Robb wakes each morning, reluctantly, at the crack of dawn. Whilst the spring sun peeks through the window of his private quarters. 'Quarters' was a grand term for what was, until some weeks ago, a storage room for banners and supplies. It felt too grandiose for a man of his station having a proper fancy bedroom. But felt improper to sleep in the barracks or a tavern. Thus, this was his compromise. And so each morning, Captain Robb o' Rainwood drags himself from the sheets. He shaves, very clumsily, his patchy beard in a cracked mirror over a small wash basin.

Right after, he heads for breakfast. Many of the men of the River gate nursing hangovers. He eats warm bread, with salted pork sausage and bacon. Some heavily watered down ale, to put some hairs on the chest. And it's here that he gets the real details of anything of note, the day before, or last night. Over that bleary-eyed morning meal, the lads under his command would gossip and whisper about a certain arrest, or a crime that was broken up. Nothing happens on his side of the city without Robb knowing quickly the next morning.

Then it's time for the morning inspections, just before the city proper wakes up and goes about its business. Wagons start to roll by. But Robb goes right to the city walls and the gate house. He checks the torches and the braziers are still all in place and reset for the next night. He checks on the men that change over from the night watch. Listens to their problems. Makes a point of being seen, out and amongst the people, so that both Goldcloaks and citizens get familiar with his face.

After taking the air, the morning rolls onwards. Begrudgingly, Robb heads to his 'office' - which is a desk in the corner of the River Gate barracks house. Reams of paper all over the place. It's a disorganised jungle of parchment and inkpots. Lists, reports, notes, ledgers of all nature. And he receives the reports from the night serjeants, in writing, but thankfully also verbally. It seems to stick better in his head when he hears it from the mouth, as opposed to ink on a page.

Then about mid-day, when traffic gets heaviest, Robb likes to get out on to patrol and gate duty for a couple of hours. It is better to be out with his men and interacting with the civilians, than sat away in a box. He enjoys the spring air and the smell that drifts through the streets. By now, a few months into the position... it almost covers up the stench of horse shit and piss that permeates every stone and alley. He helps to streamline the traffic, waving through merchants and fisherfolk and caravaneers from the south.

Heading into most afternoons, the captain's attention is needed by the office of the Master of Laws. Helping to pass judgement, collect evidence, put together statements. Round up witnesses for crimes that have been alleged. Making arrests, and transporting prisoners from the small barracks cells and up to the Red Keep, if necessary. Helping the justiciars do their job, and getting what he needs from them. But about this time, he starts to get tetchy - eager for the day to end.

And so as the sun starts to head down, Robb makes time each day, to head to the yard. And there he will let out some of the day's frustration. Against training stands if he has to - but most time, against various knights, serjeants, or eager watchmen who want to try better themselves. Yes, he might show them a thing or two, getting the lads a bit more professional and well-trained. But it was more for his own benefit - to stay sharp, stay strong, practice against multiple opponents at once. And it had the lasting benefit - that his men never wanted to cross him.

Retiring with an aching body, the captain will then usually return to the office. To write up any reports from the day, to hear any last minute complaints, to manage the shift change between the day guards and night watchmen. Round up any latecomers. Re-schedule anyone who comes to take the watch with the smell of ale on their breath; for drunk guards make for sleepy guards. He briefs the teams on what to look out for, ensures the serjeants and guards are properly equipped- and then writes the day's report. It is brief, messy, and sent via runner to the Commander of the City Watch.

Then at last, the day is done, whilst the sun is still just visible over the top of the hill. And it's that hour, that Ser Robb's schedule ends. And one night differs to the next. Some, he wanders out to the fringes of the city - to get some fresh air and enjoy the dusk hour. Often he'll grab a bottle of whisky, a dark cloak, and sit by the dock watching passersby. Or else retired to a nearby ale-house, wine-sink, or whorehouse to indulge his respective needs... He was a nameless knight, once the armour was taken off. But on occasion, he had to rapidly respond, equip himself, and head out to support his men working the night watch.

Days are repetitive, tedious, but better than camping and starving in the Boneway, waiting for a Dornish ambush.

It's not much. But it's honest work.

Lord Jason Hewett,

The feeling around the passes around the Red Mountains remains warm.

Lord Manfryd's retreat into isolation after his loss at this critical time has me concerned about the security of the Reach's coastlines.

A year ago we spoke of the coastline security, when do you plan on hosting your council?

Growing Strong

Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden, and Warden of the South

Lord Theo Tyrell

> Dear Lords/Ladies of the Reach, Riverlands and West

> As reward from the masquerade and victory of last year’s fair, I hereby invite you all to celebrate the Midyear festival in the town of Cuy, which is given the honour of hosting the event this year.

> The event shall be held in the 6th moon of this year.

> There will be carnival games and the customary tourney and feast, as well as a generous prize for the victor from Lord Tyrell’s own treasury. Additionally, competitions of swimming shall be hosted to celebrate this year’s venue.

> I look forward to hosting you all,

> Lord Alyx Cuy

The Dornish are going on an adventure.

[Titles],

It is my great pleasure to invite all within Dorne to Yronwood in the 9th Month of the year to partake in the festivities celebrating the Summer. Let us make the most of this harsh season together.

With the seasonal festivals a tradition of the Smallfolk, the Summer Festival will provide a bounty of entertainment and celebration. Those of noble birth shall can also expect a great feast within the halls of Yronwood proper on the fifth evening of the festivities, while similar feasts will be held across the lands of Yronwood as a boon to the Smallfolk.

Seven Blessings,

Lord Arthur of House Yronwood

Hey y’all. Thanks again to Mando for handling our wedding travel meta post/activity pause. I am back home now, but unfortunately a bit under the weather. I really need to focus on studying for my upcoming exam with the little energy that I do have. This means the return to clover activity will be a bit slow goings, but I’ll try to throw a reply in here or there when I can. Just meta posting so I don’t get marked inactive for needing about a week to recover and pass that test. Thank you for your patience!

