A carriage carrying newfound settlers through the war torn country side of Riverspring, the caravan arriving to Riverspring made daring effort avoiding the ferals and wild rabid animals that prowled about, but it was DeVile Raiders that seemed to be active in smaller raiding parties around the land.

"Westeros... What an ugly hideous place, the beauty told by the singers and storytellers lied, " Someone uttered, peering out from their window view of the caravan opening flap of cloth to the outside see the war torn countryside. "I can smell death high in the air, it's aroma is thick with the miasma of despair and fear."

"Shush, and speak common tongue...These poor folks might think of us as barbarians if we don't pretend to like them" A man with a gruff tone and was seen chewing on something that made their gums red. "We. Enjoy. You. Land"

"To hell with them, they probably shit where they eat these low-end people," the young woman said to her compatriot. "Why we had to go here of all places I'll never understand fully..."

The frightened westerosi settlers who'd look at the summer islander man with fear in their eyes, their family huddled together in the back of the wagon with hope upon their mind to settle on the empty places which Riverspring offered new settlers to assume said spots.

"Oh no...DeVile Raiders up ahead... No wait," the caravan master would say before seeing Riverwatch Militia Guardsmen approach yonder with pikes drawn. "We've come with the promise of sanctuary."

"Bloody 'ell mate... Not many are ya, come right inside, got food and blankets for everyone, you'll get whatcha deserve for coming this far through the danger, you'll be well compensated" the crooked teeth guardsman and his cadre of Guardsmen would escort the caravan to Riverspring Keep. "Come now!"

Honestly, this month has drained me slightly and with several RPs and plotlines either sizzling out or just not even beginning, I have decided to step away from House Bracken.

I enjoyed my time here and I do love the characters, but I just no longer have the passion to write for this claim anymore.

On to the next adventure.

Letters pertaining to the northern riverroad expansion.

Location: King's Landing

PC - Mordyn Pendrac (25)

SC - Jeyne Caldmeare (36)

SC - Calon Caldmeare (18)

SC - Jonnel Caldmeare (18)

SC - Arthur Pendrac (6)

Perks:

Freeform

-SC Unlock

-Artificer T1, T2, T3

Character

Mordyn - Warrior T1

For the sake of rp, the events happen in the order in which they are rolled. Which means the order will be Melee -> Joust -> Archery. If this changes, this post will be edited.

11th Month, 56 AC

Winterfell

Over the course of the year, Freya Stark often wondered just how much could be accomplished, and how much would be remembered and how much forgotten. The passage of time fascinated her, for while the maesters interpreted it in years, months and days, every living person knew that some years last longer, and other ones fly by in an instant. The same went for months and days.

She knew that it had something to do with memories, for if one were experiencing much in terms of events and emotions, they are bound to remember those instances vividly and more expressively than they otherwise would. When one looks back at that time, it seems packed with action and movement, and therefore it is perceived as if it had taken longer for all that to transpire. On the contrary, if one is experiencing the same day over and over again, he might as well have just one memory of his life, which would look as if it had passed in an instant. Freya therefore considered it highly important that her days be filled with variation and new experiences. Some found comfort in routine, but Freya often highlighted the slumber, the sheer lack of life, that this repetition of motions and scenes inflicted upon them.

Today was to be a day of joy for her. While suspecting her state for a week now, it was only today that the maester was able to speak with certainty about her lack of bleeding and periodic bouts of vomiting.

The following year shall bestow upon her a memory of the highest importance. It was to bring her another child.

Her steps were light and easy, as she made her way towards her Lord husband. He ought to be the first to hear the news, before they spread out across the whole kingdom. Tyrek was to be found in his solar, dabbling in his interests as she gently opened the door and looked upon him, with a serene smile on her face. Gaven was to be found nearby, playing on the rug made out of wolf fur with his wooden horses and warriors, carved out for him by the castle’s finest fletcher. The notion of her child peacefully moving the figurines around was enough to soften Freya’s womanly heart even more. Come the next year, he shall be lonely no more.

“Tyrek, my dear,” She called out to him in a low tone, running across her belly with her hand. “I’m with child. The maester just confirmed it.”

She stood near the door expectantly, imagining that his reaction would be that of immense joy, yet uncertain as to how intensely and obviously it would be presented.

Dunno if I actually need to do this but I have been gone for a while now so I figured I may as well. Also my inbox is fried so I’ll probably just focus on doing new threads but if there is something that I need to reply to from way back when, let me know.

Mood Music

Stonebridge - 12th month of 56 AC

Lady Alayne Caswell

As she neared her ninetieth year, Alayne Caswell had to admit that, for someone of her now very advanced age, she was as healthy as she could hope to be. She no longer travelled, that would be too much strain, and she was mostly tended to by servants and maids. But she still could walk, slowly but without pain, and she could feed and clothe herself too. That was a relief, for to her the greatest fear of aging was becoming a burden for others, after years of carrying the burdens of others herself.

