon patted Midnight's neck to calm her, though if he admitted it the action was to calm himself as well. Jousting was not something he was especially good at, and the lance felt heavy and unwieldy in his hand. He'd made sure he was fully armoured up for this, not wanting to be accidentally struck somewhere vital, but the armour was heavy and hot and he felt like the people in the stands might judge him for not owning proper plate. It wasn't his fault that his house couldn't afford to buy it for him, even with the Lannister alliance. The Lannisters would almost certainly be watching his performance here, at the very least Queen Cersei in the royal tent.

Trotting up to take his position at his end of the lists, Damon glanced over at the tent once more. He wasn't sure he liked Eddard Stark. The man looked cold, like the distant northern lands he'd come from. Turning back to the task at hand, Damon set his lance and charged.

Spoiler: rolls

Show

Ok, need some rolls apparently. If my understanding is right, Penalty dice are applied after the roll, meaning I cancel the lowest results I get. Meaning I roll 4 dice for fighting, but need to see the individual results. I'm also informed I get 1.5 bonus dice as a result of my animal handling, rounded down. That gets knocked off by one of the penalty dice, so I still need to drop one once I've rolled.

Fighting test: (4d6)[4][3][1][1](9) Drop a 1, so 8 total?

Animal Handling:
(3d6)[12] no not fall off
(3d6)[16] to avoid damage if I do fall off

those are surprisingly decent rolls.

[Havelock]

Myrielle plays along, though more reserved than her...peers. Her dolt of a father striking up that sorry bargain, she should be seated much closer to the king. Maybe she would have if it wasn't for the reason she were rather hastily returned to the Rock, even with a husband leaving far too much to be desired. Of his performance today, she has no expectations worthy of mention in polite company. As was fitting for a lioness, she had a red gown of fine silk, sleeveless to go with the heat, her back and shoulders covered by a layer so thin that it was barely opaque, a blessing in this heat, the bodice expertly tailored to accentuate her form, with ruffled skirts to keep the heat out as well as could be done.

[LimSindull]

Torbin

Torbin opens the door and acts as if he is trying to remember something, then shuts it again and stares at Maester Lymond. It’s a move out of spite. The old man had failed to see this sickness coming and it had been so visible after some poor sap had fallen into a river hunting. It barely lasted a day with him, but throughout the last few months it had wormed its way through most of the castle staff. Now the old man was sick because he shut himself into the room with anyone sick, “to better see their symptoms.” To better let disease attack you, more like.

”I see that chain’s coming in handy now. Alright old man, let’s see what we can do to get you right as a daisy.”

Torbin walks to the window and throws it open to let some air in. The whole room would need to be dusted, the bed changed, the Maester bathed. All things to come in good time. First, he spills some water on the old man. That’s when he stops. Torbin sets the water down.

”Sorry, i’m not mad at you am I? I’m just mad and taking it out on you.” He lifts the maester’s head and fixes the straw pillow underneath. He can see the sweating has stained the cloth and and ruined some of the straw. Torbin touches and prods gently, trying to see any new symptoms. He looks at the old man and gets a warm wash of emotions.

Torbin again raises the water to the old man’s lips, this time careful not to spill anything. ”Don’t you think that your watch is ending old man. You still have a lot of work to do for this house.”

Spoiler: You sick old man?

Show

This is my diagnosis test. A success here will lend me bonus die to cure. I will add one to this roll for my education bonus from Miracle Worker. (5d6)[12]

[igordragonian]

Danirra
Ironman’s Bay

The sea before you roils around the bow of Lady Bold, the Volantene cog that has been your home for the past three months. It was on this deck that you summoned wind with a prayer after the ship was becalmed off the shore of Lys. It was on this deck that the deckhands Donnoro and Belicho fought to the death for your love. And it was on this deck that Septon Nestor named you a she-demon and vowed to mount your head on a crystal spike.

You have found that septons are often bewitched by your story of divine intervention, although they often cannot grasp the truth that their Seven are merely aspects of the Lord of Light. The voyage has been long, and you have taken on several septons as personal retainers.
The first was Septon Monford, whom you found on the streets of Volantis, completely drunk and
tattooed with flies on his cheeks--the mark of a dungsweeper slave. You saw fire in him and he saw greatness in you, believing you favored by the Seven. The Red Priests bought his freedom and he served you faithfully, introducing you to other septons at every port and singing your praises at every opportunity. The next was Septon Franklyn, who joined you from Lys, claiming you to be the fulfillment of a prophecy about Maiden’s Return.

After him was Septon Nestor from Oldtown, a member of the Most Devout who, years ago, had prayed over your return on behalf of House Sunfyre. When he rushed to the docks to behold you, he fell to his knees and cried tears of joy, holding his necklace crystal before him. With him came Septon Gwin, a scrivener boy tasked with documenting the history of your holy return.

Alas, your septon-admirers have found themselves unworthy of grasping the truth of the Lord of Light. Septon Monford drank himself to death on firewater in an Oldtown tavern. Septon Nestor accused you of heresy, but it was he who found himself impaled under the tongue with Lady Bold’s iron bowsprit. That leaves you just the lecherous Septon Franklyn and the boyish, naive, and terrified Septon Gwin.

Captain Tharaquo puts a hand on your shoulder. The captain is a staunch ally, his voyage to Seaholt bought and paid for by the Red Temple. “My lady, they are gaining on us. We must prepare for battle.” A thousand yards astern, a black-sailed longboat is churning forward in Lady Bold’s wake. Ironborn.

Danirra
Despite her hastened exprience with men at recent years, Danirra blushed from the touch of Tharaquo and his respect, the blush merging with the burning tatoos. She humbly lowered her eyes.
"The Lord Of Light have gifted you with the skill and the bravery to defeat those servanta of The Other. I shall look into the fire and seek for the guidance of the Lord." She said softly, putting a comforting hand on his hand. "I have faith in you, Captain." Danirra wishpered with a shy smile, which looked.. admiring. She relased him from her embrace and stepped forward. "Franklyn, Gwin... come with me please, if you won't mind- we need to open our hearts, and see if the Lord will grace us with a mesaage on the holy fire."