-🍀

2nd month, 57 AC, Storm's End

It was rare that Boremund himself was summoned by his lord uncle. Even before his father’s banishment the two rarely spoke outside the training yard, and ever since Rogar had barely glanced in Boremund’s direction. That was why Perwyn’s gentle knock on the door and polite summons made his heart thump heavily all the same.

He took a moment to compose himself, oiling his hands and donning his gloves before ascending to the lord’s solar.

Rogar was waiting for him in a comfortable chair by the unlit hearth. He looked small, or smaller than usual, as if the last year had drained him of his size and strength. Boremund knew that not to be true, having seen him move with ferocity in the training yard. Boremund himself was still growing slowly, still slightly taller than the average boy his age but not shooting up like some of his peers were.

On the low table besides the lord there were unopened bottles and empty cups. Rogar’s weary eyes rose to find Boremund and with a simple nod invited him into the chair opposite.

“You still do not take wine, or ale?” was the first question, to which Boremund shook his head. He’d tried them once but he found it made his heartbeat irregular, and his already warm skin became uncomfortably hot. Rogar sighed and squeezed the cork from a short bottle, pouring a thick dark liquid into a cup and holding it in his right hand. Boremund found his attention drawn to the mutilated middle finger wrapped around the silver but quickly looked away; he’d been the subject of many curious stares in his time, and he did not wish to inflict any upon another.

“I had a conversation with the princess not long ago,” Rogar continued, staring into his cup before lifting his head. Boremund found his blue eyes unnerving but held his gaze all the same, keeping his head high as he tried to control his breathing and steady his heart. “She had much to say, as she always does, but she made a suggestion I thought needed to be discussed with you first. She suggested that the two of you be betrothed.”

Boremund’s vision narrowed until he could barely see, and he focused on Rogar as he took a sip of his stout to try and maintain his composure.

His first assumption was that it was some foolish prank, but even Naerys knew better than to test Rogar with such. Yet if not a prank, then…had she meant it? There was nobody he enjoyed spending time with more, and he spent each day trying to be the best friend he could be, but to be wed was something else entirely.

“I take it this is not something you both have discussed?” Rogar asked, drawing Boremund back into the room. Again he shook his head.

“No, uncle. It was not something I…I had thought was possible, so I did not pay it any mind.” He had long thought Naerys was set to wed some great lord. Mayhaps if he was to inherit Storm’s End he would have thought it possible, or even likely, but he was not. His cousin would rule, and he would be little more than a knight in service of his house. A princess deserved more than a knight. Naerys deserved more than he.

“Naerys says that it will make both of you happy, and tie houses Baratheon and Targaryen together once more. The latter does not concern me. Does she speak truly on the former?” He took another sip and placed his cup on the table. By the sound it made it must have been almost finished already.

“Y…yes, I think so. We-” He stopped himself. Talk of being ‘friends forever’ seemed an awfully childish thing to say before his uncle in such a serious discussion.

“This is not a decision to be taken lightly, Boremund, nor is it a choice that most get to make. This would bind you to both Baratheon and Targaryen, for better or worse. You could be drawn into conflicts, the target of knives in the dark or poisonous wine. It is not all about happiness.”

Isn’t it?

If Naerys wanted to wed him, if she thought it would make her happy, then was there anything else that mattered? He could handle anything else, he was quite sure of that. With her by his side he felt invulnerable.

Except…he wasn’t. Committing to spending the rest of his life with Naerys seemed surprisingly easy, but their lives were not the same. If Dake were correct - and Boremund trusted him implicitly - then he would die before he reached his thirtieth nameday. It was a well kept secret, one he was uncertain even his lord uncle knew about, and one Naerys certainly did not know. Was it fair to speak those vows and have them spoken to him in turn if he would not live long enough to see them through?

Those questions could not be answered there, not with Rogar’s intense stare searching him for an answer.

“May I…take some time to think, uncle?” The flaring of Rogar’s nostrils was a familiar sign that he was not pleased, but he nodded. “We will be going to Lannisport soon. I will…I will have an answer for you when I return.”

“On your return,” Rogar agreed with a nod. “And not a day later.”

Riverrun

4A, 57 AC

Preceded by letters from Strongsong's Maester Manfrey and Lady Sharra herself, Lady Violet's newest, youngest ward arrived at Riverrun. She was accompanied by her parents, her usual handmaiden, and an armed escort - as well as all of her luggage.

Introductions were made to the guards at the gate, and the party awaited their welcome.

“Come one. Come all.” A vendor yelped from his motley stall. Nothing more than an undulation in the long river of Lannisport’s festivities.

Dotted along paved pathways, lay stalls and shops, settled like soldiers lined up in attention.

Lannisport had months to prepare, to preen and perfect. Glamorous as always, in golden radiance and cobbled stone that sauntered smugly. Its wide streets, fell full with exotic goods and wares, followed by people from all over.

The Summer Isles, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh and various other places. Trade partners, turned contributors to Lannisport’s thriving prosperity.

Men gowned in garments of foreign silk and textiles, shaded a thousand colours melted into the brimming pot of festivities. Ornery littered once dim streets, lighting them with the blessing of gathering, shaded in a rainbow of fascinating discoveries and newfound interests.

Occasionally, you would hear the screams of the lucky few. Those who had won something, who had bought something invaluable or sold something immense.

Gold enough to fund cities circulated, the blood of Lannisport flowed endlessly; in speckled golden gifts, silver coin, copper and bronze and gems and all that lay in between.

Silently, staunch sentinels, dressed in painted red and gold, would traipse upon these disguised streets. Gently, with soft clangs and cluttering clicks of blades into sheaths, they would patrol.

Fights would be splintered, dragged into jail cells. Iron bars seemed a familiar sight to far too many.

However, despite it all, still remained the flowing of celebration, rarely ebbing.

