Winds of Winter: Whispers in the Vale (IC)

[heretic]

Banion
Sisterton

You awake to the sound squealing pigs, with midday’s rays casting narrow beams of light through the gaps in the walls and ceiling. By now, the smell of the barn—stable? sty?—has so permeated your clothes and effects that you barely notice it. Down below your raftered nest of hay and tattered blankets, the innkeeper’s boy is just finishing emptying a bucket of slimy fish guts and rotten vegetables onto the earthen floor, surrounded by scrabbling pigs.

You're not still exactly sure why you came to Sisterton. Lord Alyn had been mentioning this task for the last nine months, but he passed almost half a year ago, without so much as a word to you. And yet, you’ve been in Sisterton for a week, waiting for the cog Sunset Wind to arrive from Pentos so that you can steal its manifest and bring it home to…someone. Below, the boy trudges off, securing the door behind him.

Before he fell ill, Lord Alyn was full of strange tasks for you, like “find out why Jon Hersy quit his knighthood and became a septon,” or “secretly deliver this letter by to Vardis Egen in Gulltown.” The missions were interesting enough, but they didn’t seem to relate to one another at all. Lord Alyn wasn’t one to share his true purpose with a catspaw, any more than you would share how you accomplished those errands. Trouble is, now that Lord Alyn’s gone, the purpose might be gone too.

Through the hole in the slanted roof, you can see four new ships in the harbor. While you’re not one to know the difference between a galley and a galleas and a longship, you know they all have oars, whereas a cog doesn’t. (Your familiarity with oars is an intimate one. The kind of intimacy that comes from being chained to something for a month.) You reckon that three of the ships have oar-thwarts and one doesn’t.

Eldric and Mera
A league west of Greycrown Keep

“—which is where I had to dismount, so I couldn’t see much.” Ser Gorlen Waters takes a breath. “You can see the campfires there. I can’t say exactly how many that is, but I expect it’s at least a couple dozen.” Eldric’s rounsey snorts and shuffles, redistributing the weight of its rider. The three of you are an hour’s brisk ride from Greycrown Keep, perched on a ridge known as Nestor’s Lookout. You have a commanding view of the southwest, a lower-lying blanket of rolling hills dotted with scrub forest and slashed with rocky outcrops rising up to the mountains behind you. The western sky glows orange and purple, slowly fading to darkness. “They came from the mountains, that I’m sure of. We would have seen them much sooner if they came from below.” Ser Gorlen is discussing the winkling pricks of light down in the foothills. It’s hard to try and count them at this distance. The moment you focus your eyes on one, it seems to wink in and out, dancing in your vision to touch the others, as if the campfires were a swarm of fireflies.

Mountain clans were no strangers to this part of the Vale. Greycrown Keep was built directly on the edge of the Mountains of the Moon, intended to block one of the few Vale passes larger than a goat trail. Despite that blockage, anyone attempting to penetrate the mountains would do well to choose this area. The distance between the outer slope and the inner slope is unusually short here. Such terrain is a blessing for weary travelers, but a larger blessing for raiders who strike from the heights, then melt away above the frost. However, it is rare to see mountain clansmen down in the foothills and it has been some time since they have moved this close to the Keep in force. They’re still days away from Greycrown Keep by foot, and Ser Gorlen claims they haven’t been moving much, but even so, the danger feels palpable.

Maester Rowan
Greycrown Keep

You realize you’ve been squinting for the last hour or so of reading. While the circular tower library is lovable for many reasons, it is not the best for illumination. Musty tomes on shelves line the walls, seeming to drink in the light, and the lamp on your table burns low. The long shadows cast by the effects on your table—your papers, inks, and quills—dance against the wood.

Maester Johann’s Royal Stature, currently in hand, is one of the more absurd tomes you have had the pleasure of reading, and you have read many a book. Johann himself was Maester to the Arryns almost two hundred years ago, during the Dance of the Dragons, but you wouldn’t know it by his choice of subject matter. Royal Stature is not a systematic comparison of leadership styles between monarchs or a critique of pre-Dance Targaryen succession. Would that it were. No, Royal Stature presents the argument that the reason nobles mature faster and grow taller than smallfolk is because they eat more cheese.

Normally, you would not glance twice at a book like this, but it is in your library, and it would be unseemly not to have skimmed it. Fortunately, you have discovered that Maester Johann’s argument is not entirely without use. Not on the merits—who cares about cheese!—but because in his very detailed case studies of certain Eyrie personalities, he decided to throw in some interesting historical asides that you have never read anywhere else. For instance, Johann claims to be a first-hand witness to the cravenness of Jacaerys Targaryen, otherwise remembered as a hero, who rallied Lady Jeyne Arryn and the Vale for the Blacks. As is his style, Johann drops this revisionist detail as part of a digression to explain why someone failed to conform to his cheese hypothesis. Perhaps you are spending more time on Maester Johann than he is worth.

You are startled from the text by the screeching arrival of a raven upstairs in the rookery. Soon enough, Wolly comes thumping down the stairs and through the door, with a small scroll in hand. “The seal of House Egen, Maester!” he intones in his breathless manner. These days, most raven correspondence comes from House Egen. By custom, principal houses receive correspondence on behalf of their bannermen, and are expected to pass information along.

Wolly proffers the scroll. Most lords demand to break the wax themselves. But most lords do not have a Maester who is also their cousin. And most lords are not fourteen years old.

Thumbing through the wax, you see the familiar script of Maester Medgar, House Egen’s longtime Maester, but the words are those of Lord Roger Egen, the new lord. As is usual with ravens, the message is short and direct.


Greetings fr. Moonhome.

Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, and his Lord Protector of the Vale, Petyr Baelish bid each principal banner house to send knights for a tourney to choose his Brotherhood of Winged Knights (like Kingsguard, but 3 yr. service).

64 in lists, 8 chosen for Brotherhood. Each principal house sends 2 knights, with remainder made up by mystery, hedge, etc. Open melee with prize. Tourney in 3 weeks at Gates of the Moon. Eyrie closed for winter.

Send word to House Lipps.

House Egen sending Myles Stone and one Corrett, your choice. Meet at Moonhome in 1 week.

--Lord Roger Egen

Also, conclave
--M. Medgar

House Lipps has been without a Maester for as long as you can remember and generally remains ignorant of world events until a Corrett messenger apprises them.

“What does it say, Maester?” Wolly appears to be looking for an excuse to scamper off. He always likes bringing news.

Alyssa
Greycrown Keep

Your solar has grown decidedly emptier over the last few months. The servants, ever courteous, removed his armor and swordbelt after seeing you staring for hours into the empty slit of his horned greathelm, inlaid with silver and set with a thumb of granite, cut as if it were a jewel. Next went his stack of books. Then his maps, some drawn in his own hand. The memories are still there, but life flows on. Grief and Alyn’s spectre have receded slowly, day by day.

Today, you feel the spirit of Alyn in a different way. A better way. At his peak, Alyn was a masterful diplomat—always finding ways to befriend and beguile his peers, even as he subtlely drew information out and built leverage against them. In his later years, you worked together to befriend Ser Vardis Egen (and his wife Alys), an important figure in the Eyrie and likely able to exert influence over his nephew, the new Lord Roger. You together managed to convince Lord Royce Coldwater to send the heir of House Longthorpe to your dungeons for an indeterminate period, giving you a measure of influence against both houses. But then Vardis Egen got himself killed by a sellsword in a “trial by combat”—a duel for idiots—and Alyn’s bastard girl convinced Jon to run off to war, where he was killed by Frey treachery. Then he was gone. But today is a better day, because an opportunity walked through the door. That opportunity’s name is Ser Harlaw Belmore.

Ser Harlaw Belmore is the older brother of Marwyn Belmore, captain of the guard at the Gates of the Moon, and a cousin to Lord Benedar Belmore of Strongsong. Dollos tells you that Ser Harlaw is a dutiful man of middle years and small accomplishment. He comes to the Keep from the Bite, riding with a score of men-at-arms on his way home to Strongsong.

Greycrown Keep is often starved for information of the wider Vale, but word of the Lords Declarant—Yohn Royne, Anya Waynwood, Symond Templeton, Gilwood Hunter, Horton Redfort, and Benedar Belmore—reached you some two months past. Not a week later, another letter arrived announcing that the Lords had decided to sit on their arses and suspend their demands for a year. Some declaration.

A knock on your door startles you from your reverie. Your handmaiden Val enters, curtsying. “I beg your pardon, m’lady. Ser Harlaw awaits. Is m’lady ready?”

Morris
Greycrown Keep

Your head feels light as Ser Oswell raises your visor and squirts water from a skin into your mouth. “You’re doing better than before, my lord. Try to keep your shield up higher before he strikes, and step back as you catch the blow. And watch his feet. You can anticipate…” His voice trails off as your head swims. You’ve been practicing in the yard every day with blunted steel, but not against the Avalanche. Denys Stone sits across the yard, awkwardly eating an apple nestled in the lobstered steel covering his hand. He’s big man, tall and broad of shoulder, clad in a jerkin and skirt of boiled leather with metal strips sewn in. Try as you might, applying Ser Oswell’s training to this fight is near useless. The Avalanche is a seasoned fighter and for the last hour, he has rained blows on you up and down the yard, slamming you to the ground again and again with his flail or his shield.

Dimly, you remember that you have a visitor to attend to and that this means that you will have to finally announce the death of your father and brother to the world. But that’s then. Now is now. You hear Ser Oswell say “one more bout” and see Denys Stone rising and donning his steel halfhelm.

Injuries taken from blunted weapons heal automatically the next day. Wounds from blunted weapons heal as if they are normal injuries. You currently have two blunt weapon injuries from your prior bouts with Deny Stone.

[bluntpencil]

The young lord nods, trying to listen to Ser Oswell's advice, and apply it to what he's attempting to do here. The visitor could wait (or could they? They probably could, Ser Oswell wouldn't call for another bout if it was urgent).

Right, well, shield up high, like the old fellow said. Urgh. What else did he say?

Rolling Willpower in an attempt to hold himself together and take in Ser Oswell's advice, instead of drifting off...

[roll0]

Anyway, it was time to get his arse handed to him. It is the only way to get good at this, so he holds his chin up, feet planted, shield high, expecting a whole lot of pain.


Rolling Dodge, as Ser Oswell said, sort of.

[roll1] Armour Penalty cancelled out by shield bonus.

[heretic]

Morris

Your visor falls with a clang as you rise. Denys raises his shield and his one-handed flail, bending slightly into a fighting crouch. For a moment, you begin to read his movements, shifting your shield as Ser Oswell instructed, but suddenly he is on you.

[roll0]

Your Dodge roll actually resulted in a 7, because bonus dice for Shields apply, rather than your actual shield bonus. Weird, but true. Denys achieves two one degrees of success, dealing 10 5 points of damage. 2 0 points make it through your armor and your shield bonus is reduced by 1, due to the Shattering 1 quality. It's up to you as to whether to take the damage or an injury/wound, etc.

The blow sends splinters flying from your shield, but you keep your feet. "Good. Now counter!" Ser Oswell shouts. A mop of sweaty hair is obscuring your vision, and your arms feel heavy, but you kept your feet. A good day.

I forgot that the flail is a two-handed weapon in the first post. Therefore, Denys is fighting with a smaller version built for one handed use. It counts as a ball and chain.

[bluntpencil]

Morris nods with a grimace as he takes the full force of the blow. His left arm feels like jelly, but he can keep this up. He is no quitter.

He staggers forward, using his shield to give himself some room to swing his own one-handed flail, in a whip-like fashion...



Ball and chain, too. Will take the damage, because I don't want injury penalties.

Rolling an attack [roll0] -2 for injury

[bluntpencil]

Oops, made an error with my roll! Rolled too many dice!

[roll0] - 2

[Simsimillia]

Eldric and Mera
A league west of Greycrown Keep

“—which is where I had to dismount, so I couldn’t see much.” Ser Gorlen Waters takes a breath. “You can see the campfires there. I can’t say exactly how many that is, but I expect it’s at least a couple dozen.” Eldric’s rounsey snorts and shuffles, redistributing the weight of its rider. The three of you are an hour’s brisk ride from Greycrown Keep, perched on a ridge known as Nestor’s Lookout. You have a commanding view of the southwest, a lower-lying blanket of rolling hills dotted with scrub forest and slashed with rocky outcrops rising up to the mountains behind you. The western sky glows orange and purple, slowly fading to darkness. “They came from the mountains, that I’m sure of. We would have seen them much sooner if they came from below.” Ser Gorlen is discussing the winkling pricks of light down in the foothills. It’s hard to try and count them at this distance. The moment you focus your eyes on one, it seems to wink in and out, dancing in your vision to touch the others, as if the campfires were a swarm of fireflies.

Mountain clans were no strangers to this part of the Vale. Greycrown Keep was built directly on the edge of the Mountains of the Moon, intended to block one of the few Vale passes larger than a goat trail. Despite that blockage, anyone attempting to penetrate the mountains would do well to choose this area. The distance between the outer slope and the inner slope is unusually short here. Such terrain is a blessing for weary travelers, but a larger blessing for raiders who strike from the heights, then melt away above the frost. However, it is rare to see mountain clansmen down in the foothills and it has been some time since they have moved this close to the Keep in force. They’re still days away from Greycrown Keep by foot, and Ser Gorlen claims they haven’t been moving much, but even so, the danger feels palpable.


Mera furrowed her brow when she spotted the campfires in the foothills. There had always been troubles with the Mountain Clans for as long as she could remember, but camping this far into the valley was most unusual, especially this close to the Keep. Mera was sceptical, maybe their assumptions were false and those campfires didn't belong to the Mountain Clan raiders after all.

"Are you sure they're Clan raiders, Ser Gorlen? They could be refugees from the war."

She looked back down towards the flickering lights and tried to count them or discern if they were set up in a certain pattern that could tell them more about those who maintained them.

"We should get a closer look either way. They're on my Families lands and my brother will want to know why."

It was still weird for her to think of her little brother as Lord Corrett. When she was younger she always though her father would be Lord forever and after him would follow Jon, her strong and capable brother, raised to be a Lord and a Leader from the beginning. Now he was dead and Mera partly blamed her for it. She should've protected him better, or at least, brought back his body. Now they Freys still had him, she assumed. A horrible thought considering the rumors about what they did to the Young Wolf, the King that made her a Corrett. Savages! Not one jot better than the Mountain clansmen! She shook of her thoughts. She had to focus on the here and now.

[Old Overholt]

Banion
Sisterton

You awake to the sound squealing pigs, with midday’s rays casting narrow beams of light through the gaps in the walls and ceiling. By now, the smell of the barn—stable? sty?—has so permeated your clothes and effects that you barely notice it. Down below your raftered nest of hay and tattered blankets, the innkeeper’s boy is just finishing emptying a bucket of slimy fish guts and rotten vegetables onto the earthen floor, surrounded by scrabbling pigs.

You're not still exactly sure why you came to Sisterton. Lord Alyn had been mentioning this task for the last nine months, but he passed almost half a year ago, without so much as a word to you. And yet, you’ve been in Sisterton for a week, waiting for the cog Sunset Wind to arrive from Pentos so that you can steal its manifest and bring it home to…someone. Below, the boy trudges off, securing the door behind him.

Before he fell ill, Lord Alyn was full of strange tasks for you, like “find out why Jon Hersy quit his knighthood and became a septon,” or “secretly deliver this letter by to Vardis Egen in Gulltown.” The missions were interesting enough, but they didn’t seem to relate to one another at all. Lord Alyn wasn’t one to share his true purpose with a catspaw, any more than you would share how you accomplished those errands. Trouble is, now that Lord Alyn’s gone, the purpose might be gone too.

Through the hole in the slanted roof, you can see four new ships in the harbor. While you’re not one to know the difference between a galley and a galleas and a longship, you know they all have oars, whereas a cog doesn’t. (Your familiarity with oars is an intimate one. The kind of intimacy that comes from being chained to something for a month.) You reckon that three of the ships have oar-thwarts and one doesn’t.

Banion blinks his eyes several times, clearing the sleep from his sockets and regaining his senses as he rises from a drunken night's slumber. His eyes narrow to adjust to the sunlight coming into the barn and he rolls to his left to look through the hole in the roof, taking in the sight of the harbor. There’s a silent admiration of the harbor – maybe some wistful thoughts of what life could be like at sea. But his thoughts are soon interrupted by the sound of the chum hitting the ground below for the pigs, causing the man to turn his head with interest in that direction and listen to the pigs feast for a moment or two. “Breakfast time,” he mutters to himself. Reaching to his left side, he produces a flask, which he pops the top on and takes a quick swig of the elixir inside. Tilting his head back, he gargles with the booze before swallowing the contents of his maw and then jokingly offering the flask to a nearby chicken, which startled by the movement, scampers away.

Shrugging his shoulders and resealing the flask, Banion puts it away and checks the rest of his possessions to make sure he wasn’t robbed in the middle of the night. Finding everything in its place, he grunts as he pushes himself up to his feet, grabbing his backpack before rising to a standing position. Making his way down to the ground floor, he stretches out his lower back, releasing some of the stiffness acquired from the subpar, but usual sleeping arrangements. Heading towards the door of the barn, he reaches down to give one of the hogs a playful slap on its backside as he passes. The ‘SMACK!’ causes a grin to cross his face and, in a grizzled, hungover tone, he says, “Mmmm... That’s nice.” And with that, the haggard looking make starts his journey to the docks to get a closer look at the ships that have come in.

[ChaosPerfected]

"Alyn.." Lady Corrett mused wistfully, her mind dwelling on the past she'd lost. It really wasn't as if this loss was a shock like her son, the Lord had been ill for quite some time. But it was still a heavy blow.

There had been so much loss in this family that some days she couldn't take it. She idly made certain she was presentable in the mirror, but, of course, a lady was always presentable. There was no giving up, that much was obvious, because that mean the true end of this family. And that would never happen. Family was everything.

She spared a quick thought for her son, Morris, and even let a quick smile dance across her lips. It was odd to consider her sweet little Morris had the weight of all this responsibility now. And his mother would be there to help him, always. At least her son would never be involved in a foolish trial by combat no matter how much they trained him. She would make sure of that, and no one would subvert that order or she'd..

It was her handmaiden that interrupted the Lady's thoughts. She let a mild glare escape her perfectly neutral face before smiling ingenuinely at the girl. This was what Alyssa had been waiting for after all. Lady Corrett folded her hands and composed herself.

"Yes, of course, thank you, Val. You may show him in."

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric runs a large hand through his blond hair as he looks at the lights in the distance, before resting it on the hilt of his sword.

"You might be right, Mera. It doesn't make much sense for raiders to stay in one place this long. Though I wonder if people from the Mountain Clans would really flee their homes in large groups. They normally seem too proud and stubborn to leave, at least to me. And if they're not from the Clans I'd really like to know how they've made it though their territory. We have to find out more in any case." His face grows hard. "And if they're raiders indeed, we will crush them for threatening the lands and people of House Corrett!"

Eldric had a hard time making sense of his emotions. He'd always hungered for a real fight, a chance to kill his enemies, to prove his skill and gain glory. Then he'd left with Jon and Mera for a real war, and he'd found that things were not as easy and staightforward as he had expected. He'd killed enemies, true enough, quite a few of them, but in the end there had been no duels with famous knights, no fame and glory, only blood and mud, loss and guilt. During the chaos of the Red Wedding, Jon had died barely twenty feet from him, and through the crush of bodies he hadn't been able to even get to his side in time.

Still, he would persevere on the path he had chosen. He would prove to everyone what a true knight could achieve, and he would strike down the Freys and Boltons of this world wherever he met them! And the first step on this path was making sure that House Corrett, the house that had taken him in and deserved his loyalty, would never fall. If he had to kill a thousand mountain men to guarantee it, he would do so.

[heretic]

Lady Corrett

Val withdraws. Servants. The servants of Greycrown Keep are a dutiful lot, partly because they have nowhere else to go. Briefly, your thoughts turn to Banion, the locksmith (or was he a messenger?) of the Keep. One time, you caught him collecting salaries from Ser Rymun Castos under two different names. The man always seemed to have either too much or not enough coin. Where was he anyway?

Ser Harlaw Belmore enters. He is a somewhat stout man in his forties with dirty blond hair, dressed in a tunic of Belmore purple, slightly reminding you of an overripe pear. He is plainly worn from the road, though he did his best to clean the dust from his face and clothes.

“Lady Corrett, my deepest condolences for your lord husband and son. I had not heard the news until your servants told me.” No doubt, they meant to break the news so you wouldn’t have to.

“I have to say, Greycrown Keep is even more magnificent that I remember. The last time I was here, I was a boy of five, attending Lord Addam’s wedding. The sight is sweeter still after the rigors of the road. It’s a hard ride from Strongsong to the Bite, and I’m glad I decided to return this way.”

Val returns, placing on the table a plate of hot buttered rolls and cups of a sweet Arbor red, though Ser Harlaw waits for your leave to sit.

Mera and Eldric

Ser Gorlen rubs his hand on his short beard. “It is out of sorts for them to be down out of the mountains, but I am quite sure they did not come from the Riverlands.” Ser Gorlen is a compact man of thirty, dressed in a loose brown tunic over ringmail. You can always tell how long Ser Gorlen has been out, because he leaves in a white tunic and bare face, and returns with a beard and a tunic that’s absorbed the dust of his travels. “I had a need for—I had business with Doric the Brewer, so I was riding the ridgeline west and then back again, and there’s a great view of the foothills.” The horses’ breath is now visible in the cold. “The fires just appeared there. It takes much longer to come up from the Riverlands than to come down from the mountains, so I figure they must have come from above. As to getting closer, well…” Ser Gorlen is not known for taking risks he doesn’t need to.

Mera

The campfires are hard to judge from here. Certainly, there are fewer that you saw during the War of the Five Kings, when entire hillsides seemed to glow as thousands of men made camp. It’s difficult to tell, but you don’t think the campfires are arrayed in any meaningful pattern. Towards the end of the campaign, you remember the Young Wolf’s camp being quite organized, though you were always in the camp, rather than spying it from afar.

Eldric

Ser Gorlen seems more dove than falcon to you. There was a time when mountain clans would not be suffered on these lands. In fact, there had been talk among the Stark soldiers that clansmen rode with the Lannisters at the Battle of the Green Fork!

Banion

Judging by what came next, your slap was not a moment too late. Perhaps the gods do love you! Your stomach churns for a moment as the smell rises from the floor and you taste last night’s wine and today’s elixir all at once.

The sea breeze calms your body as you close the barn door behind you. It’s a cold, foggy day in Sisterton, just like yesterday. The innkeeper has left a bowl of Sister’s Stew out on a shuttered windowsill for you and it even looks warm.

It’s a good walk down to the docks, but it’s familiar now. You know which streets have the best planks laid down and which alleys to avoid. For the last week, you’ve spent your days sitting on a dock with a line in the water and your nights in a winesink. In places like Sisterton, it’s best to keep a low profile. The town has two different houses in charge: the Borrells and the Sunderlumps. Sunderlamps. Sundersomethings. Too many lawmen, even if their law is crooked. The Sisters are well-known as a wretched hive of pirates and smugglers, and the lords are known to take their cut as well.