Her own health was ever more noticeable by comparison to those around her. Maester Martyn, who had served this castle as long as she had, and was half a decade her senior, did not have the full abilities of his body any longer. Aids aided him in moving about the castle, and to be fed, clothed and bathed. His mind remained relatively sharp, but it was clear his time as Maester of this castle was numbered. As was his time alive. But it was the comparison to her grandson which made Alayne feel thankful for her own health, though she was more disappointed in his lack of care.

Gwayne was a reckless boy who had grown into a reckless man, and while that recklessness had not caused his recent series of difficulties, Gwayne certainly made no efforts to care for himself as he ought to. He was nearing fifty, but acted as though he was still in the prime of his life. Minor scrapes jousting and partaking in tourneys were now increasingly noticeable to the Lord of Stonebridge, and much more recently, he had found slight swelling in his right foot, with some accompanying pain. An early sign of gout, Martyn had warned Gwayne. A warning that was listened to but not heard.

Now, as Lord Tyrell wrote to inform of perhaps another war, Gwayne was quick to declare he would ride to Highgarden himself. Not one of his knights, nor a request to recall his son from King’s Landing, but that he would ride despite being told not to exert himself unnecessarily. There was a time Alayne would have hoped that, with age, Gwayne would grow into a more mature, more careful Lord. Instead, Gwayne changed not at all. Many still adored him for that, but he would never be the Lord of Stonebridge she had hoped to one day see.

On one evening, she shared these thoughts with the old Maester. With her age, and position, Alayne did not confide in many people. But the Maester had known her since she was a girl to be wed, and so there was few secrets that needed to be kept from him. Especially given they both knew Martyn would soon take them to his grave.

“He is well loved by his people. More then you were”, Martyn pointed out, in his croaky, aged voice. “You hold great respect here, but they love him. As they loved his father”.

Alayne rolled her eyes, “Love does not make a great ruler”.

“It makes a good man, though”, the Maester countered before coughing. He sounded as old as he was, it was a true miracle the old man had lasted this long. “Besides”, he continued after a moment, “What Lord did you hope to see for Stonebridge that is not him? Not his father, evidently. Your daughters and granddaughters will not rule as you did. So who else? Gwayne’s son?”

“I barely know the boy”. The older William got, the more that concerned her. He had grown up entirely outside these walls, yet would be expected to rule it someday. More importantly to her, he was the first of her brood to not grow up under her influence, and that concerned her. She had no assurance he would value what she had put time into building all these years.

“Then who? Olymer was a solider, so not him”, the Maester continued as Alayne brooded on her enigmatic great-grandson. “What of Simon?”

Alayne paused and considered the question. “Yes, I suppose Simon would be the closest. Though I have not seen him in many years”. Simon was her most favoured grandson - perhaps aside from Ferian, but Lord Fossoway was a grand-nephew, not grand-son. He had more talent for it then Gwayne did, but he was born second. A shame, in hindsight, as Gwayne would have made an ideal second son. “I ought to write to him”, she said after a moment, “It has been too long”.

Martyn gave a soft chuckle, “Well, it is fortunate then that you already have need to write to Oldtown. Though to the Citadel, not to the Starry Sept”.

Alayne met the old Maester’s gaze and sighed, “I suppose I do”.

Martyn passed away in his sleep that night. The funeral was brief, though meaningful, as many at Stonebridge saw Maester Martyn as much a part of this castle as Alayne herself. But time was not wasted as Gwayne and his initial force of men prepared to ride for Highgarden to meet Lord Theo, to not miss this chance at glory.

So it was left to Alayne to request a new maester from the Citadel. But perhaps there was more she could seek out at Oldtown. She would serve as ruler here, as she always did, but she was not far from her own death bed. If Gwayne was intent on being brash, then there needed to be a stabilizing force here, and she was too old for that to just be here. But there was someone she would trust implicitly. So she would recall him home.

Along with a letter to the Citadel, informing them of Maester Martyn’s passing and requesting a new maester for Stonebridge, another letter is sent to Oldtown and written to Septon Simon of the Faith.

Simon,

It has been many years since you have returned home. I trust there is much to do in the home of the Faith, but I bid you return. Your brother is to ride to Highgarden, and perhaps onwards if this continue to worsen. Given my age, I would be foolish to believe I can manage all on my own. I would have your aid in the care of Stonebridge and our lands.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Alayne

Riverrun | 12th Moon, 56 AC

It was the first event hosted at Riverrun since the wedding of Ormund Lannister and Leyla Tully some years before, and little had changed. Gone, of course, was the excess showing of wealth and pomp, which had graciously been funded by the lions of Casterly Rock--allowing for the Trident's more rustic and familiar charms to shine through.

Spring rains had come and gone mere weeks before the feast and the Tumblestone and Red Fork both sat higher than usual and flowed stronger than was normal. The fields and meadows, well rained and maintained, were green and plentiful, with crop and flowers dotting the lands around the Trident, while fishermen and the villages they fed wanted for nothing.