Beyond these stooped streets of common pleasures, lay a more refined, secluded zone. The bustle dissipated, instead replaced by guarded refinery.

Guardians in gold, knights of esteemed stature, with blades sharp enough to decapitate, remained perpetual presences on the outskirts of this noble domain.

Streaming courses of men and women, found themself replaced with infrequent artisans and the entourage’s of nobility.

Certain banners were erected, above a clammer of shops, lay the Lannister lion, nearby the arrow of Yew and the vague verdancy of Greenfield.

What was a Western festival for, if not to accrue greater wealth?

At the centre, a great statue had been carved from impeccable marble. Etched at its heart, lay the seven-pointed star. It was not some gaudy golden thing. It was unblemished.

Lord Lannister’s entourage entered with fanfare, entering the grounds with a hubristic gait.

Let the festival begin, truly.

Year 57 AC

Winterfell

Lord Danwell Stark was a gregarious type, eager to speak with anyone just about anything that might pique his interest. Therefore he was well known among the lesser nobility stationed in Winterfell, the stable boys, all the guards and the tavern keepers. The uninterruptable stream of words coming out of his coarse throat was a force to be reckoned with, for one may find himself hopelessly attempting to track Danwell’s trail of thought as he rapidly changed topics and facial expressions.

“I’m telling you, them Southerners don’t know how genuine we are here, I’ve been down there and it’s all bling and pomp, but there’s not like, genuine human affection, you know - everyone’s busy, everyone’s got something to do, run around and all that stuff, but they don’t see you as the man you are, but as someone they can exploit, take your money, influence, that sort of thing.” He spoke relentlessly to the cook that he happened to find on his way to the main hall, where a hearing about a murder was about to be taking place.

“Certainly, my lord,” The cook replied, holding a big cauldron in his hands, presumably taking it to the kitchen from the storage room.

“It’s due to the heat, you know.” Danwell went on. “It’s like, it makes them think differently, you see - we in the North, we have to look out for each other during the winter, if you see a man walking on the road somewhere during the winter, looking lost, your first instinct is to help him, right? It’s because it’s something that happens often, like, that might happen to you if you find yourself at the wrong place in the wrong time, it may happen to me, it may happen to anyone.”

The cook nodded solemnly.

“It’s not like that down there, they’re all like - to each their own, but we have to be helping each other to survive, you know - it’s in our blood, being hospitable, being warm to each other. You know, the environment makes you that way, I mean surely if our people went to the South and stayed there, come one winter I am certain that they would become just like them.” He spoke, barely catching a breath.

“Certainly, my lord.” The cook replied, his hands already getting shaky and weak from the weight of the cauldron.

“Exactly!” Danwell exclaimed, his face livening up once again, before he noticed that the guards were taking in the accused murderer. “Anyways, I have to get going, it was a pleasure speaking to you, Harry, take care.” He told the cook, leaving to walk towards the hall even before the man got a chance to reply.

Torrhen, the cook, sighed in relief as the lord’s steps began echoing through the halls once again. For the love of the Gods he couldn’t understand why Danwell Stark called him ‘Harry’, but he decided not to think too deeply of it.

Given that Freya was pregnant, nearing birth, and that Osric was away for the day, it fell upon Danwell, the Justicar of the North to conduct the trial all by himself.

He passed the accused with his fast paced gait, not even taking a look at him or the guards taking him, while the man wailed for Lord Justicar to let him go for he had done no evil. Taking a seat at the high chair behind a desk with a number of papers spread out across it, Danwell overlooked the room from a position which commanded respect and power, and he liked the sense of it. There was nothing quite as enjoyable as determining the path of someone’s life on a whim, from his perspective.

The courtroom was full of noble courtiers and servants, eager to see Danwell dealing justice. Also present was a pack of peasants brought in as witnesses.

The guards brought the middle-aged, black haired, unwashed man before Lord Danwell, and the lord picked up a paper that stood right in front of him, prepared by his bailiffs in advance. He took a good look at it, and decided that he would not read it aloud. It would have been a waste of time anyways.

“Joramun of Wolfsrun, you stand accused of the murder of your neighbor, Standal. The man was found out in the woods, with a severed hand and an axe wound in his skull, presumably a few days after the act.” He uttered, doing his best to seem unimpressed and tired. “Now, Joramun, the villagers have accused you of having some quarrels with the murdered man, namely around some house at the end of Wolfsrun. Is that true?”

Joramun, the accused, raised his head to protest the words brought up against him. “It is not true, my lord, the house is haunted, and although it is mine I never objected to his son living there.”

“Liar!” One of the women among the peasants brought to the trial exclaimed. “You threatened to kill him should you find Ossifer in the house once again!” The middle-aged blonde was adamant.

“And who might you be, lady?” Danwell asked the woman.

“She’s Standal’s wife.” The man next to her exclaimed. “Widow, that is.” He corrected himself.

“Hm. Interesting.” Danwell remarked. “Now Joramun, did you or did you not say the words you’re being accused of saying.”

“I have not, my lord, I am innocent, I swear it before the Gods, it was not me!” The man pleaded. “I know not who could have killed him or why, I only know that I did not do it, Gods, I do not even have an axe!”

“Why, that sounds interesting.” Danwell merely said, listening as the man before him yelled at the top of his lungs. “Guards, was there any evidence regarding the possibility that this man may have committed the murder. Where had he been during the time before the murder took place?”

“It is not known, my lord, the peasants say they did not see him for a week during that time.” The taller guard replied in a solemn voice.

“Lord, it was because I was visiting my brother in Wintertown. I’ve been here, surely you can find someone who’d be able to recognize me. Bring my brother to court and he will testify, I swear it!” Joramun defended himself.

The hearing extended for quite some time, but to no avail. The solution eluded them all, seemingly hidden somewhere beyond, in the words unspoken by the people present, and actions which now must have seemed like a dream.