The mud-clay houses with thatched roofs eventually give way to some larger timber warehouses as you get closer to the docks. You’ve been observing the Harbormaster over the last few days, as he trundles out of his little dock cabin and struts up and down the boardwalk. He is a short, stout man fond of wearing a tricorn hat of sealskin. In his heavy furs, he looks like a little mummer trying to play the part of a bear, but the head won’t fit. He often carries a leather scroll-case to and from his cabin, before dispatching a trio of teenaged hands belowdecks on the new ships. You expect that’s where the manifest goes. While you’ve never had occasion to handle one before, Lord Alyn described it to you. A scroll listing the goods and persons aboard, with the seals of harbormasters of other ports. It does make a half bit of sense. Otherwise, pirates could fence their plunder with no issue and tax collectors would have no proof of harbor incomes to seize.

Down on the docks, you can see that the new ships are indeed three with oars and a cog. You estimate the cog to be over sixty feet long and almost twenty feet wide. It has one big mast with a square sail, and high sides. A handful of men are milling about its deck, coiling ropes or moving barrels. Underneath the pokey wooden spike at the front of the ship, some carved wooden feet are all that’s left of the figurehead. The back of the ship has the name written out in dark letters.

Morris

Your blow skitters off the top edge of Denys's shield, almost landing on his shoulder. At the edge of your vision, you can see a handful of men gathering to watch the final bout. Focus.

"Good, now keep up the attack—"

You hear a the sound of chains whistling through the air.

Denys is stepping up his attack: [roll0]

A 14 result against your Combat Defense of 9 results in 2 degrees for 12 damage (6 doubled), minus 8 for your armor is 4 damage.

The leather-padded ball (perhaps under-padded, come to think of it) comes crashing down around your shield, connecting solidly with your chest armor. The world trembles, but again you find yourself on your feet.

[Saulk]

Maester Rowan looked at the boy as he delivered the raven's message, noting the way that he proffered his message. He has natural curiousity, thought the maester, but his gossipy nature might one day get the better of him. The cheese was forgotten as he read the slip of paper, twice to be sure. While he would of course deliver all of the material contained within to his cousin and lord, it was the conclave that was of most interest at this tournament to him personally. The conclaves were rare opportunities to learn from a collection of maesters in the flesh rather than by ravens. And the books...Rowan suppressed a broad smile as he thought about the treasures the other maesters might bring in trade. He focused his attention back on the boy.

"Do you think you are capable of carrying a message to House Lipps, Wolly?"

Rowan often preferred to send messengers rather than parchment to House Lipps. They held no maester and sometimes wording could be too...convoluted...when compared to a messenger. This would be a good chance for young Wolly.

"Tell them there is to be a tournament, in which one of House Corrett's chosen will participate."

He filled in the boy with the rest of the pertinent details and sent him off before gathering up his things, carefully dousing the flames, and walking towards the practice yard.

The Avalanche was certainly showing the young lord a thing or two. Maester Rowan winced as the weapon made contact. A real one and...well, he thought, let whatever gods listened grant that there would never be a real one for this young man. He waited as the two fought, lookig for a pause in the fighting to approach Lord Corrett.

[bluntpencil]

What would Jon have done? What about father? Damn it, they were much larger than he was, so what would Mera do?

Go for the legs! He whirls his flail, then swings low, attempting to wrap it around the large man's leg...


[roll0]-2.. Trying for Knockdown.

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric curses on the inside. Coward! Jon wouldn't have hesitated a second! Then he calls himself to order. Ser Gorlen might not be the bravest man, but he did have more life experience than either he or Mera. It wouldn't be smart to dismiss him out of hand. Besides, the man was a knight, however timid, and Eldric wasn't ... yet.

"Ser Gorlen, we can't very well go back to Morris, I mean Lord Corret, with a report about an unkown force of people on his lands with unknown loyalties and motivations. He needs information to make a decision."

Turning to Mera, he continues: "How do we go about it? Should we ride closer to see what else we can make out, and simply turn to flee if they take any hostile actions?" He didn't like how cowardly the words sounded, but even he wasn't delusional enough to think three men could stand against dozens. At least not yet. Ser Arthur Dayne could have managed, Eldric was sure, and one day he would too. "We could try a stealthy approach, but you know my talents lie elsewhere. My size makes it hard for me to hide."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Judging by what came next, your slap was not a moment too late. Perhaps the gods do love you! Your stomach churns for a moment as the smell rises from the floor and you taste last night’s wine and today’s elixir all at once.

The sea breeze calms your body as you close the barn door behind you. It’s a cold, foggy day in Sisterton, just like yesterday. The innkeeper has left a bowl of Sister’s Stew out on a shuttered windowsill for you and it even looks warm.

It’s a good walk down to the docks, but it’s familiar now. You know which streets have the best planks laid down and which alleys to avoid. For the last week, you’ve spent your days sitting on a dock with a line in the water and your nights in a winesink. In places like Sisterton, it’s best to keep a low profile. The town has two different houses in charge: the Borrells and the Sunderlumps. Sunderlamps. Sundersomethings. Too many lawmen, even if their law is crooked. The Sisters are well-known as a wretched hive of pirates and smugglers, and the lords are known to take their cut as well.

The mud-clay houses with thatched roofs eventually give way to some larger timber warehouses as you get closer to the docks. You’ve been observing the Harbormaster over the last few days, as he trundles out of his little dock cabin and struts up and down the boardwalk. He is a short, stout man fond of wearing a tricorn hat of sealskin. In his heavy furs, he looks like a little mummer trying to play the part of a bear, but the head won’t fit. He often carries a leather scroll-case to and from his cabin, before dispatching a trio of teenaged hands belowdecks on the new ships. You expect that’s where the manifest goes. While you’ve never had occasion to handle one before, Lord Alyn described it to you. A scroll listing the goods and persons aboard, with the seals of harbormasters of other ports. It does make a half bit of sense. Otherwise, pirates could fence their plunder with no issue and tax collectors would have no proof of harbor incomes to seize.

Down on the docks, you can see that the new ships are indeed three with oars and a cog. You estimate the cog to be over sixty feet long and almost twenty feet wide. It has one big mast with a square sail, and high sides. A handful of men are milling about its deck, coiling ropes or moving barrels. Underneath the pokey wooden spike at the front of the ship, some carved wooden feet are all that’s left of the figurehead. The back of the ship has the name written out in dark letters.

Banion almost walks right past the Sister's stew but makes a hard pause as he catches whiff of the seafood stew. The rumbling in his stomach whispers to him, "Not bad..." Backing up, he turns to face the windowsill and admires the meal, offered in a trencher made from bread a few days old. "You hit the jackpot with this place..." Banion says to himself with a knowing smile. Reaching into his purse, he pulls out a few copper coins - five to be exact - and places them on the sill before taking the bread bowl with him.

As he walks down the street, sipping out of the bread bowl and occasionally pulling off a pieces of bread to chew, Banion eyes the houses, shops, and vendors - his backpacking tossing ever so slightly from side to side with his meandering stride. Making his way to the docks, he finishes the last of the stew and tosses the burnt bottom of the bread bowl into the water for the fish and birds to eat. Brushing his hands together, he clears his hands of crumbs before wiping them down the sides of his pants, taking this time to thoughtfully enjoy his last mouthful of food while examining the dockworkers and ships.

Noting the cog at the end of one of the piers, he sets out down the walkway, casting a quick glance towards the harbormaster's shack. He stops just short of reaching the cog, and decides to take a seat on one of the dock posts, setting his backpack down in front of him. Making himself comfortable, not really sitting in front of any of the ships, Banion just looks about the busy port while clasping his hands in his lap. His starts to whistle a rambling tune - not anything of popularity or note - just something he makes up on the spot to amuse himself as he keeps a look out for the harbormaster or one of his boys, waiting for someone to head their way towards the cog on business.

[Simsimillia]

Mera smiled when Eldric called her brother, the Lord of Greycrown Keep, by his first name. So he too had still a hard time imagining Morris as the Lord, it was hard enough to picture him as a young man. No wonder, as had he too watched Jon grow up to follow in his fathers footsteps.

She could tell what was going on inside the tall, restless man as she could feel it herself. She did not hold Ser Gorlan Waters in very high regard. He lacked the fire of the two younger warriors and Mera was in no doubt that he wanted to return as fast as possible to his bottle and a whore to keep him warm at night. Rumor had it that he had fathered no less than half a dozen bastards in the Vale and just as many outside of it. She understood his concerns, but he was overly cautious. Eldric was right, they should at the very least get close enough to get a good count of the campfires. Right now she couldn't even tell if it was a band of a mere dozen raiders or a small army down in the foothills.

"Eldric's right, we need to get a good lock at 'em. At least close enough to count their fires."

And with that Mera sat off of Redfoot and started guiding her down the treaterous ridge. Redfoot had carried her through the war and out of the nightmare that had been the Red Wedding, it would be a shame and unworthy end if she stumbled now in the dying light and broke a leg. Maybe she should've asked to lend Pickle, an ugly and shaggy Garron as stubborn as a mule, but also as surefooted as a goat.

"Ser, your welcome to join us. If you dare of course. Else, if you turn back now and ride hard you make it to the closest brothel before nightfall."

Many people had told Mera that the reason she'd never become a knight was not her gender, but her loose tongue and lack of respect. Her quib had aimed at Ser Gorlans Water's pride and honour as a knight, if there even was any to begin with.

Pulling her fine and heavy cloak tight she shifted her attention back to her longtime friend and they made their way down.

"We get, close enough to get at least a rough measure of their strength. Then we'll figure out the rest from there. If there's trouble we stay together and run, my brother had to deal with enough loss as is."

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric smiles as Mera's sharp words cut into Ser Gorlan. He'd thought the same, but she would actually say it out loud, with no care to social conventions. He liked that side of her. Eldric himself usually had to get angry before he was in the mood to follow his instincts and ignore the rules, for Mera it was as simple as breathing.

Or maybe he was wrong on that count, he wonders. After all, nobody had ever tried to stop him from following his dream to become a famous warrior, quite the opposite in fact. Meanwhile Mera had faced doubt and ridicule all her life. Maybe speaking her mind was as much hard work and deliberate choice as it was a simple trait of character. All he knew was that it inspired him to do the same, to avoid taking the easy route in life.

Eldric gives the older knight a wink. "She might be a little too direct, but she's not wrong. Don't take it too hard." he quips before he jumps off Soldier's back and leads the steel gray stallion down the hill, following his friend.

[heretic]

Eldric and Mera

It’s too dark to see if Ser Gorlen’s color rose at Mera’s comments, which struck a little too close to home. After a moment, he shakes his head and says, “A well-traveled knight finds himself with many responsibilities and…nevermind. What were you saying about Lord Morris? Oh yes, he’ll want to know who’s down in the foothills, but I’ve already figured it out and HEY—”

Ser Gorlen gives a little sputter of protest as you begin to leave without him. Nevertheless, he smoothly dismounts and leads his dappled grey courser down behind the two of you. “Just getting down there is likely to take all night,” he grumbles.

The way ahead is a relatively steep slope of loose stones, requiring you to zig and zag down the hill, before reaching a flat area, then another hill, then another. The campfires appear brighter as the sun finally sets, but you lose sight of them in the trees as you move out of the mountains proper and into the foothills. Thankfully, the stars are bright tonight, as is the red comet hanging in the sky.

The fires are about two leagues away as the crow flies, but more like three or four on the ground. The terrain is trackless hills, meaning that you move at a rate of a half league per hour on foot or twice that on horseback if you dare. How close are you trying to get?

Eldric

You recall seeing Ser Gorlen ride an obstacle course when you were younger. The man can make his horse scamper through the underbrush, under a tilted log, or through a stream, as if it were a cat or weasel. It is said he’s never had a horse come up lame, although you wouldn’t know it by the way he rode the course that day, with his mount’s legs splaying every which way as he twisted, ducked, or rose in the saddle. You even saw him joust once, and while his opponent couldn’t unhorse him, he barely seemed to know what to do with his lance. If you remember correctly, his tilt was called a draw after the crowd grew bored. You have no doubt that if you need to flee, Ser Gorlen will need no assistance.

Mera

Given their common birth, Ser Gorlen’s bastards are not named Stone, but smallfolk treat their bastards poorly regardless. Ser Gorlen is known to care for some of his, but his lust is greater than his incomes and he likely cannot support them all. Even the possibility of legitimization is unavailable to them, because there is no last name to restore and no bastard name to erase.

Banion

After swooping and screeching at one another for a good half an hour, the birds have almost picked the bread away to nothing when you spot the harbormaster. Out the corner of your eye, you see him emerge from belowdecks on one of the low-lying oared ships, with two of his underlings in tow. He’s dressed in his usual hat and furs, and is holding a scroll, which he’s pointing to as he talks to a sailor. The sailor is a tall man with a forked beard, dyed purple, and has a jangling bunch of silver rings through one of his ears. The sailor appears to be trying to placate the harbormaster, holding his hands up in a shushing manner and nodding. After a time, they shake hands and you spy the harbormaster tuck something small into the back pocket of his breeches. He takes his leave of that ship and returns to his shack, emerging a few minutes later and handing the scroll to the sailor, who meets him on the docks.

You hear the crack of a whip and see one of the dock’s three cranes begin to slowly pivot until its lift of iron-banded wood swings gently over the ship that you saw the harbormaster emerge from. More sailors and laborers begin to move into position to guide the lift down and load it.

The harbormaster turns and boards the cog, greeting a group of sailors who are waiting for him. You can’t properly see what’s going on over the sides of the boat. The two underlings eventually follow him onto the boat, one of them holding a quill and inkjar and the other a bar of iron, flattened at one end.


Maester Rowan

Wolly’s eyes go wide at the mention of travel to House Lipps. “Could I? I’ve never ridden a horse outside the keep!” The youth probably could not make the journey alone. House Lipps lies almost thirty leagues away, through dangerous lands as well. Most messages to House Lipps are taken by experienced riders or by well-armed groups with another reason to travel there.

Wolly runs in a little circle and then for the door. He is probably making for the stables, there is no danger of him flying the keep without your leave, or Morris’s or Alyssa’s or Dollos’s. Perhaps you can find him an escort.

Coming down the tower is the easy part. You pass arrowslits, tapestries, torch sconces burning bright, as well as your predecessor, now known as the Sadclown. Dressed in his usual striped and buffoonish attire, overlaid with a Maester’s chain, he is being led by the hand by young Anya Corrett and a couple of playmates, including Denys Stone’s daughter as they shriek and laugh.

As you pass them and exit the keep, you can hear the sound of ringing steel in the yard. A small crowd has gathered to watch the bout, including a half dozen men-at-arms wearing purple tabards over mail, the six bells of House Belmore prominent on their chests.

Morris

Your move seems to have caught Denys by surprise. He takes a step back with his free foot and prepares to strike. Ser Oswell begins shouting things that you comprehend better for some reason. "Now pull! Both hands! Get low! Both hands--forget the shield! Drop it!" As you crouch and pull, Denys's off-balance swing sails over your head. With a great crash, the Avalanche comes down and a cheer rises from the onlookers. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

Pushing your visor up, you see a couple men of the guard standing to watch, as well as some grooms from the stables, some men with purple tabards and a sigil of six bells, and your cousin Maester Rowan. It takes you a moment to remember the sign of House Belmore under the circumstances. Ser Oswell steps forward to retrieve your shield from the ground and take your flail. "Well fought! This is where we'll stop today. As you can see, we have a visitor from House Belmore for you to attend to once we've washed you up a bit."

You feel a gauntleted hand on your shoulder. "Well done, boy." The Avalanche is grinning. "We will have to have you drill with the Turnkeys soon. You fight like your brother. Smart, but nothing too fancy." He lifts his helm from his head and gives a mock bow to the onlookers, whose jokes are flying fast. "Denys, can I lend you a walking stick--""--thought Avalanches only fall in the mountains--""--I name it 'Stone's Throes!'"

It looks like your cousin wants to speak to you.

Ser Oswell's advice takes the form of the Assist action, boosting your result from 8 to 10, just enough to topple Denys.

[bluntpencil]

"Thanks for giving me a chance," offers Morris, painfully aware that the large armsman had been going easy on him earlier.

He nods, then marches towards his cousin, looking over to their visitors with a nod, signaling that he'll make every attempt to speak to them soon.

"Is there a problem, Maester?" He uses his cousin's title, simply because there were outsiders here, who might not appreciate familiarity.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

After swooping and screeching at one another for a good half an hour, the birds have almost picked the bread away to nothing when you spot the harbormaster. Out the corner of your eye, you see him emerge from belowdecks on one of the low-lying oared ships, with two of his underlings in tow. He’s dressed in his usual hat and furs, and is holding a scroll, which he’s pointing to as he talks to a sailor. The sailor is a tall man with a forked beard, dyed purple, and has a jangling bunch of silver rings through one of his ears. The sailor appears to be trying to placate the harbormaster, holding his hands up in a shushing manner and nodding. After a time, they shake hands and you spy the harbormaster tuck something small into the back pocket of his breeches. He takes his leave of that ship and returns to his shack, emerging a few minutes later and handing the scroll to the sailor, who meets him on the docks.

You hear the crack of a whip and see one of the dock’s three cranes begin to slowly pivot until its lift of iron-banded wood swings gently over the ship that you saw the harbormaster emerge from. More sailors and laborers begin to move into position to guide the lift down and load it.

The harbormaster turns and boards the cog, greeting a group of sailors who are waiting for him. You can’t properly see what’s going on over the sides of the boat. The two underlings eventually follow him onto the boat, one of them holding a quill and inkjar and the other a bar of iron, flattened at one end.

When he does catch sight of the harbormaster, Banion watches him intently - but making sure not to stare. He's picked up a few tricks over the years it seems, to pay attention while not really seeming to pay attention. There's the scratching of the head like you have lice. The squinting of the eyes while you dig a nice nugget from one of your nostrils or inner-ears. If he had a piece of fruit or wood, he'd probably whittle away at it. But there's always his favorite: seeing how far one can spit a thick mixture of mucus and spit. Anything and everything he can do to seem like he's not there to watch what's going on and be obnoxious enough that people will look away and forget him all together.

The exchange between the harbormaster and ship's captain certainly doesn't go unnoticed. Whatever the harbormaster "pockets" causes Banion to murmur to himself, "Gluttonous bastard." Nonetheless, he keeps watching and waiting, hoping he hasn't already missed the harbormaster's work with the nearby cog. And as luck would have it, he hasn't. Seeing the harbormaster emerge from his shack and head his way, Banion opens up his backpack and takes out his flask. Popping it open again, he starts to take a few more swigs of the liquor, even letting some splashes hit his neck and shoulders as he does so. The smell of pig feces and other uncleanliness is probably going to overpower it, but every bit helps. When the harbormaster passes him buy, Banion makes sure to summon up a guttural belch.

After the harbormaster has boarded, Banion caps his flask and places it back in the bag. However, he doesn't seal the sack up. Instead, he rises to his feet and takes in a deep breath. Undoing his belt, Banion loosens his pants before bending over to grab his backpack. Turning to face the water, Banion starts to wobble a little, shifting his attention between the gangplank of the ship and the water ahead of him. He waits until the harbormaster emerges from the confines of the ship and begins to make his way down the gangplank before shifting his pants down to his hips, so that by the time the harbormaster is back on the pier, he's standing there with both bag and **** in hand(s). "Come on, you!" he grumbles almost incoherently as he tries to look down at his waist. "I haven't got all bloody day!" Only if and when the harbormaster starts drawing closer will he begin urinating off the dock.

[Saulk]

Maester Rowan shakes his head. Something always unsettles him about The Sadmaester. Perhaps it is how short the gulf between intellect and its opposite. Perhaps it is the fact that he still wears the chain. Whatever the reason, the clowns presence disturbs him and hangs in his head like a morning fog. A morning fog he shakes away to respond to his cousin.

"No problems, my Lord, but something in the way of an opportunity. You have received a raven from House Egen. There is to be a tournament to appont new members of the Eyrie's personal guard. House Corrett has been invited to send a representative for the lists. I wanted to apprise younof this quickly, so you could make a decision as to who to send."

The Maester looks around, pausing for a moment in his delivery of news to glance at the other spectator's heraldry.

"There are one or two other matters, my lord. Namely, I would like your permission to let young Wolly accompany the messenger party we send to House Lipps. I of course was asked to pass the message along and I believe a little practical knowledge of the world might do the boy good. In addition, your leave for me to accompany whichever knight you send to the tournament would be most appreciated. There is to be a conclave. Those matters though can wait, of course."

Maester Rowan lowers his voice, to be heard by only the head of House Corrett.

"Would you like me to remain for your next...meeting, my Lord?"

[bluntpencil]

"You can give me more details regarding the tournament, and I'll come to my decisions, after we greet our guests," he says with a nod. He made a point of having advice ready to hand, after all.

"I agree, in that Wolly should get out and about, Maester. It would do him good."

Who to send? Eldric is young, but would likely appreciate the opportunity. It is also, technically, a way for the Avalanche to gain a long deserved knighthood, technically speaking.

[heretic]

Banion

Presently, the harbormaster emerges from the cog with a weathered scroll in hand and begins walking toward his hut.

He almost stops when he catches sight of your manhood, but then shakes his head and continues on towards the shack. Sisterton has no shortage of drunks and fools, and he is plainly too busy to care about you making a squattage of his dock. The winter breeze is quite uncomfortable with your breeches unlaced, but is pleasantly countered by your own warmth as you begin to make water.

You don’t see any of the three underlings. Presumably, two of them are still on the cog.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Presently, the harbormaster emerges from the cog with a weathered scroll in hand and begins walking toward his hut.

He almost stops when he catches sight of your manhood, but then shakes his head and continues on towards the shack. Sisterton has no shortage of drunks and fools, and he is plainly too busy to care about you making a squattage of his dock. The winter breeze is quite uncomfortable with your breeches unlaced, but is pleasantly countered by your own warmth as you begin to make water.

You don’t see any of the three underlings. Presumably, two of them are still on the cog.

As the harbormaster draws closer, Banion turns about midstream to face the portly fellow , saying in his best drunken voice, "Good sssssir! Good ssssir!" Banion blinks his eyes as if trying to fight off the urge to pass out right then and there. Spraying the harbormaster's legs with last nights alcohol and this morning's stew without a second thought, he goes on to ask, "Can you point me to the Rosabella? I'm supposed to be sailing out today." The thief from near the Mountains of the Moon gulps down something in his throat, feigning the presence of nausea as he just stands there, wobbling with his open backpack in his arms, urinating all over the harbormaster.

[Simsimillia]

Ser Gorlen was following after Mera and Eldric, so he had some pride after all or maybe he was more scared about riding back alone than to stay and follow them into potential danger.

Mera found it weird that both, Eldric and Ser Gorlen seemed to be following her lead. She was used to Jon being the one in charge. He had led them until his grim end at the Twins. It made Mera a bit uncomfortable, she saw herself more as a warrior, not a leader.

Their way down was slow and difficult, but at least they had a clear night, brighter even than usual thanks to the mysterious red comet on sky. There were many speculations about what the comet meant. But Mera wasn't sure that it meant anything at all.

As they made their way through the foothills they lost track of the campfires, but caught a glimpse of it every now and then. As they got closer and closer, Mera started to look for a hill that could give them a good look at the camp or a tall tree she could climb on, preferably both. She knew these hills and she was sure, that there had to be some lookout nearby, but in the darkness of night it was hard to tell.