Danirra stepped toward the brazier on the deck, and fell to her knees.
She raised her hands and touched the ruby on her forehead.
"Lord... what has to be done?" She wishpered, looking at the fire.
[/

Spoiler: Ooc

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I am not sure how Greensight/Firesight work mechanicly exactly. Can I have help with that?

[heretic]

Danirra

Looking into the fire, at first, you see nothing. Briefly, you wonder if the Lord of Light has abandoned you, but you quickly brush that thought aside. Your faith is pure, you cannot falter. The flames flicker and jump as the brazier sways against the tilt of the deck. Tendrils of fire unfurl toward the heavens, only to be severed by the pitch and yaw of the ship. At first, like so many times, you see nothing.

But then, you see him. A shrouded-faced man with a mighty sword made of cold and darkness. Behind him, shadowy enemies loom, closing in. The man is confident, but unawares. You can see that darkness cannot drive out darkness. This man needs to find the light, and soon.

“What do you see, Lady Danirra?” Septon Gwin asks, his voice cracking.

---

Ser Damon

You glimpse your horsehair-crested opponent across the lists. He seems to be engaged in some sort of crowd-pleasing display, but you can’t tell what it is. When he’s ready, a trumpet sounds. The world narrows to the bouncing slit in your helmet as you give Midnight the spur and surge forward. Your damnable lance falls too low after you couch it, but the thing is impossible to properly control at a gallop like this. Ser Ryam is getting closer and closer, his own lance slowly lowering to your chest level. At the last moment, you heave your own lance up and look away.

BOOOOOOOOOM! His lance smashes your shieldarm back into your side with the force of a hundred--no, a thousand!--strong men. Immediately, you’re rocking backwards in the saddle, your arms flailing limply by your sides while your helm mashes your nose uncomfortably. Your right gauntlet is suddenly empty, while your shield is still strapped to the left. Shards of broken lance are sliding off of your legs and saddle. Somehow, your legs remained strong and you kept your seat. Turning at the end of the lists, you see the crowd on their feet, although you can’t seem to hear them. Ser Ryam’s dappled chestnut destrier is standing, riderless a quarter of the way to the opposite end of the lists. Ser Ryam himself is lying facedown in the grass while his squires and attendants run to him. Soon enough, he rises, waving to the crowd to show he’s unhurt. Victory is yours!

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Ryam’s attack hits for 1 degree of success and 7 dmg, which is reduced to 0 by your AR. Your Animal Handling result is good enough to keep your seat. You strike Ryam for one degree of success and 8 damage, reduced to 3 by his armor. He fails spectacularly in his roll to keep his seat.

---

Torbin

The old maester’s head lolls to and fro as you pour the water into his mouth. He swallows by reflex, which is favorable, but his failure to wake is troubling. In the light of the day, his condition presents a little differently than you would anticipated. Most notably, his skin has a jaundiced color to it--a sign of humoral imbalance. Odd, because the sickness that had swept Seaholt was marked by discharge of phlegm, which brought the patients back into balance rather quickly. Lymond’s skin has a distinctly unhealthy yellow tint, and his pulse is quick, as if his heart is straining to pump something out of his body.

A few prods find his kidneys and liver swollen, further confirming a humoral imbalance of excess blood and yellow bile. You’re not halfway into dusting the room and changing the bed when you notice that the leeches you’ve applied have fallen away, convulsing. Reapplying them is no use, and one of them even dies in your palm. A few checks are in order. He recoils from a pinprick, blinks away from light, and his piss is remarkably clear. It’s toxin in the blood, you’re sure of it, and one that stops up the body from discharging its wastes properly. The maester has been poisoned!

---

Davos Goldstag

Looking up and down the line, you spy a few contenders to watch. Of course, there’s Ser Balon Swann, who’s peeled off the top half of his plate and mail, revealing his thick, brawny arms and barrel chest. There’s also a reachman with some kind of fruit on his tabard who carries himself like a strong archer, as well as the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, who turns every eye with his feathered cape, flawless brown skin, and mighty goldenheart bow.

The distant call of “LOOOOOOOOOSE!” is swallowed by the hissing strain of fletching against the air as over a hundred archers send their shafts downrange. You’re sharing a butt with two other men--the corpulent Marq Chyttering, dressed in a tent-like yellow tunic, and a lowborn retainer of some type whose name you’ve already forgotten. Your shaft and Chyttering’s strike true, while the retainer misses by a hair--embarrassing, because the target is quite close. Everyone shoots their next two shots haphazard, without waiting for the herald’s command. This time, all three of you manage to strike the painted circle, entitling you to advance. You’re pleased to see that your shafts are neatly grouped near the center, while Chyttering’s and the other man’s are scattered as if at random. A giddy rush flows out from your chest to your arms, a feeling of invincibility.

A rumble of conversation breaks out as the victors of the round tromp forward to retrieve their shafts and push the butts back. Marq undoes his leather wrist-guard as he walks, wiping his arm across his tunic. “Well-shot my boy. Well-shot indeed! They didn’t put that stag on your banner for no reason, I daresay.” It’s flattering, although until just a few minutes ago, Marq hadn’t heard of House Goldstag. “I make it eight in every ten advancing to the next round.” He braces a palm against the canvas-wrapped hay and draws forth a shaft. “So you say you’re a ward of Sunfyre? My lord brother said he saw Lord Sunfyre at a tourney in Lannisport once. Said he wore black armor, with gold pauldrons forged in the likeness of lions and dragons, and a red streamer ten feet long whipping behind his helm. It took Barristan Selmy to put an end to ‘im. A bold showing, to be sure. Those westermen love their gilt armor--have you seen the bloody Kingslayer lately?”

Once the arrows are retrieved, you find your way back to the rope line setting out the shooting gallery.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Roll your shots when you’re ready. Same dice, Difficulty 9 this time. You can narrate your own hits and misses if you’d like.

---

Orwen Umber

You exit the city through the King’s Gate and enter the Tourney grounds. Folk are walking every which way and the earth is churned by both foot and hoof prints. Colorful tents are set up in almost every spare space, getting larger and grander as they reach the center of the field. You see the colors and heraldry of dozens, if not hundreds, of houses. On the main path towards the jousting lists, smallfolk and merchants are buying and selling almost every conceivable luxury to the passing nobility. A fat man in red silk robes calls out, advertising jewelry from the westerlands. An old woman tends a cauldron over a fire, serving out bowls of stew for a few pennies.