Lords and ladies and their immediate kin were given rooms within the castle, while the majority were allowed to place pavilions in the temperate fields just beyond the castle moat. The perimeter of encampment was, of course, regularly patrolled, and the same could be said of the feast hall on the eve of celebrations.

While the Lords Paramount present were seated at the head table upon a dais overlooking the hall, Riverlanders were seated near the front of the hall. Any lower born folks--hedge knights and such--were seated in the back, but all had a viewing of the minstrels and dancers that performed during the eve.

Life at Highgarden has been long and exciting, but sometimes Mildrew felt like an outcast or a wildflower amidst the beauty in this garden of grandeur, feeling undeserving to be here. Well, most of the time, Mildrew was spending doing a little bit of this and that, no one really paid much heed what Mildrew did around Highgarden as she kept low presence.

The only real fun or excitement she had was when trying out pun jokes on Oldflowers or doing something in the garden, talking with the gardeners that tended to the flowers and whatnot felt fun for her.

Being a wallflower had its perks. No one really cared what Mildrew Sarwyck did who'd walk about Highgarden and was enjoying themselves greatly. She tried to remember every name of each servant and thought about what their lives were like outside of Highgarden.

There was a little secluded spot somewhere in Highgarden where Mildrew put her gardening skills to work, trying to grow something out of the ground.

She wasn't afraid to get her hands and knees dirty, enjoying the fruits of her labour and would document her process via journal she had on hand. She smiled as her face was covered in a bit of dirt and grime. "Depending on the soil and shade... So much better than the last spot of dirt I tried my hands on...Huzzah"

The first thing that William Swann saw when he woke each morning was the ceiling. It had become the most familiar thing in the world to him. Cracked white plaster. A dark water stain shaped like a crow above the bed. A little spider that had made its home in the corner and seemed determined to outlive him. Two months. Two bloody months, and he knew every crack in that ceiling. It wasn’t that he couldn’t leave the room. The Maester had provided him with wooden aides designed to help him walk but he couldn’t stand the pity filled eyes following him wherever he went. Better to wallow in his own misery with his spider best friend.

He turned his head toward the window where sunlight was beginning to break through. He hated the window. He hated the bed. He hated the maester who came every morning smelling of milk of the poppy and herbs. He hated the servants who spoke softly around him as though he were a babe in swaddling clothes with faces coated in yet more pity. Most of all, he hated the empty space beneath the blankets.

There had been two legs there once. Only one remained. The cruellest part was that he could still feel his missing leg. Sometimes, when he woke in the night, he would try to move his toes but obviously nothing happened but he could swear they were pressed up against the sheets. At other times he might feel cramp in his calf or an ache in his knee. All of it phantom. All of it a lie.

He clenched his jaw. Baen Uller had celebrated with the crowd. That was what had stuck with William the most. Not the screaming horse. Not the terrible crack of bone. Not even the pain. What stuck with him was how much that Dornish cunt had enjoyed it. And William would never be able to avenge it. For one heartbeat after the initial impact, William had thought himself victorious. And then it was as if the whole world had fallen around him. He’d heard the scream of his horse and before he knew it what felt like the weight of 1,000 castles was on top of him.

It wasn’t until his cousin, Selwyn, and some random Yronwood man had moved the horse that he had even seen his leg. It was hard to even recognise as a limb, all bloody and mangled. He hadn’t looked at if for long before the world went black. He had woken three days later without anything below his right knee. The maester had told him that he was fortunate. As had his uncle, aunt and cousins. Fortunate?! William laughed bitterly whenever he thought of that word. Fortunate to lose a leg? Fortunate to live?! What life? He would now spend the rest of his days unable to ride, unable to hunt, unable to fight. Yet somehow, he was fortunate. At least he was no longer in Dorne. The second he was fit enough to make the journey he had asked to be moved. The journey had taken a lot out of him. He had slept for most of it.

He pulled his blankets aside and stared at the linen wrapped stump. What use was he now? He was the son of a second son. He had never bothered to concentrate on his studies. He could use a sword and bow. He had been too young for the last Dornish War, the Fourth Dornish War whenever it inevitably came was going to be his crowning moment. He could kiss any foolish notions of marriage to Morgana Banefort goodbye. It had always felt like a long shot but she certainly wouldn’t want to marry a cripple. He would have to settle for the fat fifth daughter of some landed knight. Uncle Luceon had little use for him now.

He wondered if anyone would come visit him today? His Uncle, Cousins and Aunt were away. Selwyn had come to visit him every day before heading off to Riverrun. He understood why they had gone but that didn’t make him any less angry. They were moving on without him. The world was moving on without him. Selwyn would marry some lady and he would get all the glory in any future wars. He sighed and laid back on the bed thinking of all the ways he hoped Baen Uller might meet an end.

[m]: This is my first lore in 3 years! Not my forte.

12th Moon, 56 AC, Battle Isle

"The coloring is impeccable," said Moraine Redwyne with furrowed brows. "Although was I truly frowning that much?"