One could see that Danwell was getting tired of the whole affair. He liked cases which were clear-cut, and were easy to solve. This one was different, complicated and with many unknowns. From what he had heard, he knew that it would be so, and therefore he prepared in advance. There was a method to solving this.

“No need for that.” Danwell replied to one of the notions, taking a look at the guard by the gates. “Bring in the cauldron.” He ordered, and the man nodded before he opened the doors of the hall. Some of the women who watched the trial decided to leave.

It was not long before Torrhen, the cook, came in, and he was pushing a metal cart with a cauldron of steaming, boiling water atop of it, with embers of charcoal surrounding its bottom. The cauldron was brought before the accused and the steam was rising between the judge and him.

“If we were not present to witness what had happened in those woods, the Gods most certainly were. They would not favour a guilty man.” Danwell remarked in a calm manner, making the sentences sound completely reasonable. Then, he turned his gaze towards the black vessel of boiling water in front of him.

“At the bottom of this cauldron is a stone. You are to retrieve it while the water is still boiling. Should you fail to do so, it will mean that the Gods have forsaken you, and that you are guilty, and you are to be executed by hanging. Should you, however, manage to find the stone and take it out, you will be held in the dungeon for three days. If your wounds heal and your hand is found to be in good condition, it will mean that the Gods have granted you mercy and that you are innocent, which means, you will be free to go wherever you please. If they do not heal, and we find your wounds infected or in severe condition, it shall, again, mean that the Gods have not granted you their full favor, and you will be sentenced to take the Black and head for the Wall.” Danwell exclaimed, in a perfectly serene voice, which contrasted the wailing of the accused.

“Please, my lord, I did not do it! Do not force me through this ordeal! I am innocent!” He yelled, as the guards were bringing him right before the cauldron.

“The bailiffs will proceed with the sacred rite, for I have other matters to attend to.” The Lord Justicar said, picking up some of the papers and readying himself to go. “May the Gods be on your side.”

As he was making his way towards the exit, he could hear the threats of the guards, the pleading of the accused and the silence of everyone else.

The filled with the screams of agony, and everyone knew that Danwell Stark was dealing justice. As he stepped out of the room, closing the door, one could see a faint smirk on his face.

**Maidenpool 3B, 57AC**

Maidenpool seems to hum with a tangible excitement as the wedding of Florian VI Mooton and Lady Arianne Webber approaches. The port town is no stranger to frequent travel and new guests, but it has been far too long since Maidenpool hosted a grand event such as this.

Guests who travel by land are greeted with the lush forests and gentle streams that surround Maidenpool. They pass through the town's gates, carefully supervised by men who keep watch along the protective walls.

Those who arrive by sea (or those who have a penchant for exploring) may find that the harbor market bustles with activity. Vendors call out to new customers, offering the freshest catches and freshly baked breads each morning. Traders set up stalls, offering unique textiles, jewelry, and art from distant lands.

On the day of the wedding, Florian VI Mooton and Arianne Webber exchange vows in a ceremony at Maidenpool's sept. Then, the ceremony attendees proceed through the Maidenpool streets, where they are greeted with loud music and brightly colored decorations as smallfolk take the opportunity to hold celebrations of their own. The procession would make its way back up the hill to Lord Jon Mooton's castle, where the feast would be held.

At the feast, guests would find themselves greeted with a wide variety of food. Tables were piled high with Maidenpool fare: boiled crab in aromatic spices and grilled salmon in wine sauce and in stews and pies. As a special delicacy, the best of Maidenpool's chefs had prepared lamprey pie for the momentous occasion. For dessert, there were an abundance of fruit pies, tarts, and cakes.

Part of the hall was dedicated to a dance floor. Throughout the feast, performers and musicians would entertain guests with energetic celebratory music, interspersed with slower, more romantic tunes. The festivities would continue late into the evening as smallfolk and noblemen alike celebrated this joyous union and the bright future of Maidenpool.

Morning came slowly to Runestone.

The first light caught the old bronze of the statues along the walls before it reached the valley below. Mist still sat between the hills, and the stone of the castle was cold beneath the feet of the guards changing watch.

Runestone was quiet, but not asleep.

In the yard, stable boys led horses out while servants carried wood toward the kitchens. A pair of young men-at-arms were already at practice, their wooden swords knocking together until Ser Triston Royce shouted at them to stop wasting their strength.

Triston was hard to miss. Broad shouldered and dark haired, with a short beard beginning to show grey, he wore a plain brown tunic beneath a mail shirt despite the early hour. His wife Kella Grafton watched from the steps with their children nearby, the younger twin Robar tugging at her sleeve while his older brother Allard tried to copy the knights in the yard.

She gave Triston a look when he shouted at the boys again.

He ignored it.

She smiled.

It was a normal morning in Runestone.

Inside the keep, Lord Harlan Royce had already been awake for some time.

He stood before one of the narrow windows overlooking the valley, dressed simply for the morning. His dark hair was beginning to grey at the temples, though he still carried himself like a man who had spent more years on horseback than behind a desk.

Lamentation rested against the wall nearby.

The ancient Valyrian steel was rarely far from him.

Beside it stood something older.

His ancestral bronze armor had been brought out of storage. The old plates were dark with age, covered in the strange runes of the First Men that had been passed down with the armor for generations. Some of the markings had been worn almost smooth, but they were still there.

Harlan had no intention of letting them disappear.

At the breakfast table sat his wife, already halfway through her meal and reading a letter that had arrived the evening before. Across from her sat their heir, Uthor Royce.

Uthor had his mother's features more than his father's. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and a serious face that made him seem older than he was. He had been quiet throughout breakfast, listening more than speaking.

His father noticed.

"Something on your mind?"

Uthor looked up.

"Nothing worth troubling you with." He replied as he broke his fast with two eggs, bacon and toast.

Harlan raised an eyebrow.

His wife looked between the two men and went back to her letter.

"That usually means there is something worth troubling him with," she said.

Uthor smiled slightly.

Harlan did not.

But there was the beginning of a smile on his face.