Daella weaves her way through the crowd, but is careful to stay in sight of “her giant,” looking back over her shoulder from time to time to make certain you are following. You come to the stands and make your way up to a seat, perhaps not as nice as some who had arrived earlier, but even little Daella had a clear view.

“There’s big brother!” She says excitedly pointing to the next jouster in the lists. Indeed, sitting on his dark destrier is Ser Damon in his shining brigandine and a scarlet and sable tabard, featuring the battling gold dragon and lion of his house. Half a heartbeat later, he’s off. It’s an awkward tilt, but Damon emerges the victor. Daella squeals and claps.

---

Lady Myrielle Sunfyre

Liane looks a little cross when you don’t trip over yourself to burnish her vanity. You notice some beads of sweat forming on her brow. Chilled wine is good for avoiding such things.

Down in the yard, two knights thunder past one another with a resounding crash marking the impact of their lances. Both men are shaken, but only one falls. The knight in dull, dented plate rides it out, pulling up at the opposite end and tossing aside his splintered lance. The crowd roars its approval and the victor salutes the royal box.

Next up is Damon, which sets your nerves to grind. No doubt the ladies will poke fun at you should he fall in his first tilt. Your husband is a better sword than lance. Across the field, you spy his foeman Ser Ryam Whent. Whent looks to be taller than Damon by a few inches, but narrower in the shoulders. After the heralds call out the match, the knights dip their lances to honor the King and the Hand, and move to their places. Before taking up his couch, Ser Ryam looses a trio of live bats from beneath his shield, inflaming the commons and prancing back and forth. Showboat . . .

At the sound of a trumpet, both knights spur their horses to a gallop and begin to lower their lances. You can see that Ryam has the better angle, while Damon will be lucky to land his blow at all. They strike almost simultaneously, with Ryam twisting into his strike and landing it a shade earlier. His lance breaks on Damon’s shield just before Damon’s lance bonks the outer edge of his own shield. The force of Ryam’s blow sends Damon reeling straight backwards, his unbroken lance falling from his grasp. But one length on, Ryam himself is crossed up in the saddle, thanks to his twisting blow and Damon’s touch on his shield. The crowd surges to its feet as Ryam scrabbles for balance. Two lengths on, he’s lost a stirrup. Three lengths on, he’s dropped the reins to cling to the saddle. Four lengths on, he’s laying across the saddle like a bag of potatoes, his armored feet inches from the ground. At five lengths, his toes catch in the grass and he slides off, flopping on his face with an audible CLANG. Thankfully, your Damon stays on his horse, making him the victor.

The ladies turn to you, all talking at once. “Well-ridden, I say--”“--can take a hit--”“--serves him right for loosing those dreadful bats!”

---

The Imposter

The gold cloak standing between the commons and the noble pavilion leans in a bit to hear you as the crowd cheers a victorious knight. He’s perhaps seven inches taller than you, and in need of a razor and a bath. His mail and boots are black, and his cloak is heavy wool of gold. “Yes, m’lady, come right in. Can’t say I know where she is, nor her face.”

The wooden tiered seats in this section are not as crowded as the commons, where men, women, and children stand and climb over any piece of structure, the better to behold the competition. Looking up into the sea of faces, you despair at first, for none of the ladies wear sigils and only a few of the men do. But then, as your eye catches a glimpse of a golden dragon and lion embattled on the laquer of a chest lid. A serving girl in a yellow cotton dress is bent over it, rummaging within, before fetching a bunch of grapes from inside. Soon enough, she returns to a group of women placed at the highest corner of the riser, in a high place of honor.

The four are similar in age--perhaps two or three years older than you. There’s one with a dark braid lying across her shoulder, clad in a demure dress of pale green. Another, less fair, has a pinched, freckled face, a necklace of pearls, and a shorter white dress. A third is mightily corseted in a blue dress. But only the last one can be Lady Myrielle. She’s the tallest and most beautiful of the four, with golden hair and piercing blue eyes. Her dress is a powerful red, perfectly tailored to her form, and she carries herself with the self-assured imperiousness of a daughter of Lannister.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

This post reflects the result of a Deception (Act) test (6 dice, best 4, +3 for Treacherous) to convince the guard of your nobility. As a matter of course, we withhold rolls in situations where a known roll result could create unwanted metagame incentives--this type of Deception test certainly qualifies. If you want to directly hail Lady Myrielle, roll a Status (Reputation) test (Imposter bonus applies) to successfully maneuver through the other nobles to her side. Difficulty 9.

---

Magnor Kergyn

Midnight Sun slides in behind the longship, allowing you to ride the calmer seas in her wake, though she remains several hundred yards ahead. At your suggestion of taking her, the oarmaster has increased your pace and Urras Netley is shouting for men to make ready the grapnels. The scrape of steel on wood heralds the arrival of your shield, dragged across the deck by the boy Little Jorl, who also carries your helm clutched to his chest.

When the moment is right, your men flash a signal to the longship. A minute passes and they respond with a single red flag--the signal to attack. Next, they run out their colors, which look to be a mass of grey and black. But then, you see it: a dash of yellow below. The grey hand of the storm god, yellow lightning erupting downward from his fingertips. House Kenning of Harlaw. A minor house of some distinction, sworn to the Harlaws of Harlaw. The Reader must be losing his grip on his bannermen.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

What’s your next move? Also, feel free to invent crew NPCs or riff on the ones we’ve created. Is Rolfe the First Mate? We’re imagining a crew of mostly Ironborn, with some members from Essos (Crombos the Myrmen being one), but it’s your ship and crew.

[Havelock]

Well, that went better than expected. Myrielle's cheer is reserved, one victory is not enough to satisfy a lion, though it pleases her that Damon at least still has a chance of not being an embarrassment. She takes a long, drawn out sip from her cup, though it is hardly half-empty despite the time spent. Both to savor the fine taste of the liquid itself, but mostly the exquisite feeling of jealousy. Wondering if it might be worth the gesture to offer some of the precious ice, it would deprive her of the satisfaction of feeling superior, and it would be wasted on someone like Liane of course, probably Emma too, but Jeyne could be worth actually trying to have as a friend.

[McStabbington]

Orwen's voice boomed over the crowd, and his ham-sized hands beat out a hearty applause at Ser Damon's victory. "Well struck, lad!"