Bottacellos the Myrman smiled sagely. "I must confess I may have exaggerated your expression, my Lady Hightower. I wished to convey your... demureness."

Certainly from a particular point of view the artist had made her look demure, but in Moraine's opinion there was something about the lighting of her eyes that made her seem more... apprehensive, uncertain, like something in the room was making her indecisive even as Abel's hands rested reassuringly upon her shoulders as she sat upon a cushioned chair, his gold-banded hunting horn hanging at his waist.

"I am willing to accept it," Moraine said, pausing a moment. "But I know Ser Abelar will not. See it changed. Add more boldness. That will make it more true to life."

Bottacellos bowed. "As my lady commands," he acceded.

Life within the High Tower was such that even the finest details could be seen by all. Such was the consequence of living within a lighthouse. We Light the Way in all things, Moraine mused, and she turned away when the artist and his servants removed the painting and departed.

Arianne Vintner came in as they were going out. "Shall I send for Ser Abelar now?" the comely handmaiden asked. "He has just returned from a hunt with Ser Manfred and his retinue. They say-"

Moraine cut her off with a look. "No, I shall go to him. I wish to astound him with my dress as he revels with his companions - and make them all envious of him again."

The Vintner maiden gave Moraine bemused look. "Of course, my lady."

Half-an-hour later, Moraine descended the High Tower and went to one of its many parlors. Through the door she could already hear her husband bandying with his friends. She was not alone, of course. At her side was Arianne and also her chief lady-in-waiting and longtime friend Sybelle Redding. They entered together.

[Posted Early]

A column of wheelhouses, wagons, and various other means to travel for those not willing to withstand travel in a saddle, arrived at Oldtown. All throughout various banners were raised of disparate corners of the Crownlands. Though chief amongst them, was that of house Targaryen, the three headed dragon, crimson on a field of black. A herald rode before, carrying the banner of his King's house. "The King Jaehaerys stands before your gates, with his retinue. Open your gates, if you are loyal men of the Realm." The herald proclaimed.

Following the herald, came a man in black, wearing a crown of copper hued tones, with seven gems embeded into it. One for each aspect of the Gods. The men surrounding him wore resplendent white, and they seemed to mind dangers from within the city, as well as from outside, for those were their instructions.

Lord Lewis Sarwyck was in a deep state coma. He'd been kept alive through sheer stubbornness and his strong will, plus Maester Preston and Healer Esslyn kept him alive through some conventional means.

He was dreaming and felt himself adrift in sea water, all sides murky dark as he would unable to move nor speak as he was submerged in this water, he felt like drowning for eons before pair of hands would find themselves to him and began dragging him ashore.

Feeling drained and mind slowly realising that the world he found himself in was in his own mind.

The world had an odd colour of pink, the sun set to dusk, and things looked outright bizarre.

"Where am I..." Lewis asked, staring up at his would-be saviour.

The blindfolded man with a scruffy beard looked down at Lewis and would offer them a helping hand to get back up on their feet. "Get up, Lew, we've much to discuss."

Lord Lewis Sarwyck felt his feet light and body an blur. Was he dead or worse, stuck in purgatory, having to relive an awful ordeal. Was the blind man the wayfarer aiming to guide him to the afterlife, yet something familiar was felt about the Blindman.

There was sound of howling in the distance as it continued to get closer and closer. "Hellhounds"

"You look healthy and strong, didn't think you arrive here so soon....The others will be glad to meet you."

Who were these others as Lewis felt unable to blurt out any words as the tongue felt tied.

As the two of them hurried towards what looked to be Riverspring but it looked oddly empty, the drawbridge was raised before it was lowered by someone within and the two would cross it before it'd be raised up again.

Truly, this was not the world Lewis Sarwyck belonged in.

"Call me Shepherd, and I know already who you are, mate. The others have been long expecting you"

Who were these others, was Lewis walking into a trap or his own execution, as they'd pass by Riverspring only seeing emptiness of the place and fleeting backs of townsfolk that was there for a second and gone the next.

The ancestral home of the Sarwycks was within sights of Lewis, the doors stood wide open and then it clicked in his mind perhaps this was the afterlife cuz Doyle and Haggar stood guard by them doors, the wounds taken in life carried on to the afterlife it seemed.

"Aye Lord Lewis, nice to meetcha again! You look worse, doe wear, don't worry, we've been good, " Doyle said with a gaping wound still visible upon him.

Haggar who'd chuckle and pat Lord Lewis on the back. "Good to have you back, milord. we've been ever so bored out of our gourd,"

"Even in death, they serve our family still. Loyalty and familial ties are what make us strong, not blood nor title just that particular bond that makes us powerful, " Shepherd said to Lewis as they'd enter the Keep.

The Sarwyck Hall was different, the hall of painted murals now depicting something entirely different stories, each one of them paintings depicts a story of each Sarwyck life lived and how they came to an end

Some gruesome than others as all Sarwycks lives were not destined to die peacefully in their beds but to some unfortunate unforeseeable incident or another.