[heretic]

Mera and Eldric

Hours pass as you lead your horses deeper into the foothills. Ser Gorlen mounts as soon as you are past the loose gravel. He appears to have overcome his initial fear, though it’s hard to read his expression in the darkness. The thick part of the forest is now half a league behind you and ahead of you are rolling foothills dotted with the occasional strand of trees or bushes.

After some time—it must be approaching daybreak soon—you spot the light of a campfire up ahead. There is some scrub vegetation and a few copses of trees up ahead, but you can see the fire at the top of a hill, ringed with around two score people, sleeping. A handful of small horses or donkeys are tied to a tree. At five hundred yards or so, you can’t make out much. There are some supplies or effects near the sleeping lumps, but you don’t see any banners or other identifiers. You both notice that there is little in the way of metal reflecting the light of the campfire. No burnished plate armor, steel spear tips, or silver spurs reveal themselves in the darkness. Based on what you’ve seen on your way here, this is a campfire on the edge of the larger camp, which continues over the hill.

Ser Gorlen taps you each lightly on the shoulder. “A sentry moves near the fire,” he breathes to you, his eyes never wavering from the camp.

Mera

You spotted the movement as well—one upright figure off to the side, either slouching or leaning on something. You can’t discern any other features.

Both Eldric and Mera succeeded a Cunning (Logic) test to deduce the lack of obvious metallic stuff lying around. Mera succeeded an Awareness (Notice) test to spot the sentry, as did Ser Gorlen.

Should you approach, doing so with your horses in tow imposes a –1D penalty on your Stealth check.

Banion

The harbormaster’s face turns from condescension to confusion as he tries to make sense of what you’re saying. “The Rosabella? I know no ship by that name and I daresay you are hardly a fit passeng—AHHHHHH” He waddles back as best his gut and thick layers of clothing will allow, failing to escape much of your piss, which wets his furs from shin to chest back down to his other knee. “Drunk! Scoundrel! Knave! I’ll have you strung up at Gallows Gate for this!” You know it’s probably a threat he can’t carry out. They hang pirates, not piss-ants.


Banion succeeds a Deception (Act) test to conceal his true motive in the interaction.

[Simsimillia]

There was the camp. Or well a part of it at least. This was only one of the campfires they had seen from the top of Nestor's Lookout. And just this group was rather large. Whoever they were, they were a small army and certainly too many as if the three of them could deal with them. Not really any news. The seeming lack of armor and metal weapons was more interesting. It ruled out deserters from the war. A good thing, from all their options a bunch of scarred war veterans with no fealty to anyone would've been the worst. Mountain Clans they were at least used to.

She nodded when Ser Gorlen spotted the guard. The man wasn't completly useless and it seemed like he had found his courage again. Mera's curiousity wasn't satisfied though, she wanted to go closer and see what else she could spot.

"Ok, I'm going to take a closer look. Eldric, Ser Gorlen, stay with the horses and stay in cover."

While she talked she went to Redfoot and stowed on the saddle. It surely would be cold, but it was better than to have the heavy cloak slow her down and get tangled up in the underwood. With some remorse she also left her trusted spear with the mare, before she continued to check the rest of her weapons and clothes, making sure that it would not clank and rubbing some dirt on any metal and her face to dull the shine. The clear night sky had been a blessing on their way down, but now it could be Mera's undoing if she wasn't careful.

When she was done she nodded towards Eldric and Ser Gorlen.

"If there's trouble...just run and report back to the keep. I'm quick, leave me Redfoot and I'll catch up."

Now she was issuing orders. She wasn't sure if the two men would follow them. Eldric had his own head filled with ideals about chivalry, martial prowess and glory, but not even he could stand against an army all by himself. Ser Gorlen wasn't too fond of her, though she was sure he wouldn't need an order to turn tail and run if things went sideways.

With these thoughts Mera started making her closer towards the campfire, making sure to stay in the shadows and moving with great care as not to draw the sentry's attention.


Mera has left her thick coat and her spear with her horse, her shield was strapped to Redfoot anyway.

She still has her axe, her dagger, knives and her bow.

Stealth (Sneak): [roll0]

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric's head snap's around as the sentry is mentioned. He hadn't noticed the man! Be more careful in the future! he admonishes himself.

His musings about how to proceed are interrupted by Mera's anouncement of her plan to go scouting on her own. The large man draws a grimace at the thought, but he cannot find a good argument against it. The thought of staying back while his friend walks into danger feels almost physically painful to him, but his large stature and heavy steps do not make for a stealthy approach, and he knows it. He would just put her in more danger if he came along.

"Alright. You're the stealthy one, not me," he admits grudgingly. "But if you think I'm leaving you behind and running like a coward you must have hit your head when I wasn't looking." He smiles, but there is no doubt in his voice.

"Ser Gorlen will deliver the information if needed, he's an experienced rider and will manage just fine. If you get into trouble, you call. We leave together or not at all!" After Jon there was no chance in the seven hells that he would return to Greycrown Keep with the news of yet another Corrett death on his watch. Especially not hers.

As he watches Mera leave Eldric prepares himself to come to her aid if necessary.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The harbormaster’s face turns from condescension to confusion as he tries to make sense of what you’re saying. “The Rosabella? I know no ship by that name and I daresay you are hardly a fit passeng—AHHHHHH” He waddles back as best his gut and thick layers of clothing will allow, failing to escape much of your piss, which wets his furs from shin to chest back down to his other knee. “Drunk! Scoundrel! Knave! I’ll have you strung up at Gallows Gate for this!” You know it’s probably a threat he can’t carry out. They hang pirates, not piss-ants.


Banion succeeds a Deception (Act) test to conceal his true motive in the interaction.

Realizing what he's done (or accomplished in this case), a look of shock and horror comes over Banion's face. "Ssssooo sssssorrry," he slurs out as he begins to become quite animated and anxious. Drawing closer to the harbormaster, Banion tries to reach out for him and pat him down with his left hand. "...'ere! Let'ssss get you dried of-... WHOA!" he says, now fumbling his open backpack forward into the harbormaster. Feigning an attempt to catch the backpack, he flails both hands outwards towards the large, fur-clad man in front of him, grabbing and slapping, hoping to knock the parchment out of his hands while looking like a drunk trying to catch a falling object. In the end, perhaps that paper will fall into mess of randomness that will fall to the dock's planks. And maybe, if he's lucky, the harbormaster will be too flustered to remember he even had it. If so, it'll be easy for Banion to scoop it up with the rest of his possessions.

[heretic]

Mera

Back in the Riverlands, some of the northmen had covered themselves in dirt and slid leafy branches into their mail in order to blend into their surroundings. Jon had taken to it better than Eldric, though neither embraced it as fully as you did. Now, you creep forward smeared with earth—a Stone once more, if only for the night.

You cover well over half the distance to the fire, stepping around bushes, over little holes, and always hugging the ground. As you approach, the human shapes become clearer. The sentry is leaning against a boulder, with a spear in hand. Beside him is a small shield, also leaning against the boulder. It bears no sigil. He wears a wild beard and simple leather armor, and his spear ends in a point of sharpened wood. The others are harder to see, but they appear to be wearing similar armor and you spot more spears on the ground, as well as other hafted weapons wrapped in blankets. You estimate that there are forty-five people around the fire, as well as three garrons tied to a tree. The other fires, of which you count more than a dozen, are further away. You can barely make out more people sleeping around those fires, and the areas in between are too dark to see. Your teeth almost begin to chatter as the winter chill sets into you without your cloak.


The above description is a result of your Awareness (Notice) check. If you wish to reposition for another look, make another Stealth (Sneak) check and an Awareness (Notice) check.

Eldric

Mera quickly disappears into the gloom ahead, carefully picking her way forward. Redfoot takes one step forward to follow, but Ser Gorlen gently restrains the horse.

This night reminds you somewhat of the Whispering Wood, where you rode alongside Jon and Mera, six thousand northmen and rivermen all around you. Then as now, you crept forward with reins in one hand and steel at your side. Friends at your side. And enemies too, as you learned at the Red Wedding.

Even at the Whispering Wood, the Young Wolf’s most decisive victory, there had been little satisfaction and less glory. Ser Oswell Moore taught you the finer points of swordplay, his lessons always aimed at winning single combat—how to set your feet against a left-handed swordsman, how to best counter battleaxe blows against a man who is shorter, but stronger than you, and so on—but your less frequent training with Denys Stone proved to be the master of your fortunes throughout the campaign.

The Avalanche’s training was dull and repetitive. It was Denys that made you stand between three men who took turns smashing you with maces for an hour, while you were only allowed to pivot and block. It was him that made you don field plate and march with the Turnkeys all day in front of the walls while men threw stones at you. And yet, the battlefields at the Whispering Wood, Oxcross, Ashemark, and others held more ducking and running than dueling, more exhaustion than history, and more mud than glory. Denys Stone may lack the martial creativity necessary for true heroism, but his practicality cannot be denied.

Ser Gorlen watches Mera go, then begins to softly complain. “Is she always like this? There are old scouts and there are bold scouts…”

Banion

The harbormaster sputters and tries to brush the urine off of himself with the backs of his hands. The fur itself catches the liquid, rather than absorbing it, allowing droplets to roll around on the furs before falling off as the harbormaster swats at them.

When your effects go clattering to the dock, he recoils and the scroll—which is about a foot and a half long rolled up—falls among them. He stands upright, still muttering curses under his breath, turns toward the cog and bellows, “MOX! ROLLY! COME AND FETCH ME A NEW COAT!” He starts walking toward his shack, still awkwardly trying to shake the pee from himself. “You’ll pay for this, drunkard!” he shouts over his shoulder.

You expect he will notice the missing scroll soon.


A twist on the classic “spilled drink” pickpocket move!

Banion succeeds a Thievery (Steal) test to steal the scroll, despite the harbormaster receiving +1D given the size of the item and the fact that it was in hand.

[Simsimillia]

Crude leather armor, wooden spears, wild beards and no banners or sigils. So they were Clansmen from the mountains. Ser Gorlen had been right, she had to give him that. But now they had a rough estimate of their strength. There were forty, fifty men around this campfire and there were more than a dozen of them. A small army. Mera still wondered what they were doing down here in force. Usually they came, hit their target and hid in the mountains again where it was hard to pursue them and they knew the terrain perfectly.

Mera shivered slightly and had press her teeth together to prevent them from clattering as a cold breeze came up. She should go back. She knew what she had come for. But she was still curious and the guard didn't seem all that alert and all his comrades were still sleeping. Carefully she crept further ahead, making sure to stay in the shadows and make as little noise as possible.


Stealth (Sneak): [roll0]

Awareness (Notice): [roll1]

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The harbormaster sputters and tries to brush the urine off of himself with the backs of his hands. The fur itself catches the liquid, rather than absorbing it, allowing droplets to roll around on the furs before falling off as the harbormaster swats at them.

When your effects go clattering to the dock, he recoils and the scroll—which is about a foot and a half long rolled up—falls among them. He stands upright, still muttering curses under his breath, turns toward the cog and bellows, “MOX! ROLLY! COME AND FETCH ME A NEW COAT!” He starts walking toward his shack, still awkwardly trying to shake the pee from himself. “You’ll pay for this, drunkard!” he shouts over his shoulder.

You expect he will notice the missing scroll soon.

A twist on the classic “spilled drink” pickpocket move!

Banion succeeds a Thievery (Steal) test to steal the scroll, despite the harbormaster receiving +1D given the size of the item and the fact that it was in hand.

"Bugger!" Banion grumbles to himself as he watches some of his travelling possessions hit the ground. Among them are some of the tools of his trade: some rope, his whetstone, a piece of flit and steel. There's also a few items he seems to have picked up from the smuggler's den, a wrapped package containing some silk, and a nicely carved model of the Night Lamp. Quickly dropping to his knees, Banion clumsily tries to get everything back in his bag (still feigning the drunk) and muttering his apologies to the harbormaster. "Ssssorry sssir," he mumbles over and over again, keeping his head down and sweeping everything, including the scroll - into his bag. When he can hear the harbormaster is on his way back to the shack, Banion stops faking any sort of fogginess or lack of agility, quickly closing up his backpack and throwing it back over his shoulders. Glancing to his side before standing up, he makes sure the harbormaster is distracted or out of sight. A "door opening", he seizes on the opportunity to make a casual break for the end of the dock and the busy plank-and-mud streets of Sisterton to get lost in the crowds.

[heretic]

Banion

You hear nothing behind you as you make your way up the pier back to the streets. Stealing a glance over your shoulder, you spot the harbormaster and his two men near the spot you bumped into him. One of his men is on his hands and knees, fishing in the water with some kind of stick. The other is walking away, peering behind barrels, upturned rowboats, and other dock detritus, looking for something…or someone.

As he turns to look up the pier, you manage to step behind a building, putting you out of his line of sight. The streets of Sisterton are not particularly busy at this hour, so there’s not an easy way to blend into a crowd.

I rolled a Stealth (Sneak) test, reflecting the use of the building as concealment. Since you can’t see the men, I’m withholding whether or not you won the test for now.


Mera

As you move laterally, trying to get a better view of the camp, your footing fails you, and you slide a little bit down a short hill. The sentry pushes off from his rock, staring straight at your position. For a second, he freezes.

Then he gives a yell and starts running toward you, pausing briefly to retrieve his shield and heft his spear. He’s more than a hundred yards away, hopping over sleepy, but waking bodies.

This is either combat or a chase, based on how you react. Should it be a chase, you begin with one point of advantage, representing the distance between you and the sentry. The sentry’s speed is 4 yards. Should it be combat, roll initiative.

Eldric

You spot quick movement in the camp as someone runs past the fire. Ser Gorlen grasps his sword hilt.

“Seven save us!”

[Old Overholt]

Banion

You hear nothing behind you as you make your way up the pier back to the streets. Stealing a glance over your shoulder, you spot the harbormaster and his two men near the spot you bumped into him. One of his men is on his hands and knees, fishing in the water with some kind of stick. The other is walking away, peering behind barrels, upturned rowboats, and other dock detritus, looking for something…or someone.

As he turns to look up the pier, you manage to step behind a building, putting you out of his line of sight. The streets of Sisterton are not particularly busy at this hour, so there’s not an easy way to blend into a crowd.

I rolled a Stealth (Sneak) test, reflecting the use of the building as concealment. Since you can’t see the men, I’m withholding whether or not you won the test for now.


Uncertain if his little charade allowed him a clean getaway, Banion pauses for a moment against the side of the building and lets out a quiet, single curse word to himself. He may not be able to fade away as he originally thought, especially with the light early morning traffic. Quickly fishing the parchment out of his bag, he starts to look about his immediate area and the path ahead of him for a spot he can tuck it away in: easily accessible roof thatching? a crack in the wall? under a gull nest? a loose brick in a makeshift wall? Anything that wouldn't be moved immediately or damage the parchment in the interim while he frees himself of incriminating evidence to collect later.

[Simsimillia]

"Seven Hells!", Mera exclaimed when she heard the guard yelling and the camp waking up. A moment she considered knocking and arrow and sending it towards her pursuer...but what would she gain from that? There was still an army. So she leapt up and turned tail running back towards the treeline where Eldric and maybe Ser Gorlen were waiting.


So Terrain is Hills or something like that so I guess I get -1D
I also have fast giving me 5 yards movement which gives me +1D and 3 Athletics.

So I roll 4 Dice and remove the lowest, right?

(doing the substraction manually)

[roll0] --> results in a 12

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

“Is she always like this? There are old scouts and there are bold scouts…”

Eldric just smiles. "She knows what she's doing, trust me." Then, as if to prove his words wrong immediately, there is a disturbance in the distance.

"Trouble ahead! She'll be on the run, let's get Redfoot closer to her for a quick getaway!"

While he speaks, Eldric jumps onto Soldier's back and grabs Redfoot's reins. Ser Gorlen is the better rider and should be the one to do this job, but Eldric cannot trust the man not to hesiate in fear, and there is no time to be lost here. He sets off in Mera's direction, intent on getting his friend her horse as quickly as possible. With his sword still in its sheath, and his shield still hanging from his saddle, he feels dangerously unprepared for any combat, but he needs his hands to control the horses, his own as well as Redfoot.

Eldric is riding toward Mera while bringing her horse along.
Here's an animal handling check in case one is needed: [roll0]

[heretic]

Mera

Running flat out over the bumpy ground, you are probably outpacing your pursuer, but it’s hard to tell. Given the darkness and the treacherous terrain, you have to keep your eyes on the ground in front of you to avoid falling.

Somewhere up ahead, you hear the sound of horses running.

Your dice are correct. I’m withholding the result of the first part of the chase. Go ahead and roll the next one.

Eldric

You bring the horses up to a trot without difficulty. Up ahead, you can barely make out two figures running towards your position. It’s hard to tell if the pursuer is getting closer or not.

Ser Gorlen rides at your pace for a moment or two, then curses loudly and gives his horse the spur. He thunders off toward Mera, drawing his sword as he goes.

You succeeded a Challenging (9) Animal Handling (Ride) test to bring your horse up to a trot in the dark on difficult terrain. Matching Ser Gorlen’s pace would require a Formidable (12) test.

Banion

Around you are a number of daub-and-wattle houses with peaked roofs of thatch, as well as a two-story inn. The inn’s first story is built of logs daubed in the cracks and the second story is composed of daub and wattle with a plank roof. A long, stained stocking hangs from the bottom of the upturned lip of the roof to the ground, presumably for channeling rainwater.

As far as spots to conceal the scroll, there are some deep crevices between the logs in the inn’s wall, the bottom of the rain-stocking, areas underneath the overhanging thatch on the houses, or even beneath some of the planks in the street (though it looks wet down there).

The street is momentarily empty, but there are likely people around the corner and in the buildings.


Morris and Maester Rowan

A squire appears to help Morris from his armor and wipe his face with a wet cloth. The crowd disperses, no doubt to attend to their various duties.

Dollos walks down into the yard and bows to Morris. “My lord, Ser Harlaw Belmore awaits an audience with you. Your lady mother received him and now retires to pray.” Dollos nods to Maester Rowan. “If you are both ready, Ser Belmore is in the great hall. He comes to us from the Bite, on his way back to Strongsong.” Dollos appears ready to lead you to Ser Harlaw, but waits for any questions.

Morris

The Belmores loomed large in your lessons on history, heraldry, and politics. They are a powerful house in nearly every way—coin, swords, and influence. You recall that their lord, Benedar (sharing a name with your uncle), is among the Lords Declarant who issued Petyr Baelish an ultimatum, giving him a year to rule the Vale as Lord Protector. Ser Harlaw’s name is unfamiliar to you.

Some years ago, you remember running and playing with a couple of minor Belmores who came to foster at Greycrown Keep. Jason and Bert, their names were. Sons of one of Benedar Belmore's younger siblings. Father had arranged the fostering, and was planning on bringing a Belmore sister to foster as well, but she ended up being betrothed to a Redfort rather early and so the fostering was off.

Though Jon was the heir, father spent time teaching you all about chivalry and etiquette, in addition to fighting. He told you that one day you could be a knight and commander, and castellan of the Keep when Jon is away. “A strong house needs all its sons,” he would say, and then go on a long tangent about how your uncle Benedar had failed his duty to serve the house. His lessons on politics always emphasized the importance of loyalty to liegelord and crown, and the dire consequences of appearing to have double-dealt another house.

After Jon and Mera rode to war, the focus of the lessons shifted from chivalry to diplomacy and politics. Father was keen on having you learn by heart every house that had sent prisoners to Greycrown Keep, as well as the names of the prisoners and their crimes. He also drilled you on every current marriage between houses Corrett, Egen, Lipps, Wydman, Belmore, Arryn, and Coldwater, though it was hopeless to try and remember all this. He died before he got around to teaching you the importance of this information, beyond the obvious—that noble houses often signal favor with marriages, and in the case of House Corrett, with prisoners.

Maester Rowan

You have had little cause to correspond with Maester Bryen of Strongsong, but the influence of the Belmores is felt in Greycrown Keep nevertheless. Much of the Keep’s food is purchased from the Belmores, in addition to other wares and tolls on the Belmore roads are always a consideration for the movement of men and goods.

After the first Blackfyre Rebellion, the Belmores briefly laid siege to Greycrown Keep, until Lord Corrett bent the knee again to the Eyrie, even though his joining with the Blackfyres had been an Eyrie-directed ruse from the beginning. Today, the Belmores continue their influence in the Eyrie. Jon Arryn’s brother Ronnel married a Belmore, and their son Elbert was heir to the Vale until the Mad King killed him along with Brandon Stark.

Now, Lord Benedar Belmore stands among the Lords Declarant who have indecisively and ineffectually moved for the removal of Petyr Baelish as Lord Protector. Something about their failure seems odd. It’s true that they could not have taken the Eyrie by force, given its formidable defenses, but time was on their side. The path up the Giant’s Lance freezes over every winter, becoming impassable and sealing the Eyrie for the entire winter. The Lords Declarant had all the leverage they needed, even with Littlefinger holding Lord Robert Arryn. Baelish would have to come down or risk being quite literally frozen out of politics for years—a virtual death sentence for a man who has managed to profit mightily off chaos in realm, becoming Lord Paramount of the Trident as well as Lord Protector of the Vale. The Arryn boy himself is said to be sickly, but the Lords Declarant hold his heir, Harrold Hardyng, as vassal to the Declarant house Waynwood. Perhaps the Lords Declarant are not as shrewd as their stature would imply.

[bluntpencil]

I assume I have time to regenerate Health by taking Endurance checks?

Lord Morris greets Ser Harlaw in his hall. It's only right, apparently. He ensures that his closest advisers are at hand, as he knows that they know more than he, and that, properly used, they won't be seen as running his affairs.

"Ser Harlaw, I welcome your visit, in these troubled times for my family. 'tis a shame that both Jason and Bert could not also be here, in our time of grief. Please, be seated, and partake of bread and salt."

Morris nods to Banion's mother, whom he keeps close, as he had promised she'd be looked after.

"Some people may not hold with such traditions, but we in House Corrett do."

It's quite obvious that he is speaking of his brother's murder. He then offers a grim smile to one of the guards, before continuing,

"Prepare them visitor's rooms."

'Visitor' means 'guest' in Greycrown Keep... 'Guest' means 'prisoner'...

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Around you are a number of daub-and-wattle houses with peaked roofs of thatch, as well as a two-story inn. The inn’s first story is built of logs daubed in the cracks and the second story is composed of daub and wattle with a plank roof. A long, stained stocking hangs from the bottom of the upturned lip of the roof to the ground, presumably for channeling rainwater.

As far as spots to conceal the scroll, there are some deep crevices between the logs in the inn’s wall, the bottom of the rain-stocking, areas underneath the overhanging thatch on the houses, or even beneath some of the planks in the street (though it looks wet down there).

The street is momentarily empty, but there are likely people around the corner and in the buildings.