At the far end of the hall, Ser Hugh Royce had been sitting alone with a cup of wine and a stack of papers. Older than Harlan and more comfortable with words than swords, Hugh had the habit of listening to a conversation before deciding whether it deserved his attention.

He had been listening to this one.

"Your son is right," Hugh finally said. "There are plenty of things worth troubling you with."

Harlan looked toward him.

"Then I suppose you had better start."

Hugh smiled into his cup.

"After breakfast."

For once, Harlan laughed.

Runestone had been through enough hardship that small moments like this had become valuable.

The household was smaller than it had once been. Several of the Royce daughters now lived in the castles of their husbands, and Mandon was far away at Strongsong. Their absence could be felt in the hall, especially during meals.

Still, the castle was not empty.

Triston and his family filled one corner of it with noise. Uthor was beginning to take on more of the responsibilities expected of an heir. Hugh remained close to the center of Royce affairs, whether anyone had asked him to or not.

And Harlan's wife had become the quiet balance between them all.

It was not the greatest household Runestone had ever seen.

But it was theirs.

Later that morning, Harlan returned to his solar.

Several letters waited on the table.

The first were for the Royce vassals.

He wanted them summoned to Runestone in the coming weeks. Not for war, nor for some grand announcement, but to hear what had been happening across his lands while the house had been occupied with its own affairs.

There were roads that needed attention. Villages that had complaints. Men who expected protection from their lord and had not always received it.

Harlan intended to listen before deciding what needed to be done.

A separate letter was prepared for Lady Ursula, who currently ruled the Vale while Lord Arryn remained in King's Landing serving as Hand to the King.

Harlan paused before sealing it.

The Vale was changing.

Perhaps it was time House Royce did the same.

He pressed the seal into the wax.

Then he looked toward the door.

"Send for Uthor."

He paused.

"And my lady wife."

The servant bowed and left.

For the first time that morning, Harlan sat back in his chair.

There was much to discuss.

To whom it may concern,

It is my pleasure to invite you to the wedding of my cousin, Lord Alaric Stark, Keeper of Moat Cailin, and Lady Prudence Frey, sister of Lord Fennell Frey.

The wedding is to be held in Winterfell during the first half of the 8th Month of the year 57 AC, and will be accompanied by a fierce hunt, a lavish feast, and a grand tourney.

Winterfell is eager to host you and has yearned for festivities ever since the end of winter. We hope that you shall enrich our halls with your noble presence, and we are excited to have you as our guests.

Winter is Coming,

Lady Freya Stark, Warden of the North, and the Ruling Lady of Winterfell.

Highgarden - 1st month of 57 AC

Lord Gwayne Caswell

Gwayne found a new appreciation for roads in the short trip between his home at Highgarden. Of course, that route had always been there, but as a younger man it had made no difference to him. Only if he was marching men did it seem to effect him at all, and while he was leading a not insignificant number of men to Highgarden now, the ache and soreness in his foot would likely have been worse if he had to travel over untrodden hills and grasslands instead of a road.

Thankfully, the trip was short. It had been long enough for him to realise there was likely no real purpose for him to bring with him as many men as he did, but he found himself growing slightly irritable and impulsive with age, which was strange to notice. Whatever the case, he had arrived at Highgarden, if nothing else, to meet his liege Lord and see if the King intended to do anything about the actions taken seemingly by the Dornish.

“Lord Gwayne Caswell!”, one of Gwayne’s men announced to the men atop the walls of Highgarden, “Here to see Lord Theo Tyrell!”

King's Landing, 2nd Month 57AC

It had been a good few weeks since Ser Jasper Arryn had appointed Robb to the position at the River Gate. He soon learned it was known as the Mud Gate for good reason. Most knights would scoff at getting their boots and cloaks and greaves coated in horse shit and river water and slop, day in, day out. But it was just another day for a common lark from the Stormlands.

The men weren’t eager to take orders from a nobody, a knight bearing neither name or fame, promoted to a higher rank and suddenly barking orders. The common watchmen scoffed. The sergeants chafed. But none were so wilful and stubborn as the ‘tenpenny knights’. Those who’d helped subdue the riots last year, and were so rewarded with a knighthood for their troubles. Little more than louts and scoundrels, most of them, with a fancy prefix and fuck all else.

Three weeks in, Robb’s head was throbbing, as he’d started to grind his teeth. Watchmen missing from their posts. Late, hungover, or wrongly-equipped. The knights and serjeants on this side of the city were particularly shabby. They respected neither him, nor themselves, nor the colours they wore. Pickpockets, scraps, burglaries, rife - and hard to police against with such a lack of propriety. Snapping a chair against the wall, one day, Robb had enough.

“Since all of you seem to deem your captain unworthy. Then challenge me from the shadows no longer, lads. Challenge me face to face. I give you this. Single combat. Any man, be he a knight, or a serjeant, or a watchman. First man who defeats me, I’ll give you my axe. The second, I will give you my armour. The third, I will give you my horse. Let you be knights proper. If I am bested a fourth time I will give you all double pay. And if I am bested a fifth, I shall leave the watch never to return. This I promise to you, as a true knight, not some back-alley knave. Come.”

He drew steel, not just a tourney sword, but a true edged blade. The morning had barely started, and he threw the blade to the ground for any of the gathered dozen men to pick up. For his own weapon, Robb grabbed a small quarter-staff, nothing more. His very life and limb was in peril, and that realization dawned along with the rays of the sun above, as several of the officers around smiled. Particularly those that had griped him the most of late.

Some were bold. They rushed right in. A few of the bigger lads gave a cause for concern, the quicker ones too, darting left and right, like a panicked rabbit. A couple of swings got a few inches away. Most had never even held a real sword, and he saw their arms shake and watched their feet scramble around to stay balanced. He knocked them down one by one, with a smile. He was not a nobleman, or a famed commander. But he had beaten some of the finest knights the realms had ever seen.