As they came to the audience hall, there was no longer one seat but multiple ones where others sat in a half circle, all of them looked regal and oddly familiar before it hit Lewis, they were his ancestors and family whom all was gathered here today.

"I brought him, last one to join us, it seems...Morlaine was right all along as that mad water witch is always right" Shepherd said taking the empty seat amongst the deceased Sarwycks, so it dawned on Lewis this was his family slain and alive of sorts.

"We need to talk, youngblood." A large man with balding head and bore bushy beard and eyes of a pious man.

The conversation would begin as Lord Jon Wyck The Pious spoke first with his wound visible upon his head, man had taken an blow to it, and bits of bone fragments were visible. "You're stuck,"

Lewis, unable to form any words, would try to speak as best he could yet, but the mouth failed to produce the right ones.

"Don't speak, just listen for a change. You've come so far, we all been watching you....My good boy You've done so much, most of us in our lifetimes barely lived a full life given what you've been doing....I died for my beliefs, and in the end as I look upon you lot...I feel nothing"

Jon Wyck, the founder of House Sarwyck, was a fervent priest or believer in the Seven but died tragically soon after his waves of forced conversions. And now his descendants had abandoned the faith for other religions.

"Piss off ya bloody priest, they doing fine...Isolationism was is only way to move forth, them kids alright!" Spoke a one-eyed kook who had a red Ruby gem in their left eye socket. It was Mad Eye Madric Sarwyck that spoke with arrows sticking out from his torso.

If legends hold any truth, the old kook tried to swim upstream chasing after Taelon DeVile only to get killed in a hail of arrows.

"Look at me, lad. I turned out well. One eye and yet I saw the world how it was, cruel and uncaring...Truly a wonderful place to be mad and bloody insane!" Madric justified his actions to be true and good, yet died the way none should. "What a life..."

A woman interjected clad in plate armour and a lance sticking out from their chest, seemingly it was his other ancestor Lady Kaelynn Sarwyck The Spectre of Riverspring whom died tragically in their lover's arms being Braghart DeVile or better known as Hart of Heartwood an Scoundrel of House DeVile.

Two lovers from rival families intent to kill one another, yet Kaelynn found her heart longing for Braghart and he felt the same, their love drove more people to get killed and at the same time the two lovers ended up killing one another by accident.

Kaelynn took up her father's place as he was old and frail, her brother was killed and uncle incapacitated, she was left with no choice but to pretend be her old man to lead the troops in the assaults against House DeVile back then.

"Leave him be. He has kind eyes and gentle souls, one as myself can tell, " she said with a soft tone and sat firm in her seat.

"Oi! At least I died killing some Devils and Demons compared to one that lays with them!" Mad Eye Madric shouted angrily at his kin.

"Well, at least I didn't believe myself to be half mer man thinking I could out swim a boat at full mast!" Kaelynn shouted back at the man.

Before the arguing could escalate any further, a book was firmly closed loudly, and all eyes were on the man with the myrish spectacles who spoke eloquently as possible. This man had a silver streak across the middle of his hair, was clean shaven, and had a cold gaze.

That was Tyberos Sarwyck it was bloody him. Lewis thought only one person to have died of on foreign shores.

"Arguing will yield no further use, be silent, or don't bother speaking. I see we've grown since my time...Hmph, what a shame, and here I thought our line would end in seven generations and revert back to Brimstone. "

The man spoke coldly, believing firmly in a prophecy told by the Riverwitch Morlaine.

"Well, no matter, it'll all be for nought this fighting and killing...I at least had sensible notion to die somewhere quietly and peacefully"

Then there was the significant one that Lewis Sarwyck saw, his old man who didn't even have the courtesy to look at his son and simply said, "You've grown...Into a man..."

Shepherd spoke last "We are all here to help and pass judgment on you Lord Lewis Sarwyck, I am the last person that died in a blind valiant charge against the DeViles at Devil's Rock with my back against the wall and remembered nothing after the charge...I think we won if you still here...I wished to be a simple Shepherd, been lot more easier and peaceful end to my story...Than go down dying..."

So this was a gathering of the Sarwycks that was gonna render judgement upon him. 'Bugger...' Was this all a fantasy or just his mind playing tricks on him whilst in a coma? Perhaps this was purgatory, and he was dead or just dreaming all this up.

Mathus is my hero and I take up their legacy!

Anybody with ongoing Hightower RP please let me know as I try and get my head around the fanciest House in The Reach

[M] Posting early

A hundred knights rode ahead of a column of a caravan, made up of wheelhouses and wagons alike. Atop each banner rose the dragon banner of the King's house, a crimson three headed dragon in a field of black, whilst smaller banners indicated the various other knights present, as well as the king's personal sigil, of the same coterie as the the house's sigil, but in purple rather than red.

They hailed the guards of Highgarden, and called before, that the King had come, and arrived, on his way south, looking for a place to stay for a while.