That being said, he did it more for Daella's sake than his own. Old man that he was, all he could do was worry, and his worry was not lessened in the slightest by what he saw. Orwen was not a knight, and like all Umbers, or anyone else who learned to fight in the Wolfswood rather than on the rolling plains of the south, for that matter, he did his fighting on foot. But this was not his first tourney, and he at least knew good tourney fighting when he saw it. And that . . . Ser Damon was lucky. Very lucky. That could have been much worse, he thought, and knew that Ser Damon should have put in more time on the quintain before he signed up for a real-life list that could get him hurt or killed. And Orwen had very little doubt that if his nigh-untrained eyes had seen it, Ser Damon's competitors had too.

But he did not dare say any such thing aloud. Little Daella had had enough mothering for one day, and deserved at least a little time to enjoy herself. Soon enough, the pressing needs of nobility would descend upon her tiny shoulders. For now, however, she had a victorious brother that she could be happy for, and her brother had at least one ransom won. That was good enough.

[igordragonian]

Danirra stared at the fire, her eyes looked beyond the bound of the material world and the limits of time. She took a deep breath, breathing in the warmth and the light of her vision. She took her hands off her forehead. "A warrior. A warrior in danger, the poor man, wielding darkness, which could never fence off the darkness lurking over him." She gotten up.

"If The Lord Of Light sent me this vision, of this mysteriouse warrior... he shall send us victory- he won't let us die, and fail this mysteriouse man." Danirra said with confidence.

Danirra raised her hands and yelled. "THE LORD OF LIGHT SHALL GRANT US VICTORY!"

[Destro_Yersul]

For a moment after his victory, Damon was stunned that it had gone so well. He hadn't managed the lance properly, he knew that. He'd probably neglected that part of his training a little too much. On the other hand, a lucky victory was still a victory, and he had one to his name, now. First of many, he hoped. He raised a hand in salute to the king, and then to the Stark. Just because the man was cold was no reason to not follow proper protocol. He spotted Myrielle, and waved to her as well. Then he turned his horse and started off the field, making a brief pause to check if Ser Ryam was actually fine. It felt like his lance had struck hard, but the other knight was on his feet, so everything was likely alright.

Next order of business was finding out who he'd be tilting against in the second round. He should have just gone for the melee, he thought as Midnight trotted along. His arm was going to be so damn sore by the end of all this.

[Sahe]

Getting past the Goldcloak was easy, now she only had to find Lady Myrielle and she was one step closer to getting vengeance for her love and maybe, a better life. The ranks of the riser were filled with ladies, young and old, dressed in expensive summer dresses and wrapped up in their own vanity and distracted by the spectacle of the jousts. What Sera saw was a bunch of easy rich marks, she bet herself she could steal some of these girls rings right off their fingers, without them noticing. But what Sera saw, was not important, what Elia Lonetower saw was. So Sera banned her thoughts on thievery and focused on finding Lady Myrielle. It took her a moment, but then she spotted her.

With confidence Sera made her way up the riser, ignoring the irritated glances she got and whispers of the ladies she passed. She wore fine clothes, but they were still dusty from the road and her back was burdened by her backpack, she really didn't fit into all these ladies with their summer dresses, she hadn't thought of that. But they could talk all they wanted, she was almost there, when suddenly someone blocked her way and addressed her directly. A young lady, maybe five years older than her, in a light violet dress: "Who let rabble like you up here?", she said with disgust in her voice. "The Goldcloak", Sera said truthfully, "I am Elia Lonetower, I need to..." "Sure you are and I'm Queen Cersei", the other woman interrupted and earned some laughs from some of the other ladies. "Please, I really need to speak with Lady Myrielle Sunfyre, it is important...", Sera pleaded with the other women while feeling how her patience wore thin. "Well, you look like a common whore so I suppose you could be a Lonetower", the lady shot back and gaining some gasps from those following the exchange. Sera suppressed the urge to draw her dagger and gut the woman, so instead she tried to force her way past the woman and push her to the side.

[LimSindull]

Torbin

”Guards!!” Torbin screams out as he tries to remember anything that might have been a clue as to what happened to the Maester. He paces around the room for a moment. If there was someone who would poison the Maester of a family, what would be their goal?

His eyes fall to a spider climbing a jar of pickled crow eyes. ”Lucky for you old man, you have the most ridiculous ingredients available. I think that you quite enjoy working in this house.”. Torbin walks over to the shelf and starts selecting ingredients that might help him determine what manner of poison was affecting the old man. If someone succeeded in killing Lymond then Torbin would be out. The next Maester might not like the idea of a half trained chainling running around behind him.

Torbin turns back to Maester Lymond and begins his work. He tries to remember every little lesson that he has received, every little hint from each book that he has read about poisons or plants crawl through his mind. ” Help me out old man, who’s our enemy here? What could they afford to poison you with? Or, what do they know to poison you with? Who’d you piss on?”

After working for a few moments, Torbin screams out again, ”Guards! Goose’s dung, I need my tools.” The Maester’s tools would do until someone came to assist him. Right now, his focus, was on Maester Lymond.

[Ra_Va]

Davos is grateful, though partially annoyed by the sudden praise. Marq seems nice enough though Davos can't help but think his flattery has an ulterior motive. He grits his teeth at the inaccuracy of the man's statement, but figures it's uncourtly to cause a scene over actions done many years ago.

"Indeed, Lord Sunfyre talks highly of that tournament and Sir Selmy."

Davos collects his arrows slowly and neatly making sure the shaft doesn't curve

"--have you seen the bloody Kingslayer lately?”

The sudden change in subject surprises Davos. The Kingslayer? What connection would Davos have to Jaime Lannister? Admittingly there are some but distant, Davos doesn't even believe he's seen Jaime Lannister in person.

"I have not, but I have no doubt he's doing well at the jousting competition, though hopefully not as good as Ser Damon, with all due respect to the Queen-Mother's House of course."

They make it back to the firing line. Davos can hear small amounts of surrounding conversations he has no particular interest in. 'Incest', 'Whent', 'Whore', 'Killed', 'Ned's Bastard', 'Money owed'.

Everything starts again. Davos' vision narrows to the target. He can feel his blood flow through his body as he waits for the order.