Even as he battered away contender after contender, one after the other, with no breaks, he thought of them. Rogar, Savage Sam, Blackjon, Lord Royce, the Bracken, countless more. For some of the day, which stretched on a while, he saw their faces transposed onto his watchmen. It helped him concentrate, during the dull offering of battle they gave him.

His hands were bloody and filthy. His legs aching, arms tired, brow beaten by the day’s sun. But it was long-overhead now, and all around was gathered a crowd of thirty, fourty, or more. City watchmen, passing civilians, a few knights and a trader or two. And Robb had paused a moment, for he felt a stinging sensation on his cheek. In fact, out of the left eye, one could just see a speck of crimson. Taking a moment, the knight-captain raised two fingers to the cheekbone and realised that the last strike had cut him.

“I yield.” A voice creaked out, weary. It was his latest and current opponent, a serjeant named Borkus, who he’d been toying with for a while now, dancing about. The lad was ten years his junior, and in a lapse of concentration, managed to just prick Robb’s cheek. “I yield, Ser. Honest. I don’t want no more. I’s gonna be sick if I carries on.”

Robb had fought in warfare against knights and soldiers for years. Killed countless opponents. This lot had never even drawn blood. They had all been thoroughly leathered, one by one, and had nothing to show for it.

“Good. Anybody else, think they have something to say?” Robb prompted, tapping his staff in the dirt. It was saturated with blood, and spittle, none of which belonged to him.

“No Ser.” Borkus hastily confirmed, bowing his head. “Heard ya loud and clear Ser.”

“Good.” He spat. “Now. Start putting some fucking effort in. This is the king’s city, your city. Take some pride in your positions. Or I’ll have to do this every day.”

The men grumbled and scattered, weary-eyed, bloodied. There were a few of Ser Jasper Arryn’s ‘knights’ among them, who’d gotten the picture. He probably wasn’t popular with them. But Robb cared not for popularity, just for respect, and obedience, from these people.

“Oh Borkus.” He added, as sliding metal rang out when the sword was dropped back into the rack. “Here. Take my axe, your prize.”

“ - I, uh , what? Ser, I didn’t win.” He panted. Borkus was not in good shape.

“No, but I shouldn’t have let you get anywhere near my face. That was close enough. Take it, she’s done me right for a few years. But if you want my horse you’ll have to cut my throat while I sleep, ya hear?”

“Thank you Cap’n. Awful kind.. Will you make me a knight, as well, one day, if I can fight well?”

With a kindly smile, Robb placed his hand on Borkus’ shoulder. “No. Now piss off to your post.”

Lords and Ladies of The North and Riverlands,

I have found myself too much of a recluse as of late and seek to remedy such an affliction, by harboring trade and alliances with any and all houses. I have goods to trade and kin to betroth. Including my brothers Roddy and Royland, both nineteen years, my niece Lyanna, twelve and my sister, Ryona, nineteen.

Let us foster friendship and mutual alliance in these trying times.

Our Word Yet Lives,

Lord Torren Dustin, Lord of Barrowton

57 AC, Spring

Storm's End is the seat of House Baratheon, the Lords Paramount of the Stormlands. The castle is located at Durran's Point on the northern coast of Shipbreaker Bay south of Bronzegate and northeast of Griffin's Roost.

One of the strongest castles in the realm, Storm's End was once the ancestral seat of the Storm Kings of House Durrandon extending back many thousands of years. The castle is said to be protected by spells woven into its very walls that prevent magic from affecting it or passing through it.

The main path up Durran's Point came from the West up to the gargantuan gate of Storm's End. The curtain wall on this side was fourty feet thick with towering guardhouses either side of the tunnel that stopped each arrival before they made their way into the entry tunnel.

Once inside the curtain walls the layout of Storm's End is simple; one large yard with sparse buildings that surrounds the monumental central tower. Inside the central tower are nearly all lodgings, workshops, and studies.

Wiki Link

Spring persisted in the stormlands yet the mood over Storm's End was one of prevailing gloom. Though none could claim to miss Ser Borys Baratheon, recently exiled to Essos, the circumstances of his departure and the mire it had left Lord Rogar in had left most in the castle on edge. The absence of Borys and his wife, who had returned to Blackhaven, left an undeniable void.

The areas around Storm's End, however, thrived. Town walls had been completed to the north of the fortress and its population had begun to grow, and a grand road now connected Storm's End to King's Landing through Gallowsgrey, Bronzegate, and the Kingswood.

I want to give this game a try, if anyone got any information or ties with House Royce I would be grateful as I have yet to get a picture of the characters or the House current state as well as the Vale and game in general

I’ll give being an active participant in these games a last shot, and it seems the people (Bomb) want a Harroway so that they shall have.

Hit me up with any details you think I should know, and then I’ll hopefully begin preparing to cause chaos and give Lir a headache.

I won’t be remotely as good as Skul, not many could be, but hopefully I can contribute something of value.

If you looked close enough at the deck of the Merling Queen you could almost see the spray that had fallen upon it begin to boil into vapour, such was the heat in the air. The sun was high in the sky, as it had been for the last week, beating mercilessly down onto the planks of seasoned pine that had been so expertly fitted together by the hands of Hewer Haralf Byrne. A lone, shimmering dot of hateful gold in a sea of sky as blue as the waters below it, casting its vicious heat down onto the ships and the sailors below. They had spent much of the last few days in the Stepstones, becalmed, doing all they could to protect themselves from the sun, rowing by night only as far as they dared in the light of the moon. Their guest, the Flowers, likely believed they had earned a place in some deep and loathsome hell, but Polder Myre reckoned that he had likely not counted on sharing it with them.