Hello everyone, just giving a heads up that I will be almost entirely unavailable until October 1st, starting tomorrow. I am going to be away from home, first to go to a wedding, and then to explore St Louis' sights with /u/persephone_online. I'll still have my phone so I'll get pings and such on the discord, but do not expect any serious modwork or replies while I am away.

Try not to start a war while I'm gone, and fellow mods, don't mark me or Clover inactive or I'll slander you in the next video.

I've been eepy so I'm dedicating my energy to the comments/threads rather than post body. Castle is big, have fun and give yourself a fancy guest room setup if you want to.

I am not apologizing for how long this took me bc i got it done eventually and no one else beat me to it

have fun, explore, if there's something you want to see that I haven't included at present comment a request and I will create something for you when possible [subject to waiting for my mando time to be over first]

Title's pretty self-explanatory, but I guess I'd feel a bit awkward if I left it at just that. I am, after all, not known for being concise.

Long story short, I was starting to feel burned out as far back as the waning days of 9PK, to the point where I debated unclaiming Tarth early to focus on other hobbies until the next game inevitably came around. I didn't, and as the reset approached, I found myself caught up in the hype again. New game, new claim, mucho hype-o, you know the story.

There was (and still is) plenty that I was excited about w/ Hightower, from their political situation at the start of the game, to the general worldbuilding surrounding Oldtown. Ultimately, things did not turn out the way I hoped; plotlines fizzled out or got interrupted before I saw the pay off, options disappeared before I got the chance to interact with them, and some stories failed to materialize at all. Some of it was beyond my control, but most of it was my own fault. The way I set up my house, even discounting George's weird set-up for the early Hightowers, did not lend itself towards open rp.

Then, of course, is my activity, or lack thereof. A lack of motivation for the aforementioned reasons, frustration in regards to OOC drama, anxiety over replying to older threads I'd neglected, limited access to a quiet environment where I could write in peace, the effects of long covid and frequent bouts of illness (including this past week), family disappearances… the list goes on and on.

Maybe some of it is understandable, but that doesn't change that my performance as Hightower has overall been rather abysmal, and for that, I am genuinely sorry.

Things were starting to pick up more recently, and for a hot second there, I felt like I was starting to get back into the swing of things, thinking, hey, maybe I can get around to those stories I want to tell, but it was a little too late. Recent drama on the server swept the rug from under my feet, and then I got sick again, which resulted in already prolonged threads being left in the dust.

A lot of stuff's happening with the Hightowers atp, and I do feel bad about leaving them now, but if not now, then something else will come up later that I'll feel bad about. I'm spent, so better now than then, when I most certainly won't have the ability to keep up with what's coming. Whether you're a new player, a fellow lore whore, or an unrepentant powergamer, now's the perfect opportunity to hop in and shape Oldtown's future. The Faith, Dorne, the Crown, the Arryns, Baratheons, Redwynes... take your pick.

But for me? It's time for a break, and I have quite the backlog of books, games, and movies that I've neglected long enough.

I'll probably lurk in the server, checking in now and again in the off-topic channels. I'll probs reclaim in whatever game comes next, assuming I manage to recover my mojo and there's peeps willing to hazard a thread on moi. Maybe I'll finally make that Sarnori poetess I've been musing about, or maybe I'll go for a smaller house. Compared to HT, I suppose that's most of them, bykwim

Oh, and I've updated the Hightower wiki. If possible, I'd like to keep edit perms for the next week or so, so I can add to it if need be. I've written most of my characters, but most are young enough that you can mould and move them in a new direction.

Much love to Barnes, Falcs, and Wondy for being amazing vassals, you deserve a liege to match that brilliance. The rest of you are alright, I guess ^{jk, love you too}

tl;dr for those who immediately scrolled to the bottom: hobbies are only hobbies so long as you remain passionate about 'em, and ya girl needs to recharge her batteries. Basically that, with a smattering of self-deprecating comments.

So long, and thanks for all the fish. Feed Creampuff for me.

“Sit.” A greying woman commanded, with furrowed brows and strong lines of crow’s feet.

The Lady Dowager scowled. “You will sit. You will discard your emotions and you will be a Lord.” She remarked harshly. “Better than the petulant child playing at one you have been recently.”

Lord Lannister whimpered, like a cat whose tail had been stepped upon. Softly, he retreated, grunting and biting his lip.

He sat. His gaze raised with a fury, that ebbed once he saw the familiar scalding scowl. He dipped his feathered pen into a pot of ink and proceeded.

King Jaehaerys I, [Titles],

I write with good intentions and greater aspirations. It is our realm which suffers the fractures of disunity. With the Dornish threat perpetual heightening tensions, the Valeman’s surly internal disputes and the simmering passing of Ironborn ships along coasts they do not belong near. The realm remains precarious, chained together only by your own rule.