Spoiler: rolls

Show

(5d6b4)[16]
(5d6b4)[15]
(5d6b4)[13]

[BananaPhone]

Magnor Kergyn


The cold breath of the sea sprayed across Magnor's face as the bow of his ship pierced through another rising wave. Scything forward in pursuit of their prey, the Mightnight Sun longship rode the waves up and down, and where it could not, its twin-tusked headpiece speared through the belly of any incoming wave to part its bulk enough for the swift ship to pass through. With strong backs and a good breeze, the longship was drawing upon the smaller craft of the petty lord who had grown desperate enough to send it further from the safety of the shores in the hope of drawing back something of value.

Grinning at what was to come, Magnor rolled his shoulders as he turned his head about to look down at the boat-boy Jorl. Reaching out with one massive hand that could have seized the lads helm and crushed it tight, Magnor rubbed the kids damp head of hair and received the shield he offered.

"Don't get yourself killed," was the Mammoth's only words of advice as he turned back to the pursuit and took his shield over one thick shoulder. The boy was only a young'un. Magnor didn't expect him to hold a sword and fight seasoned, grown men. But he did expect him to stomach the colors of his future trade.

Bending himself at the knees, Magnor slowly reaches down to seize a grappling hook, and by the time he had drawn himself back up to his full height he had Urras Netley by his side as the final preparations had all been completed.

"We'll kill a few to make an example," Magnor said to his first mate, "the more we can take alive the bigger the ransom we can send to their lord. Or the bigger the bounty we can collect," the giant Ironborn winked.

The waves parted before the spear-like Midnight Sun as it made its final bearing upon the raiding ship of House Kenning. Mists of salt and water sprayed the face of any man with a face for what was to come as the ship itself groaned beneath its own weight as its speed was imparted in the direction of their prey. At the bow of his ship, Magnor had to constantly shift his weight across the muscles in his feet just to keep his prodigal height from toppling over against the powerful caress of the sea against the hull of the Midnight Sun.

Turning back to look at his men in the final moments before impact, Magnor raised his glittering greatsword up in one hand and bellowed and laughed "Sons of the Mammoth! Lord Kenning see's fit to give us his boat! Let's go and thank his men!"

[heretic]

Danirra

Septon Franklyn grabs your arm in excitement as your eyes widen to drink in the wisdom of the flames. Beside him, Septon Gwin fumbles for a vellum scroll and quill, so that he might record this vision, as he has for all of your others.

While it’s unclear what the vision means for the Ironborn reavers off Lady Bold’s stern, the conviction in your voice has emboldened the crew, which is rushing about in a frenzy to prepare to fight. As a trading vessel, Lady Bold has only sailors and no marines. Precious few of them have master’d a weapon besides a simple club, dagger, or fisherman’s spear. But there are some who are better-armed. The crew includes three bowman, plus Captain Tharaquo and his crossbow, a pair of freedmen who learned the sword and shield in the fighting pits, and then Septon Franklyn and his bastard sword.

As they rush about, making ready for a desperate action, a spotter begins shouting about a second ship. Your heart sinks when you see it--a second longship trailing the first. Twice as many cursed Ironborn!

---

The Imposter

The ladies’ playful gasps and titters turn to squawks of protest as you shoulder your way forward. Your adversary tries lamely to claw for a hold on your arms, but you twist out of her grasp and manage to rough up her dress as you stride upwards in the seats. She sputters indignantly as you pass her, and then a moment later, one of the straps on her dress slides off her shoulder and the onlookers erupt in excitement. Quick as can be, her hand darts out and pulls the strap back into place.

But it’s too late for her to stop you from ascending the step to Lady Marielle.

---

Torbin

Your panicked shouts are answered only by echoes of the same. An eternity passes as you grab bottle after bottle. The second one you grab has a mildly toxic beetle inside, but you soon realize it’s only the dessicated husk, no doubt the remnant of some years-old parlor observation. Others hold familiar ingredients: milk of the poppy, sweetsleep, nettlewort, Aethelmure’s Essence, and such. None of these could produce Lymond’s symptoms. You’re very sure now what you face: Widow’s Blood, an ingested poison that strikes the bowels and filters of the body.

Finally, you hear someone running. The door behind you sweeps open, and you see Ser Jorah Foote beyond. He’s a shade over six feet, resplendent as always in a velvet Sunfyre surcoat, the sigil of his birth house relegated to a polished silver pin on his breast. Jorah is closer to fifty than forty, with a pleasantly grey beard softening his jaw, and the flat belly of a younger man. “What’s happening here?”

Your efforts seem to have stabilized Lymond for the nonce. You can feel the tension falling from his muscles. A moment later, his bowels audibly announce their release and you find the table befouled. A vexing, but good sign for Lymond.

---

Ser Damon

Your young squire Baelor finally catches up with you and assists you with managing the cordon so that you can get off the field. His eyes are wide. “You beat him!” He may only be eleven, but he’s no fool when it comes to his favorite pastime--you can hear surprise in his voice.

The outer edge of the field is choked with horses, grooms, knights, and squires, all hurring about to make ready for the next bout. You find a crier for the master of games, who gives you the name of your next foeman: Ser Donnel Waynwood. He’s a Valeman you’ve vaguely heard of, but never met. The Waynwoods are an ancient, proud house, and Ser Donnel has distinguished himself as the right-hand man of Ser Brynden Tully, the Knight of the Gate. It’s a shame Tully himself is not present. Septon Malton’s history of the War of the Ninepenny Kings contains a number of fascinating diagrams of how Tully maneuvered his forces on the Stepstones.

You notice a commotion over by Myrielle’s area in the stands.

---

Davos Goldstag

Again, you shoot true, sinking all three shafts into the circle on the hay. Marq does the same, though he nearly misses on his second shot. The lowborn retainer misses his second and third shots, taking him out of the contest. One more down. Looking up and down the field, it looks as though another fifth of the archers have been eliminated again. The victors move downfield to retrieve shafts.

On the walk down, Chyttering shakes his head as he overhears a snippet of conversation from the bowmen one butt over. Turning to you, he mutters “You may be hearing some rumors, my good lad. Rumors that Jon Arryn accused the queen of adultery, or even that he himself fathered a royal bastard on the queen. Rest assured, it is not true. Lord Arryn is a man of honor, and King Robert would never suffer allow such an accuser to leave the Red Keep alive.” He finishes drawing his arrows forth. “Some have nothing better to do than spin tales.”