With time of the essence and the potential for being caught with stolen documents, Banion decides to make his way towards the inn - it'll provide an explanation for why he disappeared and given him a place to hide the parchment. Folding the paper up as he walks towards the establishment, making a tight, neat package that fits in the palm of his hand, one of the blackest sheep (if not the blackest sheep) serving House Corrett starts to look for a nice crack in the logs. As he walks, his knees start to wobble and he staggers from side to side, putting on a show again - or the best he can summon. Seeing a few spots, in succession, some tight, some dangerously close to the mud, and a few perfect for stashing the parchment, he speeds up a bit and feigns a stumble into the mud, landing on his knees and trying to brace himself against the ground with his left hand and place his right hand against the logs. "Who moved the bloody planks?" he grumbles around, looking about him as if to see if anyone had saw him fall (but more on the lookout for prying eyes) as he tries to tuck the parchment into one of the hiding spots without notice.

[Simsimillia]

Was her pursuer closing in? Mera wasn't sure and she risked a look over her shoulder. Bad mistake, as it caused her to overlook a small rock in her way. She stumbled over it and almost fell but was able to catch her self before she hit the ground. Angry with her own foolishness she let out a curse that would've gotten her more than a stern look from the septa and carried on. Dumb girl! Just keep running!

Ahead she could hear galopping horses and a rider with steel in hand. Even though it was dark she could tell that it was Ser Gorlen. To her surprise he hadn't turned around his horse and rode for the Keep. So the older knight still had some fire left in him, even outside the bedchamber.

[Saulk]

Maester Rowan followed the young lord towards the hall where they were to do their receiving. He was deep in thought as he walked, reflecting on the matters at hand in the Eyrie. Petyr Baelish...everyone of any intelligence knew that he was as devious as any but the most vicious connivers in King's Landing, but he was extremely careful. It caused a pang of nausea in Rowan's belly when he thought of such a creature's claws sinking in to the sickly Arryn heir. The sickness increased manifold when he imagined his own cousin being the one who was in such a situation. Young lords made tempting targets to those who wanted to further their own goals through them.

At the least, he reflected as they reached the hall, Morris did not have that to worry about from him. Not least because, vows aside, they were blood but also because it was the good of the boy he had at heart. When it was his turn, he bowed to Ser Harlaw.

"Greetings, Ser, and welcome."

He then took his place beside Lord Corrett as the bread and salt was brought out. If we were still at the Citadel, he thought, I might opine on the fact that this tradition was becoming one that was losing its magic. Hopefully not today. Maester Rowan understood Morris' intentions, and applauded him for them. He could not resist though setting the board, as it were, imagining all of these interactions as games of civasse. He leaned over to Morris, obscuring his voice behind his hand.

"My advice is to listen much and say little, my lord. When there is a difference in status or standing, information is what levels the playing field. And lest I forget, your takedown downstairs at arms was most impressive."

He ended with a smile. Let us begin the conversation from a position of even more confidence and pride, he thought, leaning back with his hands resting comfortably inside the sleeves of his robe.

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric curses silently as he sees Mera being hunted. She needed her horse now, and he couldn't quite get Soldier up to a full gallop in the darkness and on this uneven ground. Maybe he should have spent a few of his countless hours in the practice yard on horseback instead. Despite putting forth his best effort, he cannot fully catch up to Ser Gorlen. He grinds his teeth and continues on.

Just a moment more Mera, we'll make it!

Trying to increase the horses' speed as much as possible. [roll0]

[heretic]

Morris and Maester Rowan

Dollos leads you to the great hall, where you find Ser Oswell, Denys Stone and Ser Stanly Hoyne waiting for you outside the door. Ser Owsell and the Avalanche have donned more appropriate attire, fine woolen tabards of blue with daggers belted tastefully on. Dollos opens the door, revealing a couple of servants—including Avaline, mother of that rascal Banion—laying out a decorative cornucopia of fruits and vegetables around an aurochs horn at the center of the main table. Well to the side, Ser Harlaw rises from the table.

He is a stout, but still compact man, with straw colored hair and a short unkempt beard. His breast sports a single silver bell pinned to his tunic of rich purple, belted above his well-worn breeches and boots. When you enter, he bows.

“Lord Corrett. I thank you for your hospitality. The sight of Greycrown Keep is a welcome one after weeks in the saddle.” He sits when you do, accepting the buttered bread, salt, and wine that the servants bring out. When you allude to House Frey’s treachery, he nods knowingly. “Walder Frey has few friends in the Vale. Not only did he betray the guestright, his liegelord, and his King, he betrayed friends of the Eyrie—Lysa Arryn, the Blackfish, and your brother Jon, chief among them.” He breaks a piece of bread in his hands. “Indeed, the duplicity of King’s Landing spreads further than it once did. I speak no ill of King Tommen of course, but of advisors whispering in the ears of rulers too young to swing steel in the yard.”

Morris

You catch his meaning well. Ser Harlaw is speaking of Petyr Baelish.

Maester Rowan

This Ser Harlaw chooses his words well. His goal is clear (to probe Morris’s thoughts on the Lords Declarant and the rule of Petyr Baelish) but to accomplish it, he must needs disparage advisors to young lords while in the presence of several. The examples chosen—alluding to a Southron hand in the Red Wedding, and distinguishing between a true child lord and Morris (“steel in the yard”)—are carefully placed to neutralize any objection to the concept.

The missing piece here is why Ser Harlaw is interested in House Corrett, a tertiary house. Does he already know House Egen’s allegiance? If so, are the Egens for Baelish? Is Ser Harlaw planting the seeds of doubt before the Egens announce their stance? Or does he not know the Egen position? Is he trying to pry the thoughts of Lord Roger Egen from the mind of his bannerman, Morris?

If so, the joke is on Ser Harlaw. The letters from House Egen have said little about the Lords Declarant, except to relay their demands, and less about which way Lord Roger is leaning. Lord Roger is much more reclusive than his father was, and is terse even in writing.

Time to roll initiative, decide on techniques and actions, in addition to the usual roleplay.

Mera

Ser Gorlen rides past you, standing tall in his stirrups, and moments later, you hear the whoosh of a sword cutting air and a muffled grunt. Glancing back, you see that you must have been getting away before you stumbled; the distance between you and the pursuer is about the same. Now you can see the sentry has stopped to engage Ser Gorlen with his spear. Against a mounted, better armored, and better armed opponent, the clansman likely stands no chance.

Several seconds later, Eldric meets you astride Soldier, with Redfoot’s reins in hand.

Eldric

Up ahead, you can see the camp starting to rouse, with men stringing bows, hefting spears and shields, and forming a defensive perimeter. It won’t be long before they realize there are only three of you.

Ser Gorlen lands a clean blow across the wild-bearded sentry’s torso, sending the man reeling to his knees before he regains his feet and begins jabbing his spear at Ser Gorlen, who has by now reigned up and approached the man from behind.

You reach Mera in the midst of all this.

Based on the comet and the ambient light from the campfire, I’m ruling this a Shadowy area. That means -1D on Fighting, Awareness, Athletics, and Agility tests and -2D on Marksmanship. Note that these penalties impact passive and derived scores.

Banion

You make it to the wall of the inn without incident and just as you’re secreting the paper, some men-at-arms come passing by, dressed in warm grey cloaks with shields bearing a yellow sun on blue field. They pay you no mind.

The door to the inn bursts open as the innkeep, a stout woman with curly blonde hair empties a chamberpot out into the street. Seeing you moving towards the door, she takes you by the arm and hauls you in. “Get’n, then!”

The common room is a bit dim, and is lit by fat tallow candles at those few tables that are currently occupied, along with a trio of lanterns hanging from an antler candelabra on the ceiling, and a hearth behind the bar. There are four or five people sitting at the tables. They all have the look of sailors about them…and the smell. A couple appear to be sleeping, while the others break off their murmured conversation to observe your entrance. The innkeeper sets the chamberpot at the edge of the bar and looks up to you. “Welcome t’the Sister’s Sweets, what cannaye getyefor?”

[bluntpencil]

Morris frowns, steepling his fingers and leaning forward, as he sits at his lordly table.

"I would ask that you speak plainly, ser. Unlike some, my advisers and I prefer bitter truths to honeyed platitudes."

He makes sure to defend his advisers here. One should not allow others to demean one's friends and confidantes, after all. Loyalty and sovereignty go both ways, a fact that many lords seem to forget.


Initiative:

[roll0] Penalty from injuries, bonus from head of house cancel out.

Action is 'Withdraw'.

[roll1] Best 5 dice. I'm assuming -2 from Injury, but I'm guessing the situation, being in my hall, and after doing well in the battle, that this might cancel out?

Edit: Intrigue Defence is 23, assuming injuries and location balance each other.

[Old Overholt]

Banion
You make it to the wall of the inn without incident and just as you’re secreting the paper, some men-at-arms come passing by, dressed in warm grey cloaks with shields bearing a yellow sun on blue field. They pay you no mind.

The door to the inn bursts open as the innkeep, a stout woman with curly blonde hair empties a chamberpot out into the street. Seeing you moving towards the door, she takes you by the arm and hauls you in. “Get’n, then!”

The common room is a bit dim, and is lit by fat tallow candles at those few tables that are currently occupied, along with a trio of lanterns hanging from an antler candelabra on the ceiling, and a hearth behind the bar. There are four or five people sitting at the tables. They all have the look of sailors about them…and the smell. A couple appear to be sleeping, while the others break off their murmured conversation to observe your entrance. The innkeeper sets the chamberpot at the edge of the bar and looks up to you. “Welcome t’the Sister’s Sweets, what cannaye getyefor?”

Glancing back over his shoulder as he hears the men march past him, his head wobbling a little to and fro, Banion focuses on their garments - trying to recognize the sigil. But before his mind can click, he feels his arm being taken by the innkeep. Pulling his head back sharply, there's a natural look of surprise as he's lifted up off the ground and hauled into the establishment, backpack in hand. He doesn't fight her, but instead lets out a sigh of relief as he's pulled out of view.

After being strong-armed into the "Sister's Sweets" and let go, Banion pauses in the common room to look around. The shock of being pulled off the street helps keep the appearance of being drunk and confused as he looks about the establishment, taking it all in. His head and eyes move in a near half circle - from the bar, to the candelabra, to the tables - as he studies his surroundings, letting the question go answered for three or so seconds. His eyes focused on the sailors looking back at him, he answers the innkeeper casually in his grizzled voice, "Ale, miss." His assessment of his fellow patrons complete, he turns his head back towards the woman with the curly hair, offering her a faint yellow-toothed smile in the process, as he adds, "And whatever the house specialty is, luv."

That said, he starts to amble towards the bar, looking for a corner to perch himself on so that he can keep an eye on the door and as many of the patrons as possible. He might be safe from the harbormaster and the local guard, but he knows the denizens and passer-throughs (such as himself) of Sisterton can be far more devious and dangerous.

[heretic]

Banion

The sigil doesn't ring a bell, though it's definitely not the three sisters on dark blue and green or the crab on light green, which are the signs of the two houses residing on Sweetsister.

Once inside, the barkeep hands you a horn of ale with a starfish floating in it (the "house specialty," you imagine). As your eyes adjust to the light, you recognize one of the sleeping men as the captain of the barge you arrived on, which appears to take the same route every day in the afternoon. The other sailors return to their conversation, of which you can catch bits and snippets over a few minutes. "...musta been the size of Dornish melons...""...would never survive the journey...""...a cat of a different coat 🎵...""...probably hadn't seen one in a year, proper...""...🎵are long and sharp, my lord...""...which is why it happened. Y'know, the funny thing is, I've never liked goat..." "...and when Sunset Wind put in this morning, I was right. Should'a put some silver..." "...🎵Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear. 🎵"

The door bangs open suddenly and there stands the harbormaster. His eyes sweep the room and lock on yours. "You useless drunk!" He storms toward you. The barkeep raises her hands in protest. "As long as his coin ain't wooden, he's got a use!" The harbormaster takes off his hat and swings it toward her, in a shushing motion. All three of his flunkies trundle in after him. "Search this lout and we'll be done here." The three men--boys, really--haul you to your feet and begin patting you down and rifling through your backpack. After a minute or two, it becomes clear that they can't find what they're looking for. The harbormaster stands, shaking his head back and forth as they search. "Inconceivable! I'll not tolerate this disorder in my port."

You can see that the sailors have been whispering back and forth, and appear as if they know that he's lost something important. As the little man becomes more and more frustrated, their smiles widen. Finally, when the three dockhands sheepishly finish searching you, the harbormaster lets out a long curse and stomps out the door, his men in tow.

The tavern bursts into laughter. The barkeep addresses the room generally. "Merrick's lost some Righteous Important Stamp, has he? Gods know paper and wax always got his 'lordly' color up more than anything else. More passion for what's on the sheets than what's between 'em, I say! Today be the day Merrick properly pursued a Maiden's Sweets, if only to find his papers! Hahahahahaa" The rest is drowned out by laughter.

The near miss, combined with the threat to hang you earlier constitutes a "troubling situation" for the purposes of your Bound to the Bottle flaw. Go ahead and make a Difficulty 12 Will test to resist drinking.

[Old Overholt]

Rolling will (4d) for Bound to Bottle...

[roll0]

[Simsimillia]

Ser Gorlen rode past her, engaging her pursuer in full gallop and a moment later Eldric arrived with Redfoot. Mera swung herself atop the mare and got an overview of the situation.

Not far away Ser Gorlen was still engaged with the struggling clansmen, but in the distance she could see the others reading themselves for battle. At the moment it didn't seem like they had realized that they weren't attacked by a large force but just three men. Well two men and a young woman.

"Ser Gorlen!", Mera shout across the field to the knight, "Retreat! this is a battle for another day."

Mera knocked an arrow in preparation. It was dark, making it hard to aim, she wouldn't shoot and risk hitting Ser Gorlen or his horse...not yet anyway.

[Old Overholt]

Banion takes his seat and drops his backpack to the floor to rest between the bar itself and his feet. Finally letting out a soft sigh of relief - feeling as though his work is done and he can return to the mainland - he reaches into the ale and plucks out the starfish. Holding it up by one of its arms, he examines the sea creature in what little light is coming from the outside - a look of quiet intrigue and curiosity on his face as opposed to disgust. He then smirks and playfully growls at the starfish, "Spit it out ye wee bastard!" Chuckling, he starts to set the starfish down on the bar surface, but before he can reach back for his ale, he hears the door bang and his eyes immediately draw to the approaching harbormaster.

The rogue from Greycrown Keep has been through instances like this before - many, many times. And apparently one thing he's learned is its better not to resist. Blinking at the harbormaster in disbelief as his assistants start to search him, Banion locks eyes with the portly fellow while raising his arms slightly, giving the boys no trouble. "I ssssaid I wassss sssssorrry," he slurs out, wobbling forwards and backwards a little as the helpers let him go and he drops his hands. He takes a step or two forward to grab on to the bar, as if to prop himself up, while drawing in a quick, deep breath to prevent himself from throwing up. His eyes avert down towards the ground, Banion going silent until the harbormaster departs in a fury.

Only when the barkeep has sounded the all clear with her jab at the harbormaster does Banion come out of his "turtle" position. Easing himself back down into his seat, there's a visible look of discord washing across his face. He draws a slow breath in through his nose as he grits his teeth, his hands tightening into balls of tension before releasing to splay straight outwards. Exhaling, he glances towards his drink and stares at it longingly for a moment or two. Eventually, he reaches out and takes it and with a swift motion draws it up to his face and drinks deeply of the ale, finishing about half the horn in but a few gulps. Tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the beer runs down his gullet, savoring the flavor and the rush of fulfillment he receives from the booze, Banion looks back upon the barkeep and tells her, "Keep them coming."

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric throws Redfoot's reins over to Mera and draws his sword, feeling the reassuring weight of the long blade in his hand. The warrior spirit burns inside the young man as he looks over to Ser Gorlen to take measure of the situation. In this moment he wants nothing more than to fight, but it is not the right time. Still, if the older knight needed assistance, Eldric would act as a matter of course.

Eldric's actions depends on how exactly Ser Gorlen is faring against the clansman. If he looks in control and can securely disengage from combat, Eldric will turn and flee together with everyone else. If Ser Gorlen needs assistance Eldric will join the fight to help him get away.

[heretic]

Mera and Eldric

Ser Gorlen’s horse rears and the bastard knight from King’s Landing tramples the clansman into the dirt, riding hard towards you. Or perhaps he rides for the Keep. Either way, he makes haste to the east, away from the camp.

Behind him, the clansmen continue to rouse, drawing up a perimeter of shields with archers and slingers behind them. They have yet to give pursuit, but likely will soon. Near the fire, a single man, taller than the others, hefts a mighty sword in one hand and a firebrand in the other. He wears some kind of skin over his head, likely a wolf or bear judging by the head on it, and appears to be a leader of some kind. He stares toward your position, trying to spy your numbers before issuing orders to his men.


Banion

The next couple hours melt into a pleasant thirsty haze, punctuated with frequent trips to piss outside. The sailors continue their discussions, occasionally breaking out some dice to throw, and the barkeep ensures that you never see the bottom of your horn.

Bong Bong Bong Bong goes the bell in some faraway belltower. The barge captain rises, along with a couple other sailors, and makes his way to the door, placing a few pieces of silver on the bar as he goes. “Ferry time,” he shouts as he goes, and his men respond with “sisters fair as ferry’s Sisters!”—presumably a plea to the gods for women passengers. These men have quite the routine.

Of the harbormaster and his men, you see no more sign. The barkeep deftly scoops up the silver, disappearing it into her bodice, and goes back to trimming old candles with a knife.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The next couple hours melt into a pleasant thirsty haze, punctuated with frequent trips to piss outside. The sailors continue their discussions, occasionally breaking out some dice to throw, and the barkeep ensures that you never see the bottom of your horn.

Bong Bong Bong Bong goes the bell in some faraway belltower. The barge captain rises, along with a couple other sailors, and makes his way to the door, placing a few pieces of silver on the bar as he goes. “Ferry time,” he shouts as he goes, and his men respond with “sisters fair as ferry’s Sisters!”—presumably a plea to the gods for women passengers. These men have quite the routine.

Of the harbormaster and his men, you see no more sign. The barkeep deftly scoops up the silver, disappearing it into her bodice, and goes back to trimming old candles with a knife.

Hearing the call for the departing ferry and watching the sailors department, Banion looks into his cup and eyes the last bit of ale lingering in the bottom. Raising his eyebrows in a "Well... I suppose so" fashion, he shrugs his shoulders and slams the last bit of beer. Sliding the horn forward, he pats the bar as a sign he's giving up - and a quiet way to say goodbye. When he pulls his hand up off the bar, he clenches his fist a few times, noting the slowness of his reactions and the stiffness of his joints. Yes sir - he's certainly not sober.

When he rises to his feet, he can really feel the effects of the alcohol. His balance and coordination are off as the blood rushes out of his rump, down through his legs, and back up again. The mainlander grips the bar with his right hand as he reaches down to grab the strap of his backpack with his left. Throwing the sack over his shoulder, he pauses for a moment to gain his bearings - staring towards the door. "Pull it together," he grumbles to himself.

Gulping down whatever vile liquid starts to rise in his throat, the no-longer-pretend-drunk saunters towards the exit, only slowing down once he's outside and near where he thinks he hid the stolen parchment. Lowering his bag down on one of the planks, he drops to his knees and reaches out for with his left hand to brace himself against the structure of the inn. Gazing down the nooks and crannies, he scans the slits in the wood for the parchment slowly. "There you are, beautiful," Banion slurs out with a sly smile as he spots his prize.

Pulling the parchment out of its hiding spot, he brings it up to his lips and kisses it before tucking it into his shirt. Turning about, he follows behind the ferry captain and the other sailors, headed to their ship and back home with his task complete. He whistles a bit of one of the tunes the sailors were singing earlier that's been ringing about in his head the past few hours as he walks along... relieved.

[Simsimillia]

Ser Gorlen won the fight against the clansman, as expected and turned his horse away from the mountainmen.

Mera saw the tall man with the sword standing in the middle of the small force of raiders, clearly taxing the situation. A tempting target.

Mera took aim, raised her bow high into the sky and let a single arrow loose.

[heretic]

Mera and Eldric

Mera's arrow vanishes into the night. A moment passes, and the clan leader takes a step back as the arrow slams into his side, a bolt from the black. He hands his torch to another clansman and draws the arrow out easily. At this distance, you can't tell if it pierced his armor or not. The leader gives a yell and his men release a volley of stones and arrows into the darkness. None of them come particularly close to you, but you hear the hiss of fletching straining against the air and the thud of stones slamming the ground.

With another command, the first rank of men begin to move toward you, spears and shields in hand.

Your dice from the OOC are all correct.

[Saulk]

Maester Rowan considers both the words of his Lord and their guest most carefully. His intentions are largely unknown here, and Morris had delivered an ample helping for him to swallow...perhaps he would simply wait and see what Harlaw said next? Maybe it was that the man had picked up techniques of courtly manners in the new Littlefinger-run court, or maybe he was simply surviving. Either way he had to know more before he entered the conversation. He raised a hand to his chin, running it briefly against his beard in thought.

OOC

Initiative - [roll0]
Action - Read Target [roll1]

[heretic]

Morris and Rowan

Proceeding in the order of initiative: Rowan 13, Morris 12, Harlaw 11

Rowan

Ser Harlaw’s overtures are subtle, but there is a sweetness to his words that smacks of false honey. And yet, his words are not without truth.

When Alyn attempted to explain flattery between lords to you once, it seemed irrational. He said, “Some truths are like mirrors: every man sees what he wants to see, and we’re all better off for it. If a certain reality serves the many and harms no man, why puncture it by making it false? After all, it would defy reason to define a truth in a way that serves no purpose. So when I tell Lord Hunter that his rule is the envy of the Vale, I speak not of facts and figures, of ledgers and historical comparisons. I speak a different kind of truth. A truth so strong that it can serve as the foundation of something infinitely more real than a Maester’s theory—a friendship, a deal, or perhaps, an alliance.” While you understood his meaning, this fluid and utilitarian understanding of the truth is the antithesis of what you learned at the Citadel.

Ser Harlaw’s account of the Red Wedding is not exactly false, but he states grandly the role of Jon and Lysa Tully in a way that serves his purpose. A truth strong enough to serve his purposes in the moment.

You succeed with your Read Target action. Ser Harlaw’s attitude is Amiable towards Morris and his technique is Incite, using Deception (Bluff). You gain +1D on all Deception and Persuasion tests for the duration of the intrigue.

Lord Morris

Ser Harlaw is clearly not pleased with Littlefinger or his influence. You can tell he’s trying to get a reaction out of you. Some kind of statement for or against the man. You successfully resist blurting something out, but travelers can go either way on a road. Ser Harlaw may have useful information of his own, or perhaps he holds the ear of Lord Belmore’s court.

Father’s lessons come flooding back. Courtesy, chivalry, friendship. The three most important traits to display to visiting lords. It is always better to have friends than enemies, father always said.

Ser Harlaw smiles at your rebuke. “As direct as your father, I see. I like that. Let me be clear—Clear As Day, if I may say so. It’s no secret that the Vale is facing a crisis of leadership. Kings Landing is all but useless, and the Lord of the Eyrie is half your age. His Lord Protector is a man without character, without accomplishment aside from ease with coin, and until very recently, without any notable titles.” He leans in.