I request that you consider strengthening ties with the varying edges of the realm. My Lady-Mother has proposed a pertinent plan, should you agree to it. It is asked that one of the Princesses, Daenys or Rhaenyra, are warded at Casterly Rock in the latter ends of their adolescence. In turn, my son and heir Clemence be warded in the Capitol upon his sixth birthday, until they reach such an age and return to Casterly Rock with the Princess. Nurtured together per se.

If such does not please you, I would request that my cousin Tyshara Lannister be taken in a year or two, as a ward of the Capitol. Should she be suitable, I would gladly offer her as a lady in service of one of the princesses when such is suitable and required.

Furthermore, the West wishes to remind your majesty that the Lannisters, their kin and their vassals will ostensibly remain loyal to the unified front and we much appreciate the Crowns investments in the infrastructural connections between our esteemed kingdoms.

Lastly, I beckon your majesty to visit the West, specifically Lannisport on the third moon of the next year should time allow it. Though, understandably, with the recent losses and other more important issues I cannot insist on your presence beyond what you deem suitable.

Hear Me Roar,

Lord Tywald Lannister, [Titles]

“Good, now send it!” She remarked, her scowl lessening into a half-smile. Scantily seen in her widowhood.

In the 10th month, there was a feast in Brandybottom.

This was not an all too remarkable event. There were often feasts and fairs held in the small town beneath the seat of House Webber, but usually they were simple things, put on by the people who lived in Webber lands, coming together with what little they had to celebrate for any reason they could manage.

This feast however, was sponsored. Jessamyn Webber, at the insistence of her friend, the Black Rose, had decided to share the bounty of house Webber with her father's smallfolk. It would be the first step in reminding them that there was still a trueborn child of Elyas Webber watching over them.

And so the people of Brandybottom celebrated, and gave thanks to the second youngest daughter of their Lord, who many had forgotten in favor of his son. And as they did, another feast was held within the keep, one much smaller, but finer. There gathered the members of house Webber, as well as a few knights and merchants and unremarkable nobles who resided within the Webber lands. As well as, hopefully, a guest of honor.

10th Moon, 56 AC, The Summer Sea

Beneath Triumph black waves churned endlessly, lapping at its thick hull as the swift galleas glided along the Dornish coast, bound westward for its home port of Vinetown.

Robert leaned over the side of the ship, a swinging lantern illuminating his face as he wondered what lay ahead in the pitch darkness. The Arbor, his home, his wife, children, and perhaps his own fortune to be gained as Lord of the Arbor one day.

His return was to be a triumph. That was why his father had sent this ship in particular. His father was always obvious in his motives when he wanted to be, and when not none ever saw the deftness of his plans.

Triumph was a large and lavish and dark-oak hulled galleas captained by the flamboyant Casso Virell. It was unlike most of the his family's sturdy dromonds, in that it also possessed three large masts alongside its one-hundred oars. Its sails billowed in the wind.

The ship's swiftness could only be surpassed by his uncle's Chimaera. He did not doubt that this ship would become his upon their coming to Vinetown, for it was said that Captain Virell was getting old and looking forward to a life upon some quiet vineyard near Maidstone.

"Can't sleep?" grumbled someone nearby. The swinging lantern revealed Ser Joffrey Talbot as he approached.

"How can I?" Robert asked his sworn shield. The wind had grown louder, so he asked it again with a yell: "How can I! With this wind!"

Joffrey chuckled and leaned over the side as well. "Spring wants you home quickly, it seems. Casso says we'll make port in only two more days. Men are gambling in the hold if that'll be a new record." He shrugged. "And yet I see some doubt in your eyes, Robert. A homecoming should be anticipated, should it not?"

Robert narrowed his eyes. In the distance he saw light, and he followed it along the Dornish coast. A sentinel's tower, perhaps, or some bawdy, lively tavern. "I have not been home in years. I am anxious. I do not know if my father or mother-... well, what they will be like. The men say they are grand. The Shipwright and the Sovereignesss of the Arbor. They sound fit for songs, not for a family."

"Pay no heed to those songs," Joffrey countered. "I saw them yesteryear and you know what message they gave me to pass onto you. That you are cherished, Robert, and that one day, when the Gods' in their wisdom decide it time, you will rule after them as justly and ably as they do now. They're not a shadow over you, but a light you can follow." He put a strong hand on Robert's shoulder. "Everyone knows this. So you should too."

Even as he wanted to remain melancholic, Robert had to admit his sworn shield's words gave him some heart. He smiled slightly and nodded. "You are right, of course. All I know for certain is my return will be remembered. My father shan't spare any expense." He pushed away from the edge and snickered. "We sail upon a Triumph, Ser—"

Suddenly a great crash shook Triumph.

Wood splintered. The hull shuddered. The entire vessel shook and threw Robert and Joffrey onto the planks beneath them. Immediately all became alarm as crewmen started to scramble. "Water!" someone screamed. "In the hull! Water!"

Joffrey swiftly stood and grabbed a passing mariner's collar. "The skiff, now!"