Spoiler: OOC

Show

The next round is Difficulty 12, three shots again.

---

Orwen Umber

Damon is graceful in his victory, saluting the King and Ned Stark. A prudent move, given the poor horsemanship of his opponent. It’s poor form to unduly celebrate when your foeman steps on a proverbial digging-rake. Soon enough, the lists are clear for the next bout as Ser Robar Royce prepares to take on a knight with a naked maiden on his shield, provoking whistles and laughter from the crowd.

You feel a tap on your lower back. For a moment, you think it’s someone nibbling the bait you’ve laid for pickpockets, but you instead find yourself facing a familiar face--that of Ser Jasper Redfort, heir to that house. When you last laid eyes on the man, he was per’aps twenty years old and newly knighted--stocky, yet trim, and a fair, but unlucky horseman with enough bravado for five men. The years have swollen his waist and eaten the hair away from the top of his scalp, but his smile remains the same. Today, he dresses more lordling than knight, in a light doublet of white and rose gold with loose cotton breeches for the heat. He wears a table-knife on his hip instead of a sword. “Orwen, you giant vulture you! I didn’t realize that you still, well . . . it’s a delight to see you!” Ser Jasper did not start the campaign an infantryman, but he was unhorsed often enough in battle that you found yourself fighting side-by-side more often than not. After you pulled him out from beneath the Ruby Ford (and from beneath his third horse), he was refused another mount and was made to march afoot for the remainder of the rebellion. “You should meet my sons. They’ve heard tales of you since they were as small at that one.” He points to Daella. “Say, you should come by our quarters some time. This business with Lord Arryn is most dreadful and I daresay we could use your learned counsel.” You understand that Jon Arryn is said to have bestowed some mighty insult on the Queen and the royal children, though the details are not known to you.

A few moments later, there’s a ruckus in the stands as two noblewomen tussle and one ends up showing enough flesh to the commons to send them hooting, even though it was only for half a heartbeat. The other woman slips up the stands towards Lady Myrielle.

---

Lady Myrielle Sunfyre

Damon waves to you, which is sweet of him. Some of the knights you’ve seen are too preoccupied in their vainglory to honor their sponsors in the stands. The whole business of mock-war can go to their heads.

There’s a commotion below you in the stands. No doubt the lesser nobles have found some petty thing to fight over. It looks like Cedra Thorne has found a way to prick someone . . . or is it the other way around? Cedra is scuffling with a young woman in Dornish silks. The younger woman forces her way past Cedra, and in doing so, subtly tugs at her dress in just the right way. . . A gasp and holler goes up below as Cedra loses the shoulder of her dress, no doubt giving them quite the show below. The rough Dornishwoman has passed her by, and is making to join your company.

She’s about your age, with a dusky, freckled face and the athletic build of a rider. Her chestnut hair casts a shadow into one of her blue eyes, which complements her silken dress. When they arranged for you to take a Dornish handmaiden, you were reminded of your mother’s lessons--the Dornish style was for whores and wantons. But now that you’re seeing it up close, you apprehend some redeeming features, even on this obviously travel-worn girl. It looks cool, for starters, and there’s no embroidery to make it heavy and itchy.

Your companions just gawk, waiting for you to say something.

---

Magnor Kergyn

The deck teems with Mammoth’s Sons, the midday sun shining bright off of their steel helms--many adorned with yellowed boar’s tusks or bull’s horns. Each man holds some hook or grapnel in hand, along with shield, sword, axe or spear. Some men wear light armor of boiled leather, others heavier ringmail, and others still are bare-chested. Only the fearless wear heavy metal, as you do. Crombos the Myrman howls, rattling his shirt of loose iron slats. Others announce their hunger as well, thumping the deck with the butts of their weapons or beginning to heave with battle-fury.

You gain on the Kenning vessel, reducing the distance by a few dozen yards, before they realize that Midnight is coming for them, and not the merchant cog up ahead. They begin a more serious attempt to outrun you, hauling hard on their oars. The distance between you begins to widen. Urras Netley roars for the sails to be let out and the oar-drums to increase speed.

Mayhaps launching the chase under the sun’s zenith was a fell omen--the longest stretch from the last midnight and the next.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Let’s treat this as a modified chase (pg. 209). They have one success and you have zero. Go ahead and roll another one or two Warfare rolls (no more bonus die) depending on how quickly you want to resolve the chase IC. I’m open to whatever in terms of roleplay/novel strategies for trying to catch the Kennings.

[Havelock]

Now that was an interesting sight, amusing, but at the realization of who the Dornishwoman most likely happens to be, Myrielle has to stifle a frown. If her eyes could spot that little detail, others would surely have noticed also, and such scuffling by the hand of one of her ladies in waiting could reflect badly upon her own esteem.

She deems it best not to acknowledge the presence of the newcomer before she absolutely must. Either that or it just makes her feel superior, but no matter the cause, she takes command of the situation by commenting before the Dornish enters hearing distance. "I heard it mentioned that the ladies outside the West leaves something to be desired in terms of dignity.". Myrielle is quite pleased with coming up with the word dignity when paraphrasing her cousin, Cersei had been considerably more crass about it. She does not mention the queen directly, but if any of these hens had any wits about them, they could guess at the source.

[LimSindull]

Torbin

Torbin retches as Lymond’s bowels unplug themselves. He tries to push past Jorah, exclaiming, ”Can you believe this ****!”

He calms down as he grabs some fresh air from his lungs. The sudden rush of smell is expected, but Torbin was heavily distracted and didn’t see it coming. He leans against the wall and chuckles as the relief washes over him.

”Thanks for getting here Jorah. I kinda panicked. The old man was groaning with pain when I was giving him his medicine. You wouldn’t mind fetching a few servants to clean up this mess would you?” Torbin hopes that his relaxed manner will pass onto the guard.

He takes a few seconds to look over Lymond. Widow’s blood is a terrible way to die. Whoever did this was stupidly dangerous.

”Jorah!” Torbin turns again to the man who came to his calling. ”Would you grab three more guards with you when you come back?” This was the moment of truth. After there were more guards Lymond would be safe, but if Jorah was the culprit, now would be his best time to finish the Maesters off.