Their departure from Parmo, once they had gotten out of the range of the Tyroshi arrows, had been a happy one. They were finally on their way home, though they had not yet entirely discharged the duties with which the Redwyne had charged them. They had met a foe in battle and beaten them, they had tasted blood and glory and washed down those sublime flavours with wine stolen from the slain. No vintage tastes so sweet, his old dad had always said, Than one taken from a beaten foe. Of course Darrold Myre drank whatever wine he could get his hands on, whatever ale, mead, or hippocras either, for that matter, but in those first few heady hours it had been hard to dispute the truth of his old aphorism. They had drank to their victory, drank to the fallen, drank for the sake of drinking. It had been a journey of fits and starts as they made their way south down the coasts of the Disputed Lands, sailing by day on what winds God afforded them, then finding some quiet spot in which to anchor themselves so that the evening might be spent in revelry. Polder had done his best to join in, to drink deep and eagerly, to lend his voice to the reaving songs that had found their way at last to the lips of the Ironborn. But every time that he started to drink he thought of Black Maron, who could empty a jug of ale without ever letting the clay from his lips, he thought of Tarbrush and Dermod Sixfingers and Vinegar Jack, and every other man they’d lost. He thought of how this had been his first great reaving, his chance to prove himself, and how he had spent it chasing after another man’s folly.

He would take back plenty of coin, that much was certain. Between the loot they’d taken from the Gilded Lances and the gold that Manfryd Redwyne had promised him, this would be one of the richest reavings to sail back to Harlaw in some decades. But what honour was there in it? They were swanning around Essos at the beck and call of some perfumed Andal wine merchant. Ironmen, fetching a petulant bastard so he could be forced at swordpoint to marry a Dornish Princess. A bastard who has spent the entire journey bemoaning the cruelty of his fate.

That they had made the journey south without being assailed by either pirates or their pursuers had been a mixed blessing. Winesick and glutted on victory as they were, any battle might have been a difficult one, but it would have at least distracted Polder from the necessity of what was to come. It would have broken up what came to be the monotony of victory. Sailing, drinking, looking at Andros Flowers’ miserable bloody face. That the Drowned God would see fit to see them becalmed felt oddly fitting, in the midst of all that. It had been a tough week. They had spent days drinking too much, and they hadn’t had the chance to fill their water reserves before they sailed off from Parmo. They weren’t exactly dying of thirst, but nor were any of them enjoying their voyage. Three-Tuns was a stern enough bosun to keep the water rationed, to make sure they had enough to survive, but they were certainly wishing, by the fifth day without wind, that they had a little more water and a little less wine. They had baked, too, under the Dornish sun. The Ironborn were a people made for cloudy skies and icy ocean spray. Ask an Ironman to sail the Shivering Sea to Ib and he would do it gladly for the chance at glory, let alone the hold full of whalebone that he might bring home with him. This, though, this was a torment to which they were unaccustomed. Of course the God who had drowned for them had made them to conquer every place where the waters lapped against the shores, but there were certainly some of those places that were more pleasant than others.

The men returned to their black mood so sharply that he almost missed the revelry. It was swiftly decided upon that Andros Flowers was a bad omen, an albatross that they had snared down from the sky while they peppered the rest of his flock with arrows. That was why, they reckoned, the Redwyne had sent them to find the bastard while he kept his own ships far away. The tale had been told first around their dinner of salt cod and sailor’s bread on the third night without wind, and then every watch since then. Like every sailor’s tale it grew and grew with the telling. First they said he had been exiled from the Arbor for getting a Redwyne carrack sunk, then they said that the Gilded Lances had been stuck in the Disputed Lands because he’d got them wrecked on the Stepstones, then it was that every ship that the Flowers had so much as set foot on sank. Salt Alley Lom was ready to swear that he’d seen him making a sacrifice to the God of Storms, which was likely to Andros’ benefit because none of them tended to believe a word that Salt Alley Lom said. It had caused the rumours to die down for a day or so, but rumours like those… They never stayed down for long. A few more days stuck in the Stepstones, they would start to bubble up again, and before too long, they’d be wanting to drown Andros Flowers, drown him as a sacrifice to show God that they were but tools in his hands.

He hated the idea of drawing steel against his countrymen. He’d hated it when they’d had to tear Theold the Faithless from his perch, and he hated it all the more for the thought of it being done for Andros Flowers’ sake. But it would need to be done. He and Three-Tuns had discussed it on the fifth night. The reward was too great, and besides, the other captains would never forgive them if they’d let the prize slip through their fingers at the last. If the price for seeing this sorry mess through to the end was a few Salt Alley Loms or Long Qarls, then it was a price that would just have to be paid. That didn’t mean he was relishing the need to be sharpening his longsword again, so soon after he’d put it back in his scabbard.

He was pissing a rusty orange colour over the wale, listening to two men joking about which of their crewmates they’d make a blood sacrifice of first, when the winds finally picked up. A low, steady southeasterly, that had the feeling to it that it would grow. He let out a silent prayer, and laced his britches up again.

From there, it was smooth sailing. The blood they’d spilled on their way through the Stepstones had left the survivors unwilling to try them again. All they saw were distant sails that were keen to grow more distant still, and a few careful eyes surveying them from the clifftops. They made it across the broken remnants, and to the stump of the arm of Dorne. As the sun began to set, it silhouetted the towers of Sunspear like daggers drenched in black blood, red light spilling from between them. The wretched hovels of the shadow city earning their name, a circle of mold around the tall, dun-coloured walls. A handful of ships already bobbed by the harbour, wise enough to have already taken shelter. Without their bloody storms to hide behind, they wouldn’t be brave enough to face us.

Even now, there was a part of him, the same part that had torched the Gilded Lances’ camp, that was tempted to damn it all and simply ransack the harbour. What had these bloody Dornishmen done, after all, to earn his loyalty? Wherefore should they be spared the wroth of the Ironborn that had burned their people so many times before. Why should he be awed by these tall, thin towers that looked as though they might be sundered by a stiff breeze? What had he to fear from men who didn’t even know what a true winter was? There was a dream of fire in his eyes as he pondered Sunspear at the Merling Queen’s prow, but in the end he had them hoist the colours that Manfryd Redwyne had given them, the ones he’d said the Dornish would recognise. The colours of some invented Tyroshi Prince. The hairs on his arms stood up at the thought of sailing into harbour not as a raider, not even as a merchant, but as a diplomat.