“A man like this has his eyes on something far grander than merely tutoring Lord Robert. Tell me, how does the son of a Vale hedge knight find himself named Lord Paramount of the Trident, without lineage or strapping on a blade—while the Riverlands bled. How does he find himself with two of the Seven Kingdoms under his rule, without the true allegiance of most of the lords bannermen of those kingdoms? He is remarkable, but at his core, he is just another slippery coin from King’s Landing, trading favors and allegiance for influence until he traps himself in the strands of his own deceit. He has served two dead Kings, two dead Hands—including one of our own, one dead Lady Regent of the Vale, and now a sickly young Lord. A fell omen, if you ask me. You receive the ravens the same as every other house, Lord Corrett. Tell me, what does the Lord of Greycrown Keep think of the state of the Vale?”

He’s put you in a tough position, because you don’t rightly know the position of your liegelord, Roger Egen. The demands of the Lords Declarant, as well as their subsequent year’s peace with Littlefinger, were passed to you with no comment on the part of Lord Roger.

Ser Harlaw fails to overcome your formidable intrigue defense, which luckily took effect before his action. Your intrigue defense is now 23 until the end of the next exchange.

Banion

The bell seems to toll twice, once outside and then once much more painfully inside your head. The effect is rather disorienting. You manage to locate and retrieve the manifest, secreting it away in your pack.

The sailors continue their song until they make it to the dock with the barge. The barge itself is a fat, flatbottomed thing with a limp little sail and a large rowboat on board for to tow the barge when the wind fails. The dock is alive with activity around the ferry-barge, as men load and unload all kinds of barrels and trunks and effects. There are a large number of men-at-arms moving about, wearing wool tabards over mail, with myriad sigils on their breast and shield. Two white crabs on light green hoist some bales of straw aboard with hooks, while the yellow suns on blue lug a heavy chest with an empty cage on top, and four sisters on blue and green lead a seemingly endless line of fine destriers onto the barge over the narrow gangplank. An unusually large group of young nobles are strutting every which way, shouting commands and clutching their sealskin cloaks tight about themselves. They all have a certain arrogant look about them, as if their fine gloves and personalized coats of arms (always trios of sisters on blue and green quartered with: a horned whale, a prancing horse, a seahorse, some indescribable sea creature, and so on) will make people forget for a moment that these are Sistermen. Even the Lord Crab is still a crab, and nobody wants crabs. More men-at-arms come clanging past you, bearing enormous breastplates and helms, steel skirts, mail coifs, and other pieces of armor.

Over the din, one of the sailors from the Sister’s Sweets remembers himself enough to start collecting tolls from the passengers—a silver stag each. If you pay, he lets you wander on to the ship. Nobody seems to be paying you much mind, although they keep brushing past you on the side the forces you closer and closer to the horses, as if they know instinctively that you’re the one most likely to be at peace with quartering with the livestock.

Aside from the gaggle of nobles and their horde of footmen and other attendants, there are perhaps a half dozen travelers who don’t appear to be connected with them. They wear cheap roughspuns, supplemented with some weathered furs and serviceable boots. Like many in the Vale, they are all armed with cudgels, spears, and dirks.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The bell seems to toll twice, once outside and then once much more painfully inside your head. The effect is rather disorienting. You manage to locate and retrieve the manifest, secreting it away in your pack.

The sailors continue their song until they make it to the dock with the barge. The barge itself is a fat, flatbottomed thing with a limp little sail and a large rowboat on board for to tow the barge when the wind fails. The dock is alive with activity around the ferry-barge, as men load and unload all kinds of barrels and trunks and effects. There are a large number of men-at-arms moving about, wearing wool tabards over mail, with myriad sigils on their breast and shield. Two white crabs on light green hoist some bales of straw aboard with hooks, while the yellow suns on blue lug a heavy chest with an empty cage on top, and four sisters on blue and green lead a seemingly endless line of fine destriers onto the barge over the narrow gangplank. An unusually large group of young nobles are strutting every which way, shouting commands and clutching their sealskin cloaks tight about themselves. They all have a certain arrogant look about them, as if their fine gloves and personalized coats of arms (always trios of sisters on blue and green quartered with: a horned whale, a prancing horse, a seahorse, some indescribable sea creature, and so on) will make people forget for a moment that these are Sistermen. Even the Lord Crab is still a crab, and nobody wants crabs. More men-at-arms come clanging past you, bearing enormous breastplates and helms, steel skirts, mail coifs, and other pieces of armor.

Over the din, one of the sailors from the Sister’s Sweets remembers himself enough to start collecting tolls from the passengers—a silver stag each. If you pay, he lets you wander on to the ship. Nobody seems to be paying you much mind, although they keep brushing past you on the side the forces you closer and closer to the horses, as if they know instinctively that you’re the one most likely to be at peace with quartering with the livestock.

Aside from the gaggle of nobles and their horde of footmen and other attendants, there are perhaps a half dozen travelers who don’t appear to be connected with them. They wear cheap roughspuns, supplemented with some weathered furs and serviceable boots. Like many in the Vale, they are all armed with cudgels, spears, and dirks.

Banion seems at ease with getting lost in the crowd and being brushed aside - perhaps used to it? He casts no evil eye nor foul word to anyone who cuts in front of him or slights him in the least socially. Instead, he just stares blankly at the various sigils, trying to make sense of them or at least put one or two to memory. Anything to keep his attention off the stupor he finds himself in.

After paying his fee to board the ship, he lets himself be inched towards where ever he'll be out of the way, playing the part of just another 'lost' traveler who doesn't know any better. When he's left with no where else to go, he eases his backpack off his shoulders and slumps down to the deck of the ship. pressing his body and head back against whatever brace he can find: a crate, some rope, or even the hull itself. The backpack sits nestled between his legs, his wrists resting on top of the beg, while he bends his knees at near perfect right angles. His eyes close and he takes in a deep breath through his nose, the overwhelming smell of salt water and animal scent filling his senses. And then he exhales out, calming himself and fighting off the dizziness and pains of the oncoming hangover. This is probably going to be a difficult voyage home, but at least he's headed back there.

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

"Good shot," Eldric calls to Mera, "but it's time to leave!" The words sting a little, it feels cowardly to turn tail in the face of a line of armed men, but fighting would serve no purpose here at all. There was no glory in a pointless death.

Urging his horse forward, Eldric sets his sights on escaping from the advancing clansmen.

[heretic]

Banion

Pushing your way through the crowd, you find a nice place to sit on the deck, with your back leaned up against a bale of hay. Out of the chaos comes order, as the final horses are led aboard and hobbled in between the bales, which serve as a sort of makeshift stable. The men-at-arms and servants eventually succeed in bringing aboard their bundles of lances, suits of armor, and saddles. A cart or two full of barrels completes the ensemble. There are perhaps fifteen nobles, including some squires, and over thirty servants and men-at-arms.

You’re not one to know the ins and outs of every sign and mark in the land, although you’ve picked up enough to recognize the law in the places you’ve traveled, as well as the best known symbols in the realm. The King wears a Stag, the war was between the northern Wolves and Lannister Lions, and the Arryns of the Eyrie are Falcons. The Lipps wear lips on their shields, the Egens a sun, moon, and star, and you distinctly remember being arrested by men with silver bells on purple, whose dungeon was most accommodating.

The three sisters on the wavy field of green and blue is familiar to you now as the sigil of the Sunderlings (Sunderlambs?), the house that rules the sisters, while the white crabs are the Borrells of Sweetsister. You imagine that the red lobster on sea-green is another sistermen house, while the others are less familiar. One sigil you recognize for sure is the hilarious sign of House Lipps (a neighbor to the Corretts): a pair of enormous pink lips on dark blue.

The quartered sigils are personalized, with two quarters being the house and two quarters representing the knight in question. You’ve never had cause to learn those, except for that time Lord Alyn had you track down Septon (formerly Ser) Jon Hersy. That time, you used a stitching of his personal arms to help locate him. His sign was the silver winged cup on pink of his house, quartered against a grey fist on white. A fierce sigil for a less-than-fierce knight. He quit his spurs for a septon’s crystal after his favorite horse threw him at the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing and his squire “gave him a feeling he misliked.” Lord Alyn was very interested in this, but who can say why.

The barge pushes off from the dock and the crew paddles feebly with oars for a bit until the sails catch the wind and you begin to make your way for the mainland. The nobles have moved to the front of the ferry, laughing and gesticulating as they talk. The various men-at-arms are tending to the horses (all of which belong to the three sisters sigiled house) or milling about talking with one another, largely segregated by sigil.

[bluntpencil]

Lord Morris nods, a fair attempt at looking sage beyond his years.

"I speak only for House Corrett, Ser Harlaw. I would suggest that, should you wish to know Lord Egen's position, that you ask him yourself.

Personally, I, of course, am concerned about current events which are transpiring in the Vale...

...however, I will state clearly that I believe that it would be folly for me to rush into taking a side. After all, as sordid as this very probably is, one must consider the fact that heroism in combat, or noble lineage, does not always make one an ideal administrator.

If that were the case, the crown would not be in debt, and the previous dynasty would not have ended in the way in which it did."

He is careful to avoid saying anything particularly bad about anyone, and makes a point of taking a very neutral stance.


Shield of Reputation!

[roll0]

[Old Overholt]

Banion takes a few good moments to relax. As far as he can tell, he has successfully completed his lord's task, escaped being thrown in a pillory or worse, and is working off a suitable hangover. Things could be worse... and the rocking of the boat doesn't seem to be helping, even when sitting down. Feeling the uneasiness that the sea causes starting to take its affect on him, Banion opens his eyes, grumbles, and pushes himself to his feet. Bracing himself up against the boat, he catches his bearings for a moment or two before looking around and noticing an opportunity. With the men-at-arms segregated from their lords, they might be a little more open to less regal behavior.

Grabbing his backpack, the ne'er-do-well saunters over to a group of men-at-arms, heading towards a group of Lipps men. Slowly inching his way into the circle of armed men, Banion waits until he has the attention of two or three of the men. "You boys fancy a game of dice to pass the time?" he asks, trying to strike up a little socialization and a little gambling.

[Simsimillia]

She had hit and mentally Mera pat herself on the back. It had been a difficult shot. But she wasn't sure if it had the desired effect, at this distance the clanleader seemed rather unfased and ordered his men to attack.

She could hear their projectiles hitting the ground nearby, not close enough to be dangerous, but they soon would be. Elrik was right, time to go.

She turned her horse as well disappearing riding into the night at the Blackfort's side.

[heretic]

Eldric and Mera

It feels as though it will take forever to climb back out of the foothills. The torches of your pursuers cannot match your pace, and they fell back out of sight some time ago. Under Ser Gorlen’s careful instruction, you manage to avoid laming the horses during the dark part of your climb.

Dawn begins to break, giving you enough light to allow you to ride without risk. Ser Gorlen takes the opportunity to range out behind you and check again for pursuers. Presently, he reemerges. Between the grey of his courser and the dusty brown filth of his tunic, he looks to be part of the mountain itself. As the sun rises higher, you begin to feel the ache in your necks, hips, and knees, from riding all night through the hills and mountains. A warm bed will be most welcome.

Finally, you crest Nestor’s Lookout again. In the light of day, the camps are not visible at this distance, though you can spot the general area. Just over a league away and barely visible are the high walls and towers of Greycrown Keep.

You’ve ended up ahead of the Morris/Rowan thread. It’s still evening for them, rather than the next morning. Feel free to take the time to have some IC discussion between the two of you, or with Ser Gorlen.

Also, you each have a point of fatigue, imposing a -1 flat penalty on all test results. It will disappear if you rest for four hours.

Banion

The three Lipps men shuffle aside to let you join their circle. They each wear the Lipps tabard over boiled leather, with longswords and daggers belted on. Two of them wear their dark beards long, while a third has shaved his, keeping the mutton chops. The fourth man in the circle is a bit older than you, showing some grey about his temples. He is clean-shaven. From afar, he bears no sigil, but up close you can see a silver pin in the shape of lips fastening his cloak. He wears sooty mail and has a bastard sword riding high on his hip.

At your suggestion of dice, the men-at-arms nod. One reaches into the folds of his cloak and produces a pair of bone dice. “Are you a lucky man, traveler?” The others begin to kneel down low to the deck, the better to spot the dice. “Where are you traveling?”

You have -2D on all tests from drunkenness. An hour has passed, entitling you to a Difficulty 9 Endurance check to partially sober up, reducing the penalty to -1D.

[Q'telun]

Lady Alyssa Corrett
In the past

"I thank you for your sentiments, Ser Harlaw. Were Lord Alyn still alive, I'm sure he would be overjoyed to hear your praise of the improvements he oversaw." Alyssa gestures to the seat opposite of herself. "I forget my manners. Won't you please have a seat, Ser? I am sure that any news from the Bite can wait until you have rested and eaten."

Even if they were starved for information, it would do her no good to show any desperation. It would serve her purposes much better to be an excellent host.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The three Lipps men shuffle aside to let you join their circle. They each wear the Lipps tabard over boiled leather, with longswords and daggers belted on. Two of them wear their dark beards long, while a third has shaved his, keeping the mutton chops. The fourth man in the circle is a bit older than you, showing some grey about his temples. He is clean-shaven. From afar, he bears no sigil, but up close you can see a silver pin in the shape of lips fastening his cloak. He wears sooty mail and has a bastard sword riding high on his hip.

At your suggestion of dice, the men-at-arms nod. One reaches into the folds of his cloak and produces a pair of bone dice. “Are you a lucky man, traveler?” The others begin to kneel down low to the deck, the better to spot the dice. “Where are you traveling?”

You have -2D on all tests from drunkenness. An hour has passed, entitling you to a Difficulty 9 Endurance check to partially sober up, reducing the penalty to -1D.

"I've lived this long, so I figure I've got a chance here and there," Banion says as he takes a knee, placing his right joint against the ground and then resting his left forearm on his left knee. "But if I was that lucky, I probably wouldn't be playing here with the likes of us," he adds with a pained smile, the effects of the alcohol wearing off, but still quite present. Pulling his purse open he produces a small handful of copper pennies and silver stags to show he's serious about playing - not a small fortune, but enough for someone to have a good weekend should they take it all. "Headed in the direction of Fairmarket after some business on the Sisters... and in them," he answers with a sly grin. "What about you fine gents? You all don't look like a bunch of Salt Dogs from The Bite," Banion then asks, trading tit-for-tat.

[Saulk]

Maester Rowan leans in to the young lord and whispers, hidden behind his hand.

"Perhaps, my lord, Ser Harlaw needs a little more comfort than the bread and salt alone to speak more freely. As with many in the Vale right now, he and his lord might be concerned that ears and eyes are everywhere. As it is just us in this room, perhaps you might give him some assurances that if he does speak in a way that might be considered...treacherous, he is not entirely alone. I don't mean to indicate you choose any side, but merely say something...mildly inflammatory to let him know there is a kindred spirit in the room. Let him know that none of us are septons here, to coin a phrase."

OOC

I'm sorry, I didn't know we were waiting on me!

Action - Assist Morris
[roll0]

[bluntpencil]

Halfway through his Maester's advice, Morris raises a hand to silence him.

It wouldn't do well to appear ruled by his advisers, after all, and Ser Harlaw would appreciate such a gesture, he thinks.

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa Corrett
In the past

Ser Harlaw sits, pushing his belt down a bit for comfort. He begins to help himself to the rolls and wine. Your handmaiden Val steps out of the solar, her step soft upon the rushes that cover the floor.

“Thank you again for your hospitality. The Bite is a hard place, to be sure, and the Sisters are a den of villainy. Lord Triston Sunderland feasted me for one of his sons’ namedays. A good man in a bad place with little news of import. You may have news of interest though. I was hoping that you would have received word by now of the capitulation of Petyr Baelish.” He takes a sip of wine. “With six thousand strong at his gates, the man has no choice but to step aside as Lord Protector. My lord cousin is a persuasive man, especially with an army at his back.”

Harlaw speaks as if he is unaware that the Lords Declarant have backed off their declaration and given Baelish a year to rule.

The Sunderlands are slippery folk to be sure, just as with all sistermen. However, Triston Sunderland retains some prestige as Lord of the Sisters with three bannermen. The Sunderlands and other sistermen houses have mostly kept their distance from Greycrown Keep, likely on account of the bad history between the two houses. (The Corretts fought the Sisters bitterly during the First Blackfyre Rebellion)

Most of your memories of interacting with the Sunderlands come from attending large tourneys or weddings, though when you were a little girl, you remember ships visiting House Moore’s castle on their way to and from the Sisters. You’re vaguely aware that Triston Sunderland has a great number of sons, but none have won any renown as far as you know.

I went ahead and rolled initiative for the Intrigue, which you won.

Banion

The men-at-arms give a hoot at your jape. One claps you on the back. They each produce a stack of five coppers and pile them in the center. The clean-shaven man kneels with the group, but does not join in the gambling. “I’m Othell Lipps and we mean to ride for Step Hill. Our furs are in high demand with winter coming. We make for Step Hill with salt fish in tow.” One of his men breaks in eagerly. “But we might make for the Gates of the Moon instead, right Ser Othell?” Ser Othell raises a hand. “No. We ride for Step Hill with the fish. My younger brother Ser Ossifer will likely attend the tourney at the Gates of the Moon, but that decision is up to Lord Ronnet.” The man-at-arms looks a bit crestfallen. Ser Othell continues, “By the looks of it, the Sunderlands plan to field all seven sons as tourney knights. One of them already offered to buy one of House Lipps’s places in the lists. The price he named was laughable though.”

He pauses, watching the men throw the dice.

“Fairmarket, you say. Trying to rescue family, I suppose? Little reason to make for the Riverlands these days. Naught to be had there but death and pestilence. Alas, the siren song of glory has pulled many a good Vale man to go die in that war. Robar Royce, Jon Corrett…Brynden Tully, though I can understand that one. The truth is, we should have rode with the Young Wolf. Bronze Yohn Royce almost convinced Lady Lysa to do it, but she had none of Lord Arryn's honor or courage. We could have captured King’s Landing before Tywin Lannister would know what was happening or even turned the Blackwater for Stannis, if the Young Wolf willed it.”

The gambling game is simple: everyone rolls 2d6 and winner gets the pot.
2d6
2d6
2d6

Lord Morris and Rowan
In the present

Ser Harlaw nods. “It is prudent to avoid rushing to take a side. If Lord Egen has not even told his bannermen what he intends to do, then he likely hasn’t decided. Your counsel to Lord Roger is of the utmost importance, then.”

The servants finish with their decorations and quit the hall.

“It is true that good stewardship over land does not require feats of arms or heritage, but consider this: the smallfolk who live on your lands know the name Corrett better than any. They know that when the wild men of the mountains came down on their fathers and their father’s fathers, it was the Corretts who rode to protect them, generation after generation. Likewise, your neighbor houses can trace back their lineage and see links between your houses, fosterings, squires, marriages and the like. They know that your reputation for honor has roots older than any one Lord of the Keep, and that every Corrett who sits where you do now has that mantle to uphold.” He shakes his head. “This man Baelish has none of that. Do the folk of Harrenhal sleep easy knowing that they can rely on the protection of Petyr Baelish? They wouldn’t know his sigil if it were stitched on their breast, which it isn't. Other lords do not know his intentions. He has no history to draw upon. His tapestry is short and no one knows what he will weave next.”

Ser Harlaw again fails to penetrate Morris's ID. Of course, that doesn’t mean you have to automatically disagree with him.

I’ll rule that despite your shushing of Rowan, his advice translates to +1 on your next conflict result test.

Your Shield of Reputation check succeeds. As a side note, you can dismiss Ser Harlaw whenever you like, thus ending the intrigue. Or you can continue. If you continue, I'm assuming your attitude toward him is indifferent, and if you decide to try and influence him, be sure to name your goal when you do so.

For initiative, I'll just assume you're both acting before Ser Harlaw in whatever order makes more sense for your actions. I'll wait to update the scene until you've both posted, after which I'll resolve Ser Harlaw's action and draft the update.

[Saulk]

Rowan nods at the bit of theater he assumes is being played out for Harlaw's benefit, his head dipping sagely as he quiets down, watching the man's reactions as he does so.

House Corrett indeed had a sterling reputation, and little could tarnish that reputation faster than association with Lord Baelish. In his heart he felt that a man speaking as Harlaw did would feel the same, but, he supposed, this is why he was a Maester and not a diplomat.


Action - Consider (this will be used until there is a more concrete way or need to enter the conversation)

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The men-at-arms give a hoot at your jape. One claps you on the back. They each produce a stack of five coppers and pile them in the center. The clean-shaven man kneels with the group, but does not join in the gambling. “I’m Othell Lipps and we mean to ride for Step Hill. Our furs are in high demand with winter coming. We make for Step Hill with salt fish in tow.” One of his men breaks in eagerly. “But we might make for the Gates of the Moon instead, right Ser Othell?” Ser Othell raises a hand. “No. We ride for Step Hill with the fish. My younger brother Ser Ossifer will likely attend the tourney at the Gates of the Moon, but that decision is up to Lord Ronnet.” The man-at-arms looks a bit crestfallen. Ser Othell continues, “By the looks of it, the Sunderlands plan to field all seven sons as tourney knights. One of them already offered to buy one of House Lipps’s places in the lists. The price he named was laughable though.”

He pauses, watching the men throw the dice.

“Fairmarket, you say. Trying to rescue family, I suppose? Little reason to make for the Riverlands these days. Naught to be had there but death and pestilence. Alas, the siren song of glory has pulled many a good Vale man to go die in that war. Robar Royce, Jon Corrett…Brynden Tully, though I can understand that one. The truth is, we should have rode with the Young Wolf. Bronze Yohn Royce almost convinced Lady Lysa to do it, but she had none of Lord Arryn's honor or courage. We could have captured King’s Landing before Tywin Lannister would know what was happening or even turned the Blackwater for Stannis, if the Young Wolf willed it.”

The gambling game is simple: everyone rolls 2d6 and winner gets the pot.
[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]

Banion pulls his head back and lets out a little hiss as he watches the winning roll come out - a roll that isn't his. Shaking his head with a bit of a smile, he's a gracious loser, letting the lucky lout collect his winnings. When the pot is cleared, he slides another five copper pennies into the circle as he answers the question. "Yes..." he says solemnly with a few bobs of his head. "... going to check on my sister after I heard the bridge washed out. Promised my mother I would find her." Drawing in a slow breath through his nose, as if to calm himself, Banion goes silent for a moment, staring blankly at the pot. Something snaps him out of the wistful respite and he blinks a few times as his attention turns back to the circle and Ser Othell in particular. "I leave those plans and decisions to the lords," he admits, bowing his head. "They know best."

[bluntpencil]

"My most sincere thanks for your advice Ser Harlaw. I must apologise for sounding somewhat combative previously - one cannot simply blurt out whatever takes one's fancy, or make such important decisions at the snap of one's fingers. Your forthrightness and honesty have been noted, and much appreciated though.

If you would care to join us for a meal, I would be delighted to speak of less grave matters."



Withdrawing again...

[roll0] Best 5 dice, plus penalties from injury, bonuses from telling Rowan to shut up. Round about 20ish.

[Q'telun]

Lady Alyssa
Still in the Past

Lady Alyssa smiles at the news. "It is good to hear that even in these dark times, there is still joy to be found. How is Lord Sunderland these days?"