Torbin smiles at Jorah and really hopes that the guard doesn't draw his sword.

[McStabbington]

"Jasper, ya brave old sod!" Orwen's demeanor brightened instantly, and rising and turning, he grasped the man's hand before turning it into a hug that Orwen tried, in spite of his enthusiasm, to keep short of "bone-crushing". He was, after all, wearing mail, and it wouldn't do to rip the other man's shirt. He released the man and grasped him by the shoulders to get a good look at him, and then waved away the concern.

"Bah! Ya know how death is. I'm too strong an' quick for tha Old Gods ta catch me, and your southern Stranger wouldn'ta want wicked ol' soul like me. If tha bastard killed me, I'd steal his cloak and make him wander about with his goodies exposed ta tha world fer his trouble!" Orwen's laugh boomed at his own joke. "But ya needn't say no more, Ser Jasper. Any man who's ever stood a shield wall with me I call 'brother', ana I'd be a poor brother indeed if'n I didn't aid ye in yer time o' need. Give me the directions ta yer tent, an' I'll see tha help arrives quick as I can."

Sudden realization dawned on him, and he smacked his forehead with a ham-hock sized palm. "But where are my manners! Li'l Lady, I apologize." He knelt down to his ward, and put a hand on her back as he looked up to his friend. "Lady Daella, this is Ser Jasper Redfort, eldest son and heir of Lord Horton Redfort o' tha Vale. Dunna let his retreatin' hairline fool ya, li'l lady; brave as a direwolf, this man is. We fought side by side on tha Trident, an' he'd ride his horse right down Balerion's gullet ta save ya, if'n his horse didn't snap its leg on a gopher hole on the way in. Now, I know fer a right fact that ye practiced yer courtesies. So go ahead an' introduce yerself . . . Ha! Speakin' o' goodies!" he hooted as one of the ladies above lost half her blouse.

But then his eyes narrowed, and Orwen's eyes narrowed as he followed the movement of the young lady towards Lady Myrielle. "Lady Daella, stay right here. Have no fear, li'l soul, I'ma gonna be right back, but I need ta see ta yer sister-in-law. Jasper, can I trust ye ta watch my ward fer a moment while I see ta business? There probably won't be trouble, but I wouldn't be doin' my duty if'n I dinna check." He looked up at the man for assent, and then rose, loosened his dirk in its sheathe with a thumb, and then started towards Myrielle up in the stands to intercept the woman approaching her.

[Sahe]

Sera had done it, she had reached Lady Myrielle Sunfyre. Now however she was at a bit of a loss. Lady Myrielle treated her as if she wasn't there. Was she supposed to bow or make some other sign of respect? When she and her mother had performed at a hall they had usually bowed before the Lord or Lady, but they had also bowed before the rabble in a tavern.

She had to come up with something though, so Sera ended up nodding her head slightly towards the actual noblewoman as she addressed her, "Lady Myrielle Sunfyre? I am Elia Lonetower, here to enter your services", Sera pulled out the letter to hand it over. "I...I am sorry for my late arrival. We were ambushed on the road by bandits. I narrowly survived...a Silent Sister gave her life for me...", Sera trailed off a bit at the end, the fresh memory of the massacre, the death of Alys. Her hands were balled into fists, thinking about it and she fought to hold back her tears.

[igordragonian]

Danirra

Danirra cursed herself- the vision, ensured her own safety- but not of the others!
But the time for prayers is gone.
'Keep your hearts burning with bravery! The butcher don't mind how many sheep does he hack, and neither should you!' but she hurried to take a look at the second longhship.

[Destro_Yersul]

Damon

"I did, aye. I got lucky, though." Damon handed Baelor his helmet. He'd be able to see better without it, and he wouldn't need it back until his next match. "This is a lot different from being in command of an army. I wish I'd paid more attention, when Ser Hendry was trying to teach me how to use a lance."

Still, it wouldn't do to worry about that now. He'd won his first match, and that was important. Besides. Reading about war was more fun than fighting on foot, or on a horse, could ever be. Down on the ground there was no damn strategy. Damon would have liked to talk to Ser Brynden, but as he wasn't here he might seek out a conversation with Ser Donnel instead.

Then he noticed the activity over by the pavilion. Maybe he'd talk to Ser Donnel after the tilt. Right now, he headed that way, telling Baelor to mind his horse and things until he returned.

[BananaPhone]

Magnor Kergyn



With one foot up upon the foot-stairs upon the bow of the Mightnight Sun, Magnor peered at his target as it grew nor larger, or smaller, during their pursuit.

As the waves crashed against the agile hull of their vessel, Magnor's crew put their backs into it as Urras approached his massive master from behind.

"We're losing them!" the Ironborn had to shout over the churning ocean. But his observation was dismissed by a wave of Magnors large hand.

"We're tasked with keeping this route safe," the Mammoth spoke over his shoulder, "taking the ship is just gravy on top."

Then, sensing this might be permission to slack off, Magnor turned to look over his shoulder, "but that doesn't mean you lot don't have to put your backs into it! Heave!"



Warfare 1: (3d6)[5][4][4](13)
Warfare 2: (3d6)[3][1][3](7)

[Havelock]

"An ambush?" Myrielle is startled by those news, though composed all the same. "That is horrible, though it is good that you seem unharmed lady Elia, how many survivors were there?" she reaches to take the letter, giving very little indication as to whether or not the bluff is successful, giving it a quick look, mostly for anything standing out or suggesting that she should keep the letter on her person rather than to trust Victaria with it until she had time to properly examine it's contents.

[heretic]

Magnor Kergyn

The Kenning ship turns to the north and for a few moments, it appears that she’s going to escape. But then a wave rolls her hull and the starboard oars miss a stroke, the paddles fanning empty air. You feel breeze on the back of your neck and hear the snap of your sails coming taut. The men throw up a cheer as Midnight Sun closes the distance.

Rolfe curses them for fools and sets them to work trimming the sails. You slice toward the Kennings, the sea spray belching up with a dull rumble--the Drowned God's voioce added his voice to the cheer.