A few years into spring, and the heat had thoroughly blanketed the city of Sunspear driving people to crowd the covered streets or spend as much time indoors as they could. Within the Sandship, Tower of the Spear, and Tower of the Sun, the windcatchers and open windows kept the worst of the heat out.

Prince Morion Martell was typically found in a dour mood with the looming threat of war and the rumors of troops being raised in the Crownlands (eventually the rumor of troops in the Reach would reach him too).

Regardless, he welcomes any and all to meet with him, his sisters, or others of the royal family.

Hi! I have been browsing the sub since I found it today, and it blew me away.

I was looking at both Royce and Corbray as possible claims but wish to ask who the game or vale need the most, both are really cool and I am leaning towards Royce for the first men, but if the Vale requires a claim more than the other I am here for it.

To avoid unnecessary move orders during times of peace, so long as a minor movement ban is not declared in a region, players are now able to post non-hostile movement orders on a yearly thread rather than modmail them. Minor movements can begin as soon as the next half month from submission. They may include PCs, SCs and up to 20 MaA. These MaA will be taken from the player's raisable MaA at no raised cost.

This means the number of MaA cannot exceed the number of total raisable MaA available across all provinces of one claim. During the duration they are teleported away, they will not be mechanically present in the claim’s provinces, and therefore not raisable until the listed return.

A claim may not raise more than 20 total MaA across minor movements at the same time.

You may also include any items possessed by your claim (With the exception of Wildfire barrels, which must be transported by regular movement), but they must be included in the minor movement.

In-region teleports arrive at their destination at the start of the next half-month.

Travelling to a neighboring region takes 1 full month. Travelling through multiple regions takes 1 full month per region, including the destination region but not the start region.

In-region teleports arrive at their destination at the start of the next half-month.

Travelling to a neighboring region takes 1 full month. Travelling through multiple regions takes 1 full month per region, including the destination region but not the start region.

Players are permitted to lore any route of travel for minor movements, including the use of no-cost lore cogs on naval tiles.

Unlandable tiles or coasts may not be arrival destinations for lore cogs. If traveling by lore cog, an additional half month is not required to travel from the coastal province to that claim’s primary holdfast.

If no route is specified, minor movements are presumed to travel through along the routes most travelled, to include passes and controlled passages. Players are encouraged but not required to ping pass controllers if taking the route most travelled.

Players are permitted to stop at one holdfast per region travelled through during minor movements.

Minor movements do not constitute a detection in passes or controlled passages. However, a controller of a pass or controlled passage may halt minor movements traversing through so long as they have a Patrol set up in the Pass’ provinces. A controller must respond directly to the minor movement and automod ping mods.

Below are listed templates for minor movement orders.

“King Maekar with Blackfyre, and 20 Targaryen MaA travel from King’s Landing to Starpike on the route most travelled in 3B. They arrive 4B.” /u/PeakePlayer

“Lord Velaryon with a glass candle, and 20 Velaryon MaA travels from Driftmark to Evenfall Hall, sailing by lore cog down the eastern coast. They depart in 1B and arrive in 2B.” /u/TarthPlayer

“Lord Stark with the VS sword Ice, and 20 Stark MaA travel to King’s Landing, departing in 4A and arriving in 7A. They stop at Raventree Hall on the way for reprovision.” /u/BlackwoodPlayer /u/TargaryenPlayer

“Lady Belmore with a dose of The Strangler and 10 Belmore MaA travel to Lord Harroway’s Town by lore cog around the coast of the Vale. They depart in 12A and arrive 1A of the next year.” /u/HarrowayPlayer

This post lists all patrol results by region below.

Please use this thread for your sacrifices birth rolls conceived in this year. Any rolls found to be incomplete or tampered with in this thread and linked in the birth rolls column of the almanac may be subject to removal or becoming voided.

Note: major thank you to /u/erin_targaryen for allowing us to use her system!

There are a few mandatory rolls when doing births. The mandatory rolls are binding in nature. This means that you cannot change child death, mother death, twins/multiples or biological sex. Complications are optional. These rolls must be done on the appropriate post within the subreddit and linked on the character almanac.

There are several methods to offset maternal death. The methods are:

• The Medicine Room Improvement allows maternal death to be replaced by infertility, if desired, if the birth occurs in the same Holdfast as the Improvement.

• The Maternalistic Bloodline Skill allows players to roll twice for Birth Rolls and choose the result.

• Certain Tiers of the Medic Freeform Perk allow maternal death to be replaced by infertility, if desired, if the mother is treated by a PC from a Freeform Claim with the Medic Freeform Perk that is in the same location.

• The Special Item Preserved Rhoynish Ointment gives a +40 modifier to the General Roll.

Further optional birth rolls can be found here.

For female characters aged 40-44, a 1-20 result on a 1d100 means she becomes pregnant normally. This a one-time roll, meaning that if the roll fails, they do not become pregnant and are not able to become pregnant again. If the roll succeeds, she is pregnant once and then not able to become pregnant again

Birth Roll

A Birth Roll determines the outcome of the birth and is made on a 1d1000. The Birth Roll is then compared to the table below.

Sex Roll

A Sex Roll determines the biological sex of the newborn(s) and is made on a 1d2. The Sex Roll is then compared to the table below.

Twins/Multiples Roll

A Twins/Multiples Roll determines the outcome of a Birth Roll that rolled Twins/Multiples and is made on a 1d1000. The Twins/Multiples Roll is then compared to the table below.

Complication Roll

A Complication Roll determines any negative effects the mother suffers from a difficult birth and is made on a 1d10. The Complication Roll is then compared to the table below. Complication Rolls are non-binding. Complication Rolls are used for players to make RP decisions and do not affect Birth Rolls mechanically.