The lady keeps Ser Harlaw's glass of wine as full as he requires, and only takes delicate sips of her own. It is only polite, after all. "As for your honorable Lord Cousin, there has been no news of capitulation of any kind. In fact, the Lords Declarant have agreed to give Baelish one year to prove his worth, though I am sure that Lord Belmore protested most vehemently against such a decision. No true Lord would support such a lowborn upstart tutoring the next King of the Vale."

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa Corrett
In the past

Ser Harlaw strokes his beard as you speak. “Lord Sunderland is well, and I rather like his sons. They have more honor than the rest of the Sunderland bannermen combined. All but one have been knighted already, and the last one is hungry for it as well.” When the talk turns to Littlefinger, Harlaw frowns.

“I will have to speak to my cousin about that, then. Baelish is a slippery one…”

“Well, that only means that the stakes of the dispute have been raised and the conflict prolonged. Such matters are likely to be thoroughly discussed in court at Strongsong. You should come visit sometime, when you’re feeling up to it. To be sure, your hall is grand, but when the Vale hangs on a knife’s edge, it will be decided in my cousin’s court and in Lord Royce’s.” He tilts his head to the side as if trying to remember something.

“Your daughter Anya, is it?—she could come as well. There are ample playmates of appropriate birth to be found in Strongsong, and my lord cousin’s grandsons are of a similar age.”

Ser Harlaw is almost certainly overstating the influence of his cousin. Lord Belmore is powerful, but he is one of six declarants, each formidable in their own right, and stands opposed to the powerful Graftons, backed by the Corbrays, Lynderlys and even Nestor Royce, who was steward of the Vale.

Nevertheless, his offer of fostering is worthy of consideration, though he is certainly implying that he wants Corrett support in return.

All of the fosterings Alyn arranged were with lesser houses—Jon fostered at House Egen for a year and your nephew the Foulben (Benedict Corrett) spent time at Houses Lipps, Egen, and Hersy, as well as some faraway stormlands houses. The last Corrett ward to stay at Strongsong was Lord Addam, Alyn’s father.

Your Persuasion (Charm) result is 17, thanks to your Charismatic benefit, which grants a +2 bonus on such checks. Your result is good enough for two degrees of success, which translates to ten influence. This is reduced by Ser Harlaw’s DR, which you don’t know at this point. You have not prevailed yet in the Intrigue.

Ser Harlaw’s entreaties have not yet affected your Composure.

As a side note, Robert Arryn’s titles are Warden of the East, Protector of the Vale, but not King.


Banion

As your drunkenness continues to lift, you remember spending a bit of time at Step Hill, investigating for Lord Corrett as to the health and well-being of Jeyne Lipps, a fair maiden. She was fit as a fiddle, though she was prone to take a secret tumble or two with a certain hairy trapper. Step Hill itself is relatively unremarkable, rocky land. It sits lower in altitude than Greycrown Keep and much further to the southwest. It must be a long journey for these men, though you will share a route in the beginning, even while maintaining your cover story.

The mutton-chopped man makes a face at losing and doesn’t ante in again. The other two do, tossing the dice.

Presently, the shore appears and the crew begins making preparations for landing.


You can make another check to sober up completely now.
[roll0]
[roll1]


Lord Morris and Rowan
In the present

Ser Harlaw nods and smiles when you compliment his honesty. He leans back, softening his posture a bit. “I have no doubt you will navigate the coming months with great skill, Lord Corrett.”

Dollos and a bevy of servants reenter and begin preparing the hall for supper. They light additional sconces in the corners of the hall, lay out cloths around your seat and around Ser Harlaws, color-coordinated to match house colors.

Others begin to trickle into the hall. Some of your men-at-arms—you recognize Left-Hand Karl, Joss, and Patrek—take their seats below the salt. An equal number of Belmore men join them. Ser Rymun Castos walks in slowly, using a cane, and seats himself nearby. Iron Jenny strides in with a few gaolers, and seats herself just below the salt. Septa Tanselle arrives with the Sadmaester, Anya and a handful of other children, and sits across from Ser Rymun. Conversation bubbles up around the hall, echoing off the walls.

Servants begin bringing out flagons of wine and ale, followed soon by chicken on a bed of lemon slices and a trencher of mutton stewed with onions. About halfway through that course, they bring out some fresh honeycombs and soft biscuits for you, and harder stale biscuits for those below the salt.

Ser Harlaw excuses himself to make water. Down at the end of the table, a pair of dogs fight over a lamb bone.

When Ser Harlaw is out of sight, your advisors speak up. Denys Stone is first. “You did well there. He is right about Baelish, of course, but we cannot take a side without our liegelord’s consent.” Dogsbane Hoyne butts in. “Aye, but Ser Harlaw’s hands are dirty—he speaks not of his younger cousin Ser Marwyn, who serves Baelish as captain of the guard at the Gates of the Moon!” Ser Rymun clears his voice, managing to croak out, “but Ser Marwyn was sworn to the Eyrie itself as captain of the guard before Baelish assigned him to the Gates of the Moon. He is merely continuing his duty.” Ser Stanly Hoyne disagrees. “He was dismissed from his post at the Eyrie! The man chose to stay on at the Gates of the Moon. I’m telling you, there’s a rogue Belmore!”

Rowan

Ser Marwyn’s post at the Gates of the Moon does seem significant. It would mean, for instance, that the brief siege of the Gates of the Moon by the Lords Declarant involved commanders on each side with the name Belmore. (And incidentally, there were commanders on both sides named Royce as well--Lord Yohn Royce, a Lord Declarant, and his cousin Nestor Royce, Lord of the Gates of the Moon) However, Ser Stanly, as is characteristic of warlike men, is overlooking the other possibility: that Ser Marwyn’s loyalties lie in Strongsong, regardless of his post.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

As your drunkenness continues to lift, you remember spending a bit of time at Step Hill, investigating for Lord Corrett as to the health and well-being of Jeyne Lipps, a fair maiden. She was fit as a fiddle, though she was prone to take a secret tumble or two with a certain hairy trapper. Step Hill itself is relatively unremarkable, rocky land. It sits lower in altitude than Greycrown Keep and much further to the southwest. It must be a long journey for these men, though you will share a route in the beginning, even while maintaining your cover story.

The mutton-chopped man makes a face at losing and doesn’t ante in again. The other two do, tossing the dice.

Presently, the shore appears and the crew begins making preparations for landing.


You can make another check to sober up completely now.
[roll0]
[roll1]


More coins lost, but all in a "proper" investment. Letting out a groan as he sees himself come up short yet again, Banion clicks his tongue and looks upward as he starts to hear growing calls of seagulls. They wouldn't be this far out unless there was land nearby. It won't be much longer until the ferry docks and everyone heads off. He lets out a soft 'Hmph' before looking back to his fellow gamblers as if to see whether there was more interest in playing. "I'll like gracious winners," he tells them in his gravely voice. "... I like gracious losers better, but you blokes'll do."

Banion's head starts to lift itself out of the fog and his senses become a bit more clear. Feeling more like himself, the rogue serving House Corrett starts to bring out his inner weasel. "You'll forgive me boys from asking, but you wouldn't mind if I tag along with you for a bit after we get ashore?" he asks. The reason, he feels, is pretty self explanatory. "... mountain folk and all. Give you a chance to bleed me completely dry," Banion adds grimly and simply should they need any clues. "And I wouldn't mind getting a bit of that salt fish off you for the rest of the journey. Sure you can spare one or two for some copper."

[Q'telun]

Lady Alyssa
In the Past 3: Past Harder

"A kind offer ser, but I am afraid I am in no position to accept. Decisions such as those are for the Lord to make." Alyssa looks apologetic as she deflects the knight. "Even were that not the case, I trust in the walls Lord Alyn built."

She looks sad for a brief moment, then rouses herself. "Ah, forgive me. You did not come here to listen to my ramblings. I will bring the subject of fostering up with Lord Morris, when next it is appropriate. And if you see fit to warn your cousin of treachery, you might also warn your brother, Ser Marwyn. He has been given the honorable position of Captain of the Guard at the Gates of the Moon, under Lord Nestor Royce."

"Your comments do pique my curiosity. What new affront have the bannermen of the Sisters committed? I know of the acts of House Borrell, but I did not think House Torrent or House Longthorpe had committed similar wrongs."

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa
In the past 4: Yankee in King Joffrey's Court

Ser Harlaw seems pleased by your approach to the encounter. "Of course, I wouldn't presume to circumvent Lord Morris. He has large boots to fill."

He nods when you mention Ser Marwyn and his smile drifts from his lips. "Yes, Marwyn seems to have chosen his own way. If I were around for it, I'd learn him good." He makes the motion of striking someone upside the head. The wine in your cups rocks back and forth. "Alas, he cast his lot before he knew our intentions. If he had full notice, he might be sitting here beside me instead of holed up with Nestor Royce. But Marwyn is proud and now he is stuck."

He takes a sip of wine. "As for the Longthorpes, their heir sliced Lord Coldwater's daughter with a blade!" You remember that the perpetrator is sitting in a cell beneath you as you speak. "And it's said that the Torrents make false lights in the night in order to plunder wrecked ships. In any case, I consider the Sisters to be wretched as a general historical presumption. Sistermen have to redeem themselves to have any honor. You know, my septon refuses to set foot on those islands. Says they don't keep the Seven."

You sense that it is time to leave Ser Harlaw on a good note. As if on cue, Val reappears. "Shall I light the candles for your prayers, m'lady?"

Ser Harlaw, ever gracious, takes the hint and rises. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Corrett. I look forward to speaking again." He takes his leave.

You again achieve two degrees of success for ten influence, reduced by Harlaw's DR. This is enough to reduce his composure to zero. You achieve your goal of winning him over as a friend. His attitude towards you improves by a step and you receive +1D on Persuasion and Deception rolls against him in your next intrigue in which he participates. He again failed to overcome your ID.

I'm cutting short the interaction in order to reunite the timelines.

Lady Alyssa
In the past 5: Hot Tub Past Machine

After lighting seven candles and waiting a bit, you can finally relax. By now Morris has finished getting himself banged into the ground by Denys Stone and he'll be ready to face one of his first lordly tests.

The candles burn lower.

You and Alyn had been very close to triangulating young Lord Roger Egen, using his youth, his uncle Ser Vardis, and his relative isolation to steer him into a toll-splitting arrangement, as well as some other concessions. However, that plot was shattered as soon as Ser Vardis had volunteered to risk his life in an unnecessary duel and ended up getting cut to pieces. After that, there was no way to feed Lord Roger ideas through his uncle. The man--a boy, really--had withdrawn and interacted little with the outside world. Refusing to signal his intentions would be exactly in keeping with the Lord Roger you know.

Val has gone to tend to the great hall, but she returns periodically to update you on what Morris and Harlaw are discussing. Morris seems to be holding his own, finally disclosing that he does not know Roger Egen's position, but still refusing to take a side regarding the Lords Declarant.

Lady Alyssa
In the past 6: Past to the Future

Presently, the smell of a roast drifts into the solar.

They must be serving food now. Your stomach rumbles.

[heretic]

Banion

The same man wins again and the others seem to have lost interest. They look to Ser Othell when you ask to join them. “Yes, you may travel with us. If you have coin, we will let you have a taste of the salt cod as well. However, you should know that there is no profit to be had in betrayal. We have another ten men waiting with us at the shore and you would face grave danger if we cast you out on your own.”

Men begin hauling on ropes, hoisting the sails up. Others dip paddles into the water, pulling for the simple dock jutting out next to a rocky pier. The Sunderland (that’s the name!) men hold the horses steady as they begin to whicker at the gulls.

Once close enough, the ferry is secured with great ropes fastened tight. Gangplanks are lowered and the group begins disembarking. Just as Ser Othell told it, there are ten men waiting to unload the Lipps fish. Some of them wear faded Lipps-sigiled tabards, while others wear brown woolen tunics over ring or scale armor. A shield or two laying on the docks sports the Lipps crest. All told, the barrels of salt fish fill three wayns, each pulled by a shaggy stot.

The innkeeper at the small hut of an inn trods down to the dock with your horse in tow with the rest of your effects. He nods, handing over the reins. “Seven stags, friend.”

Nearby, the Sunderland men have mounted. Each knight rides a rounsey, as do some of the squires and men-at-arms. The destriers are led by hand, unencumbered, while the suits of armor for man and horse are piled high in a sturdy wagon pulled by a pair of mules. They form up in a line, led by a squire with a pennant fluttering at the tip of his lance, and move out. Knights always try and cut a dashing figure in these scenarios, but you do notice one scratching his arse vigorously before they ride.

The Lipps men, once assembled, cut a less impressive figure. Their tabards are worn, sigils sometimes nonexistent, and their shields are dented and dirty. Almost to a man, they wear their beards on the unkempt side and their hair long. They are armed with swords, axes, and spears, as well as a couple bows. Ser Othell mounts his courser and smiles. “Home, boys.”

“Home!”


We'll do a couple of scenes on the road, just enough to convey the flavor of the road, resolve any events that occur, and give you an opportunity to interact with your co-travelers. In case it wasn't already clear, your timeline will reunite with everyone else's as soon as you reach Greycrown Keep.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The same man wins again and the others seem to have lost interest. They look to Ser Othell when you ask to join them. “Yes, you may travel with us. If you have coin, we will let you have a taste of the salt cod as well. However, you should know that there is no profit to be had in betrayal. We have another ten men waiting with us at the shore and you would face grave danger if we cast you out on your own.”

Men begin hauling on ropes, hoisting the sails up. Others dip paddles into the water, pulling for the simple dock jutting out next to a rocky pier. The Sunderland (that’s the name!) men hold the horses steady as they begin to whicker at the gulls.

Once close enough, the ferry is secured with great ropes fastened tight. Gangplanks are lowered and the group begins disembarking. Just as Ser Othell told it, there are ten men waiting to unload the Lipps fish. Some of them wear faded Lipps-sigiled tabards, while others wear brown woolen tunics over ring or scale armor. A shield or two laying on the docks sports the Lipps crest. All told, the barrels of salt fish fill three wayns, each pulled by a shaggy stot.

The innkeeper at the small hut of an inn trods down to the dock with your horse in tow with the rest of your effects. He nods, handing over the reins. “Seven stags, friend.”

Nearby, the Sunderland men have mounted. Each knight rides a rounsey, as do some of the squires and men-at-arms. The destriers are led by hand, unencumbered, while the suits of armor for man and horse are piled high in a sturdy wagon pulled by a pair of mules. They form up in a line, led by a squire with a pennant fluttering at the tip of his lance, and move out. Knights always try and cut a dashing figure in these scenarios, but you do notice one scratching his arse vigorously before they ride.

The Lipps men, once assembled, cut a less impressive figure. Their tabards are worn, sigils sometimes nonexistent, and their shields are dented and dirty. Almost to a man, they wear their beards on the unkempt side and their hair long. They are armed with swords, axes, and spears, as well as a couple bows. Ser Othell mounts his courser and smiles. “Home, boys.”

“Home!”


"Most gracious of you, Ser Othell, was it? But betrayal..." Banion states, trying to commit the knight's name to memory while shaking his head. Looking to the men after their superior has approved his traveling with them, Banion gives them a polite smile as he adds, "I'll warn you boys... I'm armed with a variety of songs and a horrible singing voice, and I'm not afraid to use it."

Banion sorts through his purse to pay the innkeeper, counting out an extra silver stag into the man's hand to ensure he notices it. "Thanks for keeping a close eye on her," he tells the innkeep as he takes the reins of his horse. Banion spends about five minutes talking to his horse, calling her "Midnight", while petting/rubbing her muzzle and forehead. The name is clearly a reference to the mare's pitch black coat. There's barely an ounce of color on her except a flick of whit here or there in her main or around her hooves. He spends another few minutes checking through his things, and once he has verified his possessions to his satisfaction, mounts his horse and signals to his companions that he's ready to set forth.

[bluntpencil]

As they eat, the young lord makes every effort to discuss the visiting knight's family and concerns, showing interest in he and his, in an effort to be both polite, and courteous, and, generally, a good host.

Wine is shared quite freely, although Morris drinks very little, knowing that he has yet to get used to such. The food isn't extravagant, but they are obviously not withholding anything of quality.


Ending the Intrigue now, not risking going further, not until I've trained Persuasion up higher.

[heretic]

Lord Morris and Maester Rowan

Ser Harlaw returns and feasts some more on House Corrett’s hospitality. He is a gracious man, always complimenting the food, which is respectable but not spectacular. He also keeps an eye on his men, seated well down the table. They have become a bit drunk, as men are wont to do after a long ride. Every so often, he makes a motion to his serjeant and the man gracefully ejects whichever of his charges is most in his cups. Their foolery is in good fun though, and they are joined by a number of Corrett men as well.

Ser Harlaw regales you with tales of his younger days, telling stories of Robert’s Rebellion and time spend in court at King’s Landing with Jon Arryn. He is a well-spoken man that you can imagine holding his own in court, though it’s unclear whether he would be able to conceal his contempt for the Lannisters.

As for current events, Steffon Belmore (grandson to Lord Belmore) has wed Jeyne Lipps, and their first child is due to arrive in a couple months. The last harvest before winter was bountiful and the septons are saying that it’s a good omen for Strongsong. Ser Harlaw’s young daughter Myria has been fostered to House Wydman in exchange for Lord Wydman’s two daughters Walda and Berena. Maester Bryen has been in poor health this year, although he claims not to have been slowed by it. Ser Harlaw himself has been serving as Strongsong’s master of coin. It seems that the job involves lots of tax collecting and arithmetic, but Lord Belmore himself handles most trade negotiations.

Ser Stanly tells the tale of his victory over the Painted Dogs to Ser Harlaw, though everyone else has already heard it. Your other advisors are content to listen, tossing in a question here and there, but mostly keeping quiet.

Eventually, the honeycombs and biscuits are finished and the hall begins to empty. Dollos appears to escort Ser Harlaw to the visitors’ chambers and the servants begin taking in the empty cups and platters.


Banion

Day one

Ser Othell smiles at your jest. “We keep a wary eye on the road, traveler. What is your name, by the way?”

The innkeeper accepts your coin and doffs his hat to you when he counts the additional stag. “Much obliged, my man.” Ser Othell pays him next, presumably for stabling his horse and accommodating the tents of the ten men-at-arms who waited on the mainland.

Once the group’s debts are settled, you set out due southwest. The trail is little more than two ruts in the ground, but is well-traveled enough to be identifiable. You only make a couple of leagues before dusk falls, since the ferry ride took up most of the day.

The men manage to find some firewood and soon enough everyone is gathered round the flames, supping on hot cod stew with hardtack biscuits to boot. After some good-natured boasting about the privileges of accompanying Ser Othell to the island—the ones that went steal your line about “and in the Sisters”—Rolf, the mutton-chopped man, leads off a hearty rendition of Rocky Road to Gulltown. Bander Yellowbeard accompanies on his fiddle. The Bear and the Maiden Fair follows before Ser Othell breaks in to order a watch set, declining to name you watchman.

Everyone but the single watchman hunkers down beneath blankets as the chill sets in. The horses have sidled up next to each other for warmth, and even they have blankets thrown over their backs.

Day Three

You’ve turned to the west upon hitting the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, and are now climbing scrub hills and rocky valleys. The men and Ser Othell have grown warier, given the proximity to potential mountain clan raiders. However, the possibility of attack seems remote. Lord Alyn’s rule of thumb on Corrett lands was that the mountain clans prey on lone travelers or small groups. Ten men in armor are enough to dissuade them. Your group numbers fifteen and some of them are plainly experienced fighters.

Sometimes after making camp, the men will spar with one another. Rolf bested Hammy in a bout using scabbards, Pat the Climber bested Rolf with a stave, and filthy Morrick, with his tangled mat of hair, bested Pat the Climber with staves, though it descended into wrestling before it was finished.

On other nights, the men tell stories of wives or maidens waiting for them back at Step Hill or toss the dice. Ser Othell rarely joins in with the activities except to provide swordplay tips to some of the younger men after their bouts, or to chide someone for drowsing on the watch. He and Bander Yellowbeard keep a close watch on the stars each night, even though they know the terrain well enough to navigate under cloud cover.

Day Nine

You’ve covered well over fifty leagues now, hugging the base of the mountains as you sweep around them and make for the southwest. Up ahead, the path turns even more to the south. Ser Othell turns in his saddle to face you. “Here we are,” he says, sweeping his hand to the west. “A straight shot to the Riverlands and Fairmarket. May the road treat you better than the stories would have us believe.”

Some of the other men walk up to grasp your hand and murmur farewells.

In reality, you’ll be following them to the south and Greycrown Keep, just five leagues away. The path to House Lipps leads them past the Keep (though at a lower elevation) and on to the south. You should be able to make it in a day or so.

[Old Overholt]

Day One

"Banion, Ser Othell," the man replies simply, perhaps figuring he has not earned enough notoriety out of the Corrett lands to be recognized by name.

For all appearances, Banion is on his best behavior. And for a commoner, that isn't much. He tries his best to stay in the good graces of Ser Othell's men, paling about with them when they appear to be able. The first day, the rogue keeps to basic pleasantries and entertaining, not divulging too much - there's a long trip ahead of them and there will be plenty of time for screw-ups.

What the Lipps men do, Banion does. He tries his best to help setup camp, even taking over cooking duties for a little while. He truly tries to play the part of a seasoned traveler, but one that would be utterly lost without the assistance of Ser Othell and his company of men and ever grateful for their protection.



Day Three

Focusing on getting to know the men, Banion subconsciously ignores the terrain and hopefully disguising any fact that he's overtly familiar with the area. As the men share stories about their lives and those in it, Banion feels obliged to reciprocate. Being a man of some years and decent travels in The Vale, he has more than a few stories to share of interludes in his travels - nothing that would automatically peg him for who he is, just random occurrences on the road and chance encounters in brothels and pubs.

"... so there I am, stark naked, crouching in a barrel outside the house..." part of one of his stories go. "Meanwhile, the husband is inside, trashing everything he owns while she's just standing there with her arms crossed, letting him act the fool. I'm waiting for it to get nice and dark before I make for the inn, but the bloody cat in the barrel thinks my bollocks are some sort of toy. Next thing I know, I've got claws and teeth in me skin and no where to go. THUNK! goes the barrel..." Banion smacks his hands together as if to show the cylindrical crate tipping over. "... and GUN-GUN-GUN-GUN..." His head bobs as if being jostled by some unseen force. "... down the street it goes with me in it."



Day Nine

"Thank you for your protection, Ser Othell - t'was most gracious of you," Banion replies with a nod of his head as he steadies his horse on the road. "Safe journeys to you as well."

He exchanges parting words with each of the men, sharing some detail he's remembered over the past several days about things they've shared - showing he's listened and trying to instill a sort of goodwill with them.

Their goodbyes said, Banion heads south for Fairmarket at a slow trot, letting the entourage of House Lipps move well ahead before turning about and cautiously resuming his course for Greycrown Keep, attempting his best to stay out of their view.

[Q'telun]

Lady Alyssa, having remained perfectly quiet throughout dinner so that her presence did not distract from Lord Morris, now approaches her son. "Good evening, Lord Morris. How did you find our guest?"

[bluntpencil]

The boy raises his eyebrows in a bemused fashion, as he is wont to do when his mother is overly formal.

"Pleasant enough, Lady Alyssa," he responds with a smirk, "and rather forthright with his demands and desires."