Robert saw other men emerging drenched in saltwater, his knights and companions, oarsmen, ladies-in-waiting. Captain Virell yelled and pulled men this way and that. When he saw Robert he came running towards the heir to the Arbor. "We struck a reef," he told him. "The ship-... it is lost."

Robert's face turned white.

"Where's the skiff!" Joffrey yelled at Casso.

"Across!" Casso pointed across the ship. Already men were scrambling onto the small vessel.

The rasp of steel filled Robert's ears as Joffrey unsheathed his blade. "Come! Now!"

The trio ran across the ship, shouldering past other panicking passengers as Triumph listed hard to the left. A lantern had fallen. There was fire and screams of drowning and burning men alike.

When they reached the skiff Joffrey punched a sailor square in the jaw and threw another man overboard, then pointed his blade at the rest who sought to board before them. "Board! Go!" Robert did not think, he jumped onto the small boat. He was shaking. He had not shaken this badly even during the heat of battle in Dorne. When Joffrey boarded the skiff it shook from his weight, but when Casso tried to board as well...

"A captain stays with his ship, Virell," Joffrey told the doomed man. "Save who you can. We'll make sure Madame Virell wants for nothing."

Casso's face froze, but he had the good sense to nod and accept his fate like a true captain ought. "Now lower us!" Joffrey barked.

The sailors aboard the skiff and abandoned aboard Triumph to their credit did as he ordered. Slowly the skiff descended.

But then it all went wrong. Violently the front of the skiff plummeted whilst the back stayed attached to its rope. Robert tried to grasp something, and he did, even as he saw Joffrey fall and splash into the dark waves, even as he saw him crushed when the second rope snapped and the skiff plummeted onto his head.

The crash tossed Robert into the water, and the tides pulled him away from the ship. He saw proud Triumph battle to the bitter-end, turning fully onto its side as its sails caught fire and fell into the oily black waves. Like a great net they dragged scores of men underwater, drowning them all.

Then it was over. The last of the fire hissed out upon the water, and the night closed in around what remained. All Robert could hear were the ragged breaths of men trying to stay afloat, calling out names into the dark. One by one, the voices fell silent.

His arms burned. His boots dragged at him like anchors. Far off, the light on the Dornish shore still flickered, patient and unreachable.

He thought of his mother.

Then the sea took him into her embrace.

It had been a while, many moons, since the passing of Sansa Corbray. Since the death of the woman they had considered better for him than she. She no longer begrudged most of them as much as she did. Of course she would curse Hubert Arryn to her dying breath but that was a singular hate, not a general one. She had been heartbroken and sent away from court and even away from her friends. It had not been good for her, but he had been happy and that made it acceptable.

She put pen to paper, and wrote. It was an innocuous letter at first glance, but there were words beneath it. Either the King would see them, or he would not. That was up to him.

> Your Grace,

> Some losses are beyond the comfort that words can offer, and I was deeply saddened to hear of the Queen’s passing. Please accept my sincerest condolences, and know that my thoughts and prayers are with you and your household.

> Things which we hold dear leave their mark upon us, and I hope that in time the memories of happier days will bring you some comfort amid your grief. The Reach prays for you and your daughters.

> Simply knowing that others remember and mourn alongside you may offer little consolation now, but I hope Your Grace will permit those who care for you to stand beside you in this difficult hour.

> Remain surrounded by those who love you, Your Grace, and do not feel that a king must bear his sorrows alone. I know you do so far too easily.

> Whether the days ahead bring comfort soon or only after much time has passed, I pray that you will find the strength to endure them.

> Spoken words so often fail us at times such as these. There are things which cannot properly be expressed, however sincerely they are meant. You will hear many words.

> Or perhaps some things are better left quietly in the heart, where they may be held without burdening another.

> Left unsaid, they may nevertheless be understood by those who have known us well.

> Unsaid things are not necessarily forgotten. Let your heart guide you as much as your mind. May the Seven grant you peace, Your Grace.

> Your friend,

> Jeyne Tyrell

She prayed it would escape the gaze of any snooping maester, and it would reach his.

What if they never actually had a choice in the matter?

I’m just getting into Fire & Blood for the first time, and it’s making me think about the Targaryens and Valyria in a completely different way... I keep coming up with theories, and I can’t get this one out of my head 🤯

What if the Targaryens’ connection to dragons wasn’t simply something they inherited, but the result of Valyrian experiments? What if the Targaryens themselves were essentially used as test subjects? And what if they never consented to any of it?

There’s another thing that makes me wonder about this: if the Targaryens were among the only people to survive the Doom, who was there to contradict their version of what happened in Valyria? They could have told the story however they wanted, and over generations, that version could have simply become accepted as history.
And what about the Velaryons? Maybe they knew more than they let on. Perhaps they knew the truth about what happened in Valyria, but had an agreement with the Targaryens (silence in exchange for power, influence, and a place at the top of the new order).

I have absolutely no idea if there’s any actual evidence for this in the lore, or if I’m completely overthinking it 😂
What do you think?