The Kenning ship is a-scuttle with crewmen hefting all manner of axe, pike, or sword. Their helmsman is showing you nothing but stern, no doubt intending to make the boarding as awkward as possible. A handful of bowman are climbing to their aftcastle, the better to rain down shafts on you as you advance.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

You win the chase, 3 points to 2, with the help of spending your action point. That point is “spent” until the next significant plot point. What’s your strategy from here? I’m basically improvising, but I’m imagining the options including shooting your own arrows, going for a full ramming attack, or an oar-shearing angled ram, or just a straight-up boarding without any kind of ramming attack. You could also use fire somehow, etc.

---

Lady Myrielle Sunfyre

The letter is worn from travel, but clearly bears the wax seal of House Lonetower beside the signature of Lord Lonetower.

Lord Sunfyre,

It is my honor to present my daughter Elia to your house for fostering and service as handmaiden to your daughter Myrielle. May she bear you leal service, laughter, and the friendship of the Dornish, until such time as she achieves betrothal.

The recompense we discussed has been settled with the Iron Bank. Your generosity will be remembered in Dorne--our tower may be Lone, but our friends never are. If you require anything within my power, send forthwith, and you shall receive.

Andara Lonetower, Lady of the Lone Tower

---

Elia the Handmaiden

When Lady Myrielle addresses you by name, her handmaidens relax a bit, their skepticism flowing into judgmentation instead. You can feel the short one’s eyes flitting from each mudstain on your person to the next.

---

Torbin

Jorah recoils from the filth on the table--the man is pristine to a fault, more concerned with pomp than circumstance, some say. “Wretched!” he snarls, covering his nose with a sleeve. “Servants!” he bellows over his shoulder. “I’ll have a bucket of steaming water and rags brought at once.”

But when you mention guards, his face darkens. “Guards? Has the maester been harmed by treachery?” He takes a step forward, his hand on his swordhilt. Your throat tightens a bit as you consider what he could do with that piece of steel. Ser Jorah is perhaps the fifth or sixth finest blade among Lord Sunfyre’s bannermen, overmastered by the younger knights as well as Ser Hendry, but he could make short work of the likes of you.

Despite his interest in the case, you can’t think of a reason for Ser Jorah to seek Maester Lymond’s death. House Foote is an ancient line, though Ser Jorah is removed from inheritance by three brothers and a handful of nieces and nephews. With a commoner wife and no real chance at inheritance, his station at House Sunfyre is his distinguishing achievement, his life’s pinnacle.

---

Orwen Umber

Jasper guffaws at your sacreligious japes before squatting down a bit to greet Daella, one hand on his knee and the other swatting at you as you point out his hairline. Daella is a little intimidated at first, but when she sees his smile, she launches into a singsong recitation of her courtesies that builds speed until she runs out of words. “Well-met, Ser Jasper. I’m Daella Sunfyre from Seaholt in the Westerlands. My father is the lordofSeaholdandkeeperoftheancestralbladeSilverfla mebutmybrotherhasitnowandhe’sinthetournamentmaythe summerbringabountifulharvesttoyourlands.”

Just then, the commotion up in the stands stirs your attention. Ser Jasper steps to Daella’s side and claps you on the back as you make your way over to toward the lofted seating for the nobility. The woman climbing the stands is much closer to Myrielle and has the advantage over you in that respect. By the time you reach the bottom of the stands, the two of them are face to face conversing. So far, nobody else has ended up getting disrobed, although you can see that the lady who suffered the indignity is making preparations to leave. You meet Damon there at the bottom of the risers.

---

Ser Damon

You land heavily on the dismount, your armor pressing down on your shoulders and arms as you make your way toward the stands. There’s a loose crowd between you and Myrielle, so you have to pass through them, sliding between big-bellied bakers and fishermen, foul-haired scamp children, and highborn squires alike. A few people clap you on the back, or knuckle their foreheads out of respect for your victory. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how susceptible the common people are to performances of valor--a useful lesson to keep in mind for later.

Finally, you press through the crowd to reach the bottom of the scaffolded risers. Myrielle is seated with three other ladies, engaged in conversation with a ragged interloper in Dornish-seeming garb. You find Orwen Umber beside you a moment later, likely reacting to the same commotion.

---

Danirra

Squinting back, you suddenly notice that the second longship’s men are hardly paying attention to Lady Bold--they’re fixated on the first longship. A moment later, the first longship turns to the north and starts hauling hard for the Iron Islands. It looks like the second longship is attacking the first!

For a minute or two, it looks as though the first longship will escape, but the second manages to close the gap. Squinting hard, you spot a mightily chiseled oaken headpiece on the second ship, a broadchested reaver captain, with gleaming steel armor and hair flowing in the wind . . . when he moves to shout to his men, you realize that it’s no statute at all, but an impossibly huge man.

Captain Tharaquo has noticed the sudden shift in pursuit and comes to your side.The captain has eyes the color of cloudy brown marbles, bronzed skin, and a delicately curled mustache. He always stands to your left, showing the unblemished right side of his face. On the other side, an inky spiderweb spreads from his eye, covering his cheek and jaw. The web is unmarred, save for one piece of prey tangled in the inky threads--a small Volentene cog, just below the eye. As a freedman, the captain could not erase the mark of his enslavement, but he could overmaster it, wrapping it in a design of his own.

“Lady Danirra, they came to save us. Is it the mysterious warrior? Should we turn back and help them or press on for Sea’olt?”

[igordragonian]

[Dannira]

Danirra was conflicted. Ironborn were beasts. No better than wolves and bears. But maybe it were just the Greyjoys?
Could the mysterioyse warrior be an Ironborn? He was, covered with the darkness of The Other.
Danirra said after what seemed to herself as eternity.
"We shall aid our new allies." she said decisively.

[Sahe]

Sera did her best to ignore the handmaidens judging looks. How would they look if they had two days worth of travel on foot in their bones? Actually she was pretty sure that none of these women were tough enough to even make it. Instead she focused her attention on Myrielle, tried to gauge what she was thinking, if she was buying what she was saying, she was the only really important person here.
"Only me...I'm the only one who survived...it was a massacre...the others, the guards, the coachman, the Silent Sisters that where accompanying us, they were all cut down. I would've been killed or worse if not for one brave sister who gave her life to save mine."

There was only a slight tremble in her voice, but she couldn't help a single tear running down her cheek as she remembered how she watched and felt how the life drained out of Alys.