[heretic]

Mera and Eldric

It has taken all night and all the next day to climb back to the Keep. You're certainly feeling it in your legs around your saddles.

As you approach the walls of Greycrown Keep, you see a lone figure approaching on a black horse. As he gets closer, you recognize him.

It’s Banion, Lord Alyn’s rascal. He looks worn from the road.

Banion

You make your way to the Keep, managing to avoid both the Lipps men ahead of you and any hidden raiders.

With the walls in sight, you spot three figures approaching the gate on horseback, coming from the opposite direction. You recognize one as your friend Ser Gorlen Waters, the scout. The other two are Lord Alyn’s bastard daughter Mera and his ward, Eldric Blackfort, both of whom recently returned after running off to war.

It suddenly dawns on you again that you're not sure to who you're going to give the manifest to.


All

Let's just go ahead and say that it took Eldric and Mera all day to get back up to elevation. As soon as Mera, Eldric, and Banion enter the Keep, you can all meet up and discuss the various events. I'm going to stay mostly hands-off for this part, because there's a lot for the characters to discuss and I don't see a reason not to let the players lead this discussion. Feel free to write incidental NPC interactions into your posts. (e.g. summoning/dismissing a servant, defining which advisers are sticking around for discussion, etc.)

[Q'telun]

"He certainly is an honest man." Lady Alyssa comments in her most respectful tone as the last of the smallfolk trickle out of the hall. "A rare breed these days."

Once the last of the servants have left, the Lady relaxes. Appearances have to be kept, and it would not do to weaken her son's position by addressing him from a position of authority. She even allows herself to look slightly tired. "I assume Ser Belmore has offered to have House Belmore foster Anya?"

[Old Overholt]

As Banion spots the other three riders approaching the gates of Greycrown Keep, able to identify Ser Gorlen by his distinctive riding style, Banion raises his right hand and holds it there as a sign of greeting and identifying himself as a friendly (in case they haven't figured that out yet). Bringing his horse to a stop in front of the gate, but preventing no ingress or egress from the Keep, Banion calls out to the trio in his gravely voice, "Out for a leisurely stroll? Collecting ladies'-tresses and orchids, are we?" He casts a sly grin in their direction as his hand lowers back down to take Midnight's reins.

[Simsimillia]

The ride back to Greycrown Keep had mostly be a silent one. They were all exhausted and wished for something to eat and a few hours of rest and sleep. Mera had experienced her share of long marshes and rides or staying up for a day and night, but it wasn't something you got easily used to.

As they approached the impressive fortress at first light another rider came up the path and waited in front of the gates for them. As they got closer she recognized the man as Banion. A rogue that had been in her father's service for as long as Mera could remember, though she never knew what he actually did for the late Lord Corrett. Mera didn't know much about the man, but liked him and had often listened in when he shared his uncouth stories with Corrett soldiers. She had memorized them well and in retold them, with some alterations here and there, at the campfires of the Young Wolf.

"If only, Banion", Mera said and waved her hand to greet the man, "it was more like counting spears and fires."

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Closing in on Greycrown Keep, Eldric feels the familar mess of emotions he usually does at the sight of the keep's mighty fortifications. Gratefulness and loyalty to the family that took him in and treated him like their own, but also anger and vengefulness when remembering the dark stone walls of the Blackfort, now lying in ivy-covered ruins. It would never stand proud again, like Greycrown Keep did before him.

The presence of Lord Alyn's... whatever he was (Eldric really didn't want to think too deeply about it) evoked the usualy twinge of distaste in the young man. Banion was competent, very much so in fact, but Eldric just knew the man had not a single honorable bone in his body. The fact that he owed the scoundrel money didn't make the situation any better. Quite a bit worse, in fact.

Not joining in with the banter, the young ward answers in a matter of fact way: "We were scouting a potential enemy host. We have to bring this information to Lord Corret quickly, we will need to deal with this threat!"

It wasn't hard to figure out from Eldric's tone how he would deal with the threat if the decision fell to him.

[Old Overholt]

Hearing the insight from the two younger 'scouts', Banion looks to Ser Waters and asks with an amused grin, "Couldn't be all that much of a threat if your sorry skin is still intact." Ser Waters gives Banion a snort of derision and a mild grin as he's prodded, but doesn't fall for Banion's game. Instead, the knight directs his horse towards the gate to Greycrown Keep, intent on reporting what he experienced, but perhaps not with the same urgency as Eldric. The news will come, that is for sure.

Banion, keeping Midnight steady, makes a grandiose gesture with his right hand, rotating his wrist a bit as he moves his arm in a semi-circle and gestures in the direction of the gate as he makes a small bow from atop his horse - apparently giving Eldric and Mera the right of way to follow behind Ser Waters before he brings up the rear.

[heretic]

Banion, Eldric, and Mera

The mighty walls of Greycrown Keep swallow you up as you guide your horses under the portcullis and into the gatehouse. The guard on duty nods to you as you enter, saluting lazily with his spear. He returns to squatting near the wall and dragging yarn across the ground for a black cat with white boots.

Inside the walls, a number of folk are moving about in the twilight, loads of firewood, linens, or other effects in their arms. The tinny sound of hammer strikes drifts through the air. When you are halfway across the yard, the groom throws open the stable door to let you in. A few chickens scuttle out of your way.

Ser Gorlen stables his horse, then makes for The Lost Key, clearly in need of a horn of fortified wine.

Up past the stable sits the inner keep itself, a formidable castle in its own right with sixty foot walls, crenellated battlements, and rounded bastions beneath commanding towers. As you approach on foot, a stunted boy with a wisp of hair on his lip takes stock of you, noting your weapons, armor, and dirt from the road. He produces a curved horn from under his arm. With a deep breath, he arches backward and expends himself into the horn to produce a hiss that struggles into a blast, announcing your arrival. You recognize him now as the herald’s son, though his name escapes you.

The doors to the Keep open easily and inside, you find young Lord Morris Corrett seated with Maester Rowan and Lady Alyssa nearby. Denys Stone stands by their table.


Lord Morris, Lady Alyssa, and Maester Rowan

The torches burn low in their sconces on the walls as the last of the platters are carried back to the kitchen.

Denys Stone steps back into the hall from outside. “Begging your pardon, my lord and lady, but my men tell me that our scouts have returned. Ser Gorlen rode out two days ago with Eldric and Mera to investigate camps in the lowlands. If it pleases you, I would like to hear their report as well.”

You hear a cautious toot of a horn outside, and soon enough, your sister Mera enters the hall, flanked by your father’s ward Eldric, and the rascal Banion. All three look haggard from the road. You haven’t seen Banion in a good month or more.

[Old Overholt]

Banion seems to be in no rush to present his findings from The Sisters. He's been gone for weeks and it's doubtful the news he carries must be acted upon in the next few minutes. As such, he allows his horse to leisurely trod through the gate and along the thoroughfare of Greycrown Keep, heading towards the stables at a near snails pace. His eyes wander along the walls, stalls, and 'dolls' just as anyone who had been gone away from home for some time, looking for changes to the familiar. He's in a pleasant mood - not quite jovial, but certainly content. Regardless, it's an expression on his rough mug that few would find settling. He gives passerbyes a polite nod of the head in acknowledgment and even herds a loose chicken back into the arms of a child chasing it about by steering Midnight effortlessly a few steps out of their normal path to the stables.

His horse stabled, he heads not for the great hall, but the jail in search of Jenny - someone he has come to know, bittersweetly, through his interactions with the keep's peace keepers. A near regular "tenant" for drunkenness and/or disorderly conduct, Banion has come to know the young woman and she him.

[heretic]

Banion

The steps down to the gaol-dungeon were once made of neat blocks, but years of footsteps have worn down the middle of each step. The torch you took from the top of the spiral staircase gutters as a breeze catches it.

After proceeding well beneath the earth, you alight in a small boxy room with benches along each wall, faded tapestries and iron rings on the walls, and a table and chairs. Iron Jenny is seated at the table across from one of her gaolers, listening to him recount something. She dresses almost as a man would, with leather breeches, wool shirt, and a stiletto dangling from her hip. Her hair, pulled behind her head and secured with a blue ribbon, is pitch black and shines on top from the light of a lantern hanging from the ceiling. The gaoler across from her is a pimply man with an unevenly growing beard and dull eyes.

She rises as you enter. “Banion. It’s been a long time.”

[bluntpencil]

Morris nods at the request. It would be wise to have such advice.

"Bring them in. If there is nothing of note, we can retire early. If there is, your presence would be appreciated."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The steps down to the gaol-dungeon were once made of neat blocks, but years of footsteps have worn down the middle of each step. The torch you took from the top of the spiral staircase gutters as a breeze catches it.

After proceeding well beneath the earth, you alight in a small boxy room with benches along each wall, faded tapestries and iron rings on the walls, and a table and chairs. Iron Jenny is seated at the table across from one of her gaolers, listening to him recount something. She dresses almost as a man would, with leather breeches, wool shirt, and a stiletto dangling from her hip. Her hair, pulled behind her head and secured with a blue ribbon, is pitch black and shines on top from the light of a lantern hanging from the ceiling. The gaoler across from her is a pimply man with an unevenly growing beard and dull eyes.

She rises as you enter. “Banion. It’s been a long time.”

Placing the torch in a nearby holster the further illuminate the dungeon, Banion steps towards the pair quietly. Grabbing one of the chairs, he pulls it out towards him as he removes his pack from his back. Setting it down on the floor unceremoniously, letting it lean against the wall, the man with the rust colored hair drops himself into the chair like a sack of bricks. "Five months," he says in his rough voice.

Glancing over briefly at the other man, Banion gives him a polite nod of the head in acknowledgement. "Colm," he says, addressing the other man. "How's that foot of yours?" he asks. "Still swollen?" It seems like ages since the men would converse through the door of his cell, passing the time with idle conversation while Banion served out his sentence for roughing up the blacksmith's apprentice. The two had gotten into a fight during a drunken game of mumblety-peg. The boy gained a broken nose and fractured eye socket and Banion spent two months in his usual cell.

Whenever Colm has answered him, Banion returns his gaze to Jenny and stares at her with a wide smile, his lips still remaining closed. He looks almost proud of himself as he does so, leaning back in his chair slightly as his hands fold across his stomach. It's a look Jenny knows when she's been right about him before. When he's failed to heed her warnings or done something wrong. Looking up at her, Banion asks the young woman, "You find y'r key?" One of the frustrating pranks Banion enjoyed pulling on the gaoler: lifting her key to the cells during an exchange and leaving it with the barkeep at the Lost Key with explicit instructions only to give it back to her should she crow like a rooster for the amusement of the patrons.

[Simsimillia]

From the way Eldric spoke one could come under the impression he hadn't just spent a day and a night in the saddle. Mera for her part wished for little more than some breakfast and a place to shut her eyes for a few hours.

As they approached the stables across the yard Mera could already see the stable boy Benwen run towards her. He was only a little older than her and it was obvious that she had cought his eye. Mera wasn't interested in the stable boy at all however and on a normal would've shooed him away. Today she was to tired for that and and let him help her stable Redfoot, even going so far as to reward him with a smile, hoping that she didn't lead him on too much that way.

When her horse was cared for she waited for Eldric and looked how Banion dissapeared after Ser Gorlen in the Lost Key. Iron Jenny would be there, she had missed the young woman who was like a big sister to her, but that had to wait. First she had to report the findings.

The herald's son announced their arrival and soon after Mera and Eldric stepped into the great hall. "Good morning, Brother...Lord Morris", Mera began as she approached the high table, still unsure how to properly refer to her baby brother. But she didn't and most likely never would dwell to much on proper protocoll and instead cut straight to the case, "I come with bad news. Ser Gorlen's report was correct. There are Mountain Clansmen camped in the foothills to the southwest past Nestor's lookout. I counted more than a dozen watchfires and about two scores of spears per fire. They're poorly armed, but their sheer numbers could mean trouble."

[heretic]

Morris, Eldric, Mera, Alyssa, Rowan

Denys takes in the news, nodding. “Strange of them to be in the lowlands in such numbers. How far out are they? Do you know which clan it is?”

You estimate it was just under ten leagues away through hard terrain—two or three days’ descent on foot, and three to four days in the reverse.


Banion

Colm turns in his chair, flashing you a wide smile and slapping you on the back as you sit. “Oh aye, Banion. I’m all healed up!” He runs a hand through his tangle of hair. “You’aven’t been about th’Keep, Banion. Been travelin’?”

Jenny produces two cups and pours from a jug of water. One of her many orders upon promotion to head gaoler was to ban wine and ale from the dungeons. “Yes I found them alright. The guests went hungry in their cells all morning until I swallowed my pride and made like a rooster. You know they’ve taken to calling me Iron **** Jenny down there because I keep returning to crow?”

Colm rises to depart after a moment or two. You can tell he is weary from his shift.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Colm turns in his chair, flashing you a wide smile and slapping you on the back as you sit. “Oh aye, Banion. I’m all healed up!” He runs a hand through his tangle of hair. “You’aven’t been about th’Keep, Banion. Been travelin’?”

Jenny produces two cups and pours from a jug of water. One of her many orders upon promotion to head gaoler was to ban wine and ale from the dungeons. “Yes I found them alright. The guests went hungry in their cells all morning until I swallowed my pride and made like a rooster. You know they’ve taken to calling me Iron **** Jenny down there because I keep returning to crow?”

Colm rises to depart after a moment or two. You can tell he is weary from his shift.

"The regular 'work'," Banion tells Colm, it being no secret that he's often called to do unsavory tasks on behalf of the Corretts - actions that might beneath someone of certain standing, require an unfamiliar face, or just a certain 'touch' that few in high society possess. "Hopefully, it'll pay off for the Lord," he then adds. "Don't want to spend another couple of weeks waiting for some ship to come into port. But that's good about your foot - don't have to hear you moan about it all day long." Banion offers Colm a stained smile as the other jailor excuses himself.

Returning his attention back to Jenny, the hooligan of Greycrown tilts his head a little to the right as he looks up at the woman. Chuckling a bit at the addition to her name, he says softly, "Oh, that's good." - Banion amused by her frustration and the creativity of the bar patrons. Glancing down at her slacks, he says, "But to be fair, with the way you hit, you don't know what could be under those trousers." Eyes returning to lock with Jenny's and lifting his left hand up to his face, the man massages his jaw, just in front of his ear before saying, "... still clicks a little when I chew."

[heretic]

Banion

Jenny gives you a faux-innocent smile. “What, that little knock is still bothering you? You’re getting older now, you need to collect your aches and pains.” She drains her cup and refills it from the pitcher. “So you’re hoping this latest trip will pay off for Lord Morris? I can’t see him sending you off to do something, especially right after Lord Alyn passed.

“I remember how they were raised, ‘cause I was right there with them, getting whipped when Mera Stone wouldn’t listen to Septa Tanselle. Luckily, they didn’t whip hard or I would have been cut to ribbons. Anyway, Lord Alyn was raising Jon to be the Lord, teaching him about all the rough parts of the job. How to get information and use it. The kind of tasks you do. But with Morris, all they taught him was ‘honor,’ ‘valor,’ and ‘chivalry.’ He was supposed to be a right proper knight. It was only after Jon left that they started to learn Morris up about being a Lord. He’s doing well too. He knows how to earn respect. Sometimes he goes down and beats metal with the blacksmiths or rubs down horses with the grooms. People like that. He even came down here a few times to inspect the premises and take a try at getting our Silent Knight to speak.” You vaguely remember that there is a mysterious prisoner who refuses to talk.

“All that’s to say, I can’t imagine Morris dispatching you five months ago. This was Alyn’s command, was it not?”

[Old Overholt]

"Oh, I've collected them alright," the scarred man says, nodding his head a few times quietly as Jenny fills her cup. His eyes focus on a patch of darkness as his mind wanders ever so briefly - quick flashes of beatings he's taken, some deserved and some brutal, over the course of his life. Drawing in a short breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring as he does so, he summons himself back into the present.

"I'll be interested to hear what the Little Lord has to say about what I found," he admits to Jenny, his eyes returning to the woman once again. "With my luck, I'll have grabbed the wrong thing and wasted a month's time doing much of nothing," Banion then adds, hinting at a possible fear of failure or at least the consequences there of. "But I'm not worried about Lord Morris - he's got smart people to help him. He just needs help sniffing out the manure. I can't think of a better person to help 'im than his mother." Banion shakes his head at the mention of Lady Alyssa. "What a piece of work..." he then comments softly with a smile. "Of course, then I'll be there to clean it up."

Something the dawns on him from their conversation. "How is our tight lipped friend?" he asks Jenny with some excitement and genuine interest in his voice. "You loosen his tongue while I was away and not tell anyone?" Banion inquires, giving the woman a quick wink of the right eye before leaning over and grabbing his backpack from the wall. Hoisting the satchel into his lap, he starts to open it up as he waits for Jenny to retort.

[Simsimillia]

Mera nodded at Denys' comment. "I too, thought it strange to find them in such numbers in the lowlands. I couldn't make out the clan, but they're camped just under ten leagues through hard terrain from here."

[heretic]

Banion

Jenny nods as you speak. “Well whatever it is, if Alyn sent you for it, the Lady’s more than like to know what it is and why it’s needed.” She arches her back, stretching. It must be near the end of her shift as well.

When you mention the silent prisoner, she sighs. “No luck yet. Mayhaps on the morrow, we’ll get somewhere. I’ve ordered that his meals be great and varied. If you give them too much food, you learn their tastes by what gets left behind. This one has no love for pease porridge but takes well to Dornish spices.” She yawns. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll start rewarding him with the good food for minor tasks and then work up to speaking, hopefully.”


Morris, Eldric, Mera, Alyssa, Rowan

I want to see how this conversation plays out between the PCs, so for now Denys is going to listen.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Jenny nods as you speak. “Well whatever it is, if Alyn sent you for it, the Lady’s more than like to know what it is and why it’s needed.” She arches her back, stretching. It must be near the end of her shift as well.

When you mention the silent prisoner, she sighs. “No luck yet. Mayhaps on the morrow, we’ll get somewhere. I’ve ordered that his meals be great and varied. If you give them too much food, you learn their tastes by what gets left behind. This one has no love for pease porridge but takes well to Dornish spices.” She yawns. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll start rewarding him with the good food for minor tasks and then work up to speaking, hopefully.”


Banion bobs his head in silent acknowledgement of Jenny's plans for the prisoner. "You're a cruel one, Jenny," he tells her with a laugh, his eyes focused on the innards of his backpack as he pulls out a ball of cloth - really just a bundled up spare shirt of his. Setting the ball of fabric on the table, he begins to unwrap it, revealing the small lighthouse he purchased while on The Sisters. Setting it off his shirt, he stuffs the clothing back in his backpack without much concern for it and sets the bag back against the wall where he originally had it. He doesn't say anything to the woman as he goes handling the object.

It's a handcrafted, wooden model of the Night Lamp - most likely a custom job or one of few in existence. It isn't so detailed that it would adorn a Lord's mantle, but a young child of means might find it something of wonder. The artist detailed the model with rocks and moss about its base to simulate the rocky shoals of the coast and has even painted small banners of House Borrell about its taper. Pulling off the cupola, Banion reveals a wick tucked into a small metal bowl. Apparently, this model is a 'secret' lamp - the tower of the lighthouse serving as a reservoir for lamp oil. Reaching for one of the candles on the table, Banion proceeds to illuminate the lighthouse, lighting the wick and then replacing the metal case top back on, causing the tiny Night Lamp to add additional illumination to the room. He then carefully moves the lighthouse towards the middle of the table, a hand on either side of the base to brace it.

Once the Night Lamp is in place, the ne'er-do-well gives a pleased smile at the sight of it before rising from his chair - the legs of the furniture rubbing against the stone floor. Glancing towards Jenny, he says nothing of the model, but seems intent to leave it behind. Instead, Banion asks the young woman, "There still a pool on what 'e'll say first?"

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Eldric nods respectfully toward Lord Morris and Denys and adds: "Yes, we found their behavior strange indeed, something out of the ordinary must have happened. They had posted sentries and were quick to respond with steel on hand when noticing us, so they are certainly prepared for trouble. Maybe they were driven from their lands, or maybe they follow a new leader who does things differently. In any case, we need to find out more and deal with the threat they represent."

Adressing his friend and lord directly, he continues: "Lord Morris, it is your decision how to proceed, of course. But if you should choose to send out a force to safeguard our lands, I would be honored to ride in the vanguard!"

Eldric salutes with a fist above his heart and bows before falling back into a straight-backed posture of attention.

[heretic]

Banion

Jenny smiles as you light the candle. “That’s a fine piece of work, Banion. This chamber has like as not never seen such craftsmanship.” She stands when you stand, and retrieves a dark grey cloak from the back of her chair. “It will serve us well here and when I show it to our lordling of Longsister, his homesickness will be severe. Of course, Jenny will be there to console him and hear his troubles…” She flashes a devious grin. You recall that Ser Steffon Longthorpe, heir to Longsister, is a recent arrival to the dungeons.

Returning to the topic of the Silent Knight, Jenny opines, “my men are of three minds. None of us is wont to know this and that knight fighting in the Riverlands. Most have ever only heard of the ones the singers write ballads after. Florian the Fool, Ser Artys Arryn the Winged Knight, Aemon the Dragonknight, and so on. Who knows whether they lived at all. I myself could only name a handful of actual knights, all of them stalwarts of Vale or heroes of Robert’s Rebellion. Our guest is not one of them, else Lord Alyn would have recognized him on sight. My men don’t know knights, but they do know banners.”

She slips her cloak over her shoulders and clasps it with a pin fashioned from a heavy chain link. “A third of my men think him a Wolf, as he was brought to us by Lions. A third think him a Lion, for our guest Ser Raymond Wode knows him not, and Wode confessed he fought for the Wolf. The last third think him an outlaw. Colm named him a member of the Kingsguard: The Hound, Sandor Clegane. Alas, our man is scarred, not burned.”

You know the difficulty of keeping this knight and that knight distinct in the mind. In your experience, that kind of learning is hopeless without the man himself in front of you. Smallfolk are wont to gossip and argue about which knight is most gallant or valorous or terrifying, but their knowledge is confined to just a few interactions with the men. A view from the commons at tourney is often the thin thread from which fantastic exaggerations are woven. It turns out, most men look dashing when well-fed, well-dressed and plopped on a fancy horse.

But much and more can be learned from the way the lordlings and sers behave around one another. Just as the tyrant foreman struts about tossing abuse at his men, but snaps to attention when his paymaster is about, lords have their own pecking orders.

Once, you nearly had to skip Saltpans after winning big betting on the lists. The smallfolk went all in on Ser Something Cox, a hometown hero who cut a handsome figure riding around his little castle. They failed to notice that the man's own squire and maester barely listened when he spoke. In contrast, every knight in the tourney walked as if on rotten ice when in the presence of Ser Lyn Corbray, a notorious killer with a foul temper and a Valyrian sword. But Ser Lyn was thin and had a "girl's name," which was enough for the country bumpkins to accept your steep odds. Ser Lyn put Cox in the dirt on one pass and Cox looked relieved. If memory serves, Corbray went on to kill a man in the melee with a blunted sword.

As for knights you yourself could name outside the Vale, well...there was Ser Barristan Selmy (Lord Commander of the Kingsguard), Ser Jaime Lannister, The Mountain that Rides, the outlaw knight with purple lighning on his shield, Ser Mandon Moore (also of the Kingsguard), Ser Garlan Tyrell (the Knight of Flowers), the Red Viper (a dornishman)...and the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully. Not many.

Banion's knowledge is a little fuzzy and dated. For instance, he doesn't know of the Mountain's duel with Oberyn Martell, five months prior. He has also consolidated Garlan and Loras Tyrell into one person. He may or may not know that Ser Barristan has fled Westeros a year and a half ago for parts unknown.

[Old Overholt]

"Not mine," Banion admits readily when Jenny compliments the piece. "But... you know..." The man brings his dirty fingers up to his head and scratches his scalp just above his right ear. He seems at a loss for words, which is a rarity, or just doesn't want to say something. He just moves along as quickly as Jenny does with the conversation, snorting at the mention of the Longsister. Dropping his hand back to his side, he looks down the hallway leading to the cells, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. Shaking his head as he looks back towards the dungeon keeper, he tells her, "I take it back. You're not cruel... you're me." Apparently, he figures that to be both a compliment and a pejorative at the same time.

Banion watches the woman fix her cloak and give the various theories on how they might determine the identity of their silent knight. "Sounds like you've caged yourself a Lion," Banion tells her after hearing the options and their flaws, weighing in on the option he thinks is most agreeable. "Or he could be just some poor schmuck passing himself off as something he isn't to save his neck," he offers as a fourth alternative. "What better way to not give yourself up than to stay silent?" Banion asks in rhetorical fashion. "I might consider it myself dealing with some lower house," he adds, flicking his eyebrows upward as he files that idea away for later.

[heretic]

Banion

Jenny begins up the stairs with you. "Aye, we're alike enough Banion, but I'm better at following the rules. I've found there's little diff'rence between a lawful act and a breach of the King's Peace, except for the place and timing. One can seize goods, lay hands on a man, torch a house or even strike a man's head off in the street, but only by leave of your lord. Even obeying the false command of a rebel lord is more like to earn you a pardon than a noose. I'm a meddler to the core, but a patient one. Put a sigil on my cloak and a command in my ear and I'll get to work."

[bluntpencil]

"They are too close to set up a system of signal fires, it seems.

Therefore, we must meet them, in force. They will be given the option to explain their presence, or face insurmountable odds.

I do not wish to put them to the sword unless circumstances require it."

Morris isn't afraid of the clansfolk. From the description given, they were no match for their forces. Still, there would be nothing to gain from pointless battle.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Jenny begins up the stairs with you. "Aye, we're alike enough Banion, but I'm better at following the rules. I've found there's little diff'rence between a lawful act and a breach of the King's Peace, except for the place and timing. One can seize goods, lay hands on a man, torch a house or even strike a man's head off in the street, but only by leave of your lord. Even obeying the false command of a rebel lord is more like to earn you a pardon than a noose. I'm a meddler to the core, but a patient one. Put a sigil on my cloak and a command in my ear and I'll get to work."

"Things rarely line themselves up so neatly for it to be the right place and time," Banion tells Jenny, partially defending what he does and at the same time trying to being her down off her high horse. His tone does not come out of spite, but more a playful banter one might expect between a brother-sister or husband-wife. "Sometimes you have to take the opportunities when and where they come. The Little Lord's enemies - if they're smart - won't be making moves out in the open when you can use the law to send them down here with the likes of us." Stopping partway up the stairs and turning towards Jenny, his hand coming out in front of her to try and prevent her ascent, Banion tells her gruffly but not threateningly, "I do what can't be said in court... what no one wants in the open... nothing they can ever admit to... because it has to be done."

[heretic]

Lord Morris

It occurs to you that Eldric and Mera will likely want to know of this tournament. Both are now seasoned by actual combat, and have received superb training under Ser Oswell. Eldric in particular seems to have surpassed both Ser Oswell and Ser Stanly in the yard. However, you’re not sure how skilled he is in a tilt. Ser Gorlen is the best rider among your knights, but lacks mettle. Eldric may yet be the better lance.

The roll of reasonable candidates includes your father’s squire Mykael Stone, your ward Eldric, your knights Ser Gorlen and Ser Stanly, and perhaps your sister Mera. Denys Stone, Ser Tommard Sundcliff, and Ser Oswell are too dedicated in their service of House Corrett and perhaps too old to compete. After all, the champions of this tourney will serve in the Brotherhood of Winged Knights for three years—a long time to be away for men with families.

Lady Alyssa

All this talk of battle and war is bringing back unwelcome memories. Mera Stone led your son Jon straight into the Lion’s claws. Now, Mera and Eldric are back to pull your precious Morris off to battle!

Of course, the mountain clans rarely mount stiff resistance, but nothing is certain in war. The history of the realm is filled with unassuming soldiers felling greater men--Kingsguard knights like Ser Duncan the Tall and Ser Arthur Dayne were felled by the likes of hedge knights and un-knighted northern lordlings. Even Ser Mandon Moore was slain by some faceless soldier on the Blackwater.

[Q'telun]

Lady Alyssa

"Perhaps," Lady Alyssa begins, with a small glare at Mera, "Ser Belmore could be convinced to accompany you on this endeavor, in the spirit of cooperation between two noble Vale houses. I'm sure that it would be a valuable experience for all involved."

It would not hurt to have an experienced commander along. Morris could still handle the diplomacy. And this way, the Stone would lose the chance to steal what little family she had left.

[bluntpencil]

"We shall not allow outsiders to imperil us, Lady Alyssa," says Lord Morris coldly, referring to his mother by her name.

"We shall not allow interlopers to do our duties for us, and make us look weak in front of the vultures that circle the Vale, but neither shall we rush into battle like foolish wildling barbarians."

He does not appreciate the suggestion of relying on Ser Harlaw, as, as far as he is concerned, it's a minor problem, and can be dealt with quite reasonably - the mountain clans might be uncivilised, but they're not stupid, so they wouldn't be here without a good reason.

[heretic]

Morris, Eldric, Mera, Alyssa, Rowan

After hearing the scouting report and Lord Morris’s decision to march out and meeting the clansmen, Denys rises. “I will prepare the men and send a rider to Ser Tommard, so that his mountain men can join us.” He bows to Morris and strides from the hall.

I'll leave it up to all of you as to whether Eldric and Mera will learn of the tournament from a PC or a NPC.


Banion

You reach the top of the stairs just as you’re finishing your explanation. Outside the door, men are hurrying across the yard, carrying arms and armor, torches, and bundles of provisions. The clangs of hammers on steel have multiplied, even though it’s getting dark. Something is up.

Jenny raises an eyebrow. “It looks like war.” She collars a man hurrying by. He quickly explains, “The Lackfort and bastard girl scouted mountain clansmen in the foothills off of Nestor’s Lookout. We’re marching soon, like as not tomorrow!” He hurries off, his un-cinched leather armor flapping on his buttocks.

[Old Overholt]

Gritting his teeth, Banion listens to the explanation provided by the footman than Jenny's able to catch. He lets out a low, internal rumble from deep in his throat, but shows no outward sign of displeasure - although that's hard to tell on his rough ans scarred exterior. After the dungeon keeper has let her man go, Banion looks sidelong to Jenny and says, "Probably should put Colm to work cleaning out a few of those cells. I should go find out how bad this is going to be. I'd tell you to keep your head down, but...'" He offers Jenny a soft, knowing smile - as if teasing her about something - before raising his right arm and placing his hand ever so briefly on her shoulder.

[Simsimillia]

Mera hid a smile when Eldric offered to lead the vanguard against the barbarians in the Vale. It was no surprise, really, that was just Eldric being Eldric and Mera couldn't fault his sense of duty and bravery. She herself may have offered to lead a charge, but she knew that men were not quick to follow her simply because she was a woman and often enough she could be happy to be allowed to fight at all. She had avoided this problem when she fought for the Young Wolf by posing as a boy and later, when she had been discovered she had served Lady Maege Mormont. An inspiring experience, the She-Bear and her daughters were all Mera aspired to be.

The glare she got from Lady Alissa didn't escape Mera, she knew that the woman blamed her for Jon's death and that she'd always remain a Stone in her eyes, no matter how many kings legitimized her. Maybe Alyssa even thought that Mera aspired to the Lordship of Greycrown Keep. Of course Mera didn't, she'd rather give her own live than to lose another brother.

"Lord Morris, I'd like to take my leave if you have no further need of me for the moment. It was a long night."

[heretic]

This post is a sort of pre-battle montage. Feel free to roleplay any time point detailed below. If there's a PC or NPC you want to interact with, assume you can find them or summon them easily.

Lord Morris

Night

The rest of the night becomes a bit of a blur. After the hall has cleared, Denys meets you in your solar. You must prepare the order of battle, deciding which of your footmen will go and whether any will remain at the Keep. You must also decide how to assign your household swords—chiefly, Eldric, Mera, Ser Oswell, and Ser Stanly. Oswell and Stanly have offered to serve as your personal honor guard, while Mera and Eldric could fit comfortably in any of your companies.

Denys drills you briefly over the specifics of each of your companies, including their arms, armor, experience, and commanders. Luckily you recall it all. House Corrett currently boasts five hundred fighting men, many of them very well trained. By the time the necessary arrangements are made, the candles have nearly guttered out. Denys leaves you, and you toss and turn half the night in anticipation.

The feeling is fear, yes. Your father taught you to face your fear head-on—something that you’ve never failed to do when required. Even so, you feel the familiar clench in your stomach and find yourself feeling as if you can’t quite draw a full breath. Finally, you pass into the realm of dreams and lie still.

Morning

You rise early, before any servant must needs wake you. Danny the kitchen boy serves you a rasher of bacon topped with eggs as Ser Tommard Sundcliff enters. He looks much as you remember him. Ser Tommard is an older man whose close-cropped hair has gone to white everywhere except the nape of his neck. He wears boiled leather rather than plate, though he has left his axe and shield somewhere else.

The commander of the Mountain Watchers makes his report, detailing how his men returned to the Keep at the summons of your outrider Ser Gorlen Waters. They came back to the Keep spread out so as to take any scouts watching the castle gates, a ploy that paid off when one of his men slew a mountain man (Ser Tommard guesses him to be of the Howlers clan) on a ridge overlooking the front of the Keep.

Ser Stanly arrives clad for war. His squire, Rodrik Troutt, bears your armor. Rod begins to armor you as Ser Tommard finishes his report. First comes the thick quilted doublet and breeches, then a leather coif on your head and a gorget around your neck, then a shirt of chainmail and a pair of tall, steel-shod boots with spurs. Next, Rod lowers the heavy brigandine over your head. The outer cloth bears the white and blue stripes of Corrett though the metal strips sewn between the layers of fabric distort the stripes when you bend. Next comes a wide belt with knives and a dirk attached. The brigandine flares out below the belt, forming a skirt of armor to protect your thighs.

As each area is armored, you remember well the feeling of being struck in each of those areas in practice. The shoddy weapons of your opponents are likely less deadly than even blunted practice steel, but today your foeman will swing to kill. It feels good to be armored.

The final piece is the helm. Ser Stanly offers it to you, turning it to face you. “I thought…it would be good for the men to see you in this.” In his hands is your father’s greathelm—a sturdy helm of steel with a thin eyeslit above a grill of breathing holes. There is some silver inlay circling the top and around the chiseled thumb of granite set on the forehead, but its most distinctive feature is the mighty pair of bull’s horns anchored on the sides.

Denys Stone, your most seasoned commander, enters, clad in splint mail and furs. “Lord Morris, the companies are assembled. If I can offer some counsel, it is good to address the men before leaving. Fighting men need to hear from their Lord who they are fighting and why.”

Rod fastens a heavy winter cloak about your shoulders and helps you into a pair of thick leather gloves set with steel plates on top. He hefts your flail and shield, ready to carry them out for you.

You have a number of decisions to make as commander

Which units are coming to battle and which are staying in defense of the Keep?
Which units will you attach Mera and Eldric to? Attaching a Mera or Eldric to a unit will improve its Fighting or Marksmanship by +1D. Presumably, you are acting as an unattached commander (attached commanders cannot issue orders to other units unless they are attached to a Personal Guards unit). Denys Stone is your lone subcommander.
Dual-units such as the Mountain Marks have two armor options. However, you must choose which one for them to wear before you leave.
I'm assuming the two units we haven't statted have the following stats: Trained Garrison (Fighting 3, Endurance 3, Awareness 3) and Trained Garrison Engineers (Fighting 3, Warfare 4)
Last chance to upgrade equipment on any unit. You have 4 wealth that could be spent on this.



Eldric

Night

The hard ride back to Greycrown Keep has robbed you of much of your strength. After Lord Morris dismisses you, you find yourself blinking slowly to stay awake as you enter your chamber and strip off your armor. You have your breastplate half off when you hear a titter in the corner and a serving girl races from the chamber, giggling.

When you first came to Greycrown Keep, you were given a small chamber off of a side hallway, far from the hall and the well and just about everything else. Since Lord Alyn’s passing, you’ve moved into Morris’s old quarters near the top of the inner keep, which offers a great view and somewhat embarrassingly, maid service. While it is nice to have someone else empty your chamberpot and spread new rushes, some of the maids have walked in at—ahem—unexpected times. Girls in general make you feel funny, because you often can’t tell whether they’re staring at you because you’re so tall or because they fancy you or for some other reason. Servant girls are even worse because they pry and prod at your effects and make comments that you’re not quite sure are japes or not.

You fall asleep immediately upon collapsing into bed.

Morning

You awake to the sound of armored men trodding in the hallway, on their way to Jon’s old room where Morris sleeps now. You find your armor in a clean and dry by the hearth, which is odd because you left it in a dirty heap last night. However, someone has cleaned it. Maids…

Out in the yard, the men are assembled in their companies talking and eating as they await the appearance of Lord Morris. The grooms have prepared seemingly every horse in the stable, even though the companies fight on foot. Perhaps just the commanders and serjeants will ride. You spy Soldier tied to a post and already saddled for you. It looks like Mera is across the yard as well.

Mera

Night

Weary of the events of the last two days, you find your quarters in the mid-levels of the Maester’s Tower. Your chamber is neatly furnished with pegs for your various weapon belts and gambeson armor, a slightly smooshed feather bed, and a bookshelf. The most reading you’ve ever done all occurred with your brother Jon by candlelight as you studied maps and heraldries of the Riverlands and Westerlands, and read histories of battles fought in those areas. When Maester Rowan arrived, he was quite pleased to see you “reading for pleasure” with books in your room. He eagerly loaned you more and more tomes, all of which went untouched of course. He probably put the pieces together after you absconded to battle.

Sleep comes easily.

Morning

You’re awakened by the smell of sweet oatmeal wafting through the halls. From your window, you can see men bustling about in the yard like little ants, running this way and that. From the looks of it, it will be more than an hour before the host departs for the lowlands.

Once you make your way to the yard, you find the companies beginning to take a tally of present men, while squires, grooms, and soldiers run every which way seeking last minute fixes to gear or another bite to eat. You find Redfoot brushed down and saddled, her reins in the hands of a clueless, wide-eyed stableboy. It looks as though the knights are going mounted, along with a few serjeants. Ser Oswell Moore catches you by the arm as you walk by. “Mera! I don’t know if you’re taking the field with the archers today or not, but here—” He thrusts a war lance into your hand. The thing is eight feet of ash, banded with iron and capped with a steel spike. “You’ve a better eye for lances than I do. Use it well!”

Ser Oswell moves away and you spot Eldric through the throng of men.

Maester Rowan

Night

Young Lord Corrett is certainly a strongheaded one. Decisiveness is a virtue, but dances arm and arm with rashness when it comes to leadership. A number of Lords and Kings come to mind as you consider it. King Aenys I Targaryen had not enough decisiveness, while the late King Joffrey I Baratheon had too much. Lord Jon Arryn struck a good balance, but his wife was prone to delay her decisions unduly. Of course, sometimes delay is warranted. History may yet judge Lady Lysa’s reluctance to enter the War of Five Kings kindly, for the Vale was spared. Then again, her imprisonment of the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, was the spark that set Lion against Wolf.

In matters of defense, Lord Morris’s quick action will like as not deter further incursions. In this, he cures one of the flaws of his father. Lord Alyn prioritized courtly affairs over basic border defense and it cost him several leagues of land.

You lose your line of thought in the memories, but find your chamber and sleep.

Morning

You rise to sweet oats in milk and honey, and the low din of activity in the yard. From up here, the fighting men look quite disorganized, though you know they will snap to attention when told to do so.

Your study of history at the Citadel eventually delved into the study of warcraft itself, as the iron link in your chain attests. Battles in the Vale often turn on mastery of terrain and the stoutness of castle walls. It was knowledge of the mountain that led Ser Artys Arryn to victory over the Bronze King, Robar II Royce, back when the Vale was rent by war between the First Men and the Andals. Later, the construction of the Eyrie and Bloody Gate made the greater Vale nigh impregnable from the west and south.

Of course, the mountain clans are not real fighters. Their style has ever been to hit and run, rather than stand and fight. This battle will like as not be a rout, though the fact that they have chosen to take the foothills does give you some pause. These mountain men are far from home.

Alyssa

Night

Despite your fear, you feel some pride at the Morris’s bravery. He reminds you of a younger Alyn, back before he took the arrow to the chest. Sleep refuses to come as you toss and turn in your bed.

Morning

Your handmaid Val enters to wake you, laying out a blue winter dress of wool, set with a handful of pearls on the bodice.

Soon enough, your sworn sword Ser Oswell enters to tell you that he has offered to personally guard Morris, along with Ser Stanly. Val stays close by after bringing in a rasher of bacon with eggs. She must be sensing your nerves.

Banion

Night

Some of your friends in the men-at-arms can be found in the Lost Key. To hear them tell it, a force of mountain clansmen have been spotted in the foothills. The men do not seem particularly afraid—the mountain men are poorly equipped and often flee before giving battle. However, they usually flee up into the mountains, which will not be possible with the Corrett host bearing down on them from above. Your discussions are interrupted briefly as Jarack, a serjeant of the Turnkeys, swats a horn of wine out of Ser Gorlen’s grasp and hauls him bodily from the tavern. Apparently his services are needed elsewhere.

Morning

You rise to stamping horses and the strikes of hammers on steel. The yard is alive with men rushing back and forth preparing for war. Off to the side, Septa Tanselle is leading a prayer for a dozen men before a tapestry of The Warrior, which she has affixed to the inside of the curtain wall.

The scene brings back memories of your youth, when an army gathered to attack the city you called home. Lord Grafton’s men had put a pike in your hands and a rusty mesh of mail on your head and told you that King Aerys needed you to defend the realm and the city. The battle itself was a terrifying blur, but the sigil of Grafton (a burning tower) proved prophetical. Lord Arryn took the city and his most fearless warrior went on to be King. Funny how that happens.

[bluntpencil]

Morris takes his flail and shield from Rod. He doesn't need someone to carry things around for him.

His breath frosty, he prepares to address the men. He is more afraid of speaking to them than the actual fighting, truth be told, so he decides it best to say that to them.

"Men of Greycrown Keep... As you may have gathered, I am not one with a talent for public speaking. In fact, it terrifies me much more than any battle.

It appears unlikely that the interlopers will accept our generous offers to leave. So, therefore, we must be ready, as always, to fight."


Okay, making a Will roll to show no fear.
[roll0]

Leave the Engineers and weakest Garrison unit at home, which is enough to defend such a badass castle. The rest should give us a numbers advantage.

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Night

Eldric falls into bed like a stone and is fast asleep within moments.

Morning

After what feels like barely a few minutes he wakes to the sound of heavy boots on stone and the clink of mail and plate. He sits up and orients himself in his chamber, blinking the remnants of dreams from his green eyes. He dreamt of victory on the field of battle, of glory and honor among House Corret's warriors, and, slightly unexpectedly, the adoring eyes of a beautiful young maid.

Rubbing the large scar above and below his eye, a habit he had taken to since receiving the wound, he rises from his sheets and cleans himself at the bowl of water on the cabinet. Dressing himself, he notices his armor, looking freshly washed and smelling much better than it had the evening before. He blushes slightly at the thought of a maid, especially a certain one of them, coming into his room and collecting his dirty, stinking armor while he was sleeping in total obliviousness. What did they think of him? Did they see him as a strong warrior, rugged and tired from days spent heroically fighting for House Corrett in the wilderness, or did they merely see a lazy, oafish youth too stupid or uncaring to tend to his clothes? It was so hard to tell with girls...

Eldric did not have much experience with the other sex. When he was younger, his mind had been occupied with the silly dreams of childhood (and many people were convinced it still was today, and he couldn't really fault them), and when his interest in other matters awoke, he didn't have many opportunities to act on it. While he had courage to spare when facing men in the training yard or the battlefield, the same pride and confidence seemed to flee from his grasp whenever talking to a pretty girl. Except for Mera, of course. Not that she was not pretty, but she was pretty much his sister now, and a fellow warrior, and things were just not the same. He found it all hard to understand. What it all came down to was that the presence of a maid in his room while he slept made him blush and smile at the same time, especially if it had been Anya. He could never tell the meaning of that hidden smile on she so often had on her lips when she saw him, but he liked it nevertheless, hoping she wasn't mocking him on the inside.

Pushing the distracting thoughts aside, he dons his quilted armor, wistfully wishing he had steel to wear instead. But a true warrior was a weapon himself, regardless of what he wore or wielded, and that thought made him feel better. Girding his sword belt, he studies his blade for nicks or blemishes, and is satisfied to find the edge keen and smooth. It was a decent blade, plain and without any ornamentation, but crafted well enough. As always he felt a litle sting of irritation when thinking about the money he had had to borrow from Banion to be able to afford the weapon before he left with Jon and Mera on that fateful day. He'd have to deal with that situation eventually. But not today.

Fully equipped he steps out into the courtyard, towering over most of the people present, though many of them were more heavily armored in turn. Spotting his equally lightly clad step-sister, he walks over to her after gathering Soldier's reins. He gives the massive-looking warlance she is holding an admiring look. He couldn't surpress a quick pang of envy before squashing the feeling, as it was not worthy of an aspiring knight.

"Mornin' Mera! Quite the beauty you're holding there!"

As Morris adresses the assembled warriors, Eldric salutes his speech respectfully, but with barely restrained excitement. Despite his bad experiences in the previous war, he still couldn't help but feel the thrill of battle welling up inside him.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Night

Some of your friends in the men-at-arms can be found in the Lost Key. To hear them tell it, a force of mountain clansmen have been spotted in the foothills. The men do not seem particularly afraid—the mountain men are poorly equipped and often flee before giving battle. However, they usually flee up into the mountains, which will not be possible with the Corrett host bearing down on them from above. Your discussions are interrupted briefly as Jarack, a serjeant of the Turnkeys, swats a horn of wine out of Ser Gorlen’s grasp and hauls him bodily from the tavern. Apparently his services are needed elsewhere.

Morning

You rise to stamping horses and the strikes of hammers on steel. The yard is alive with men rushing back and forth preparing for war. Off to the side, Septa Tanselle is leading a prayer for a dozen men before a tapestry of The Warrior, which she has affixed to the inside of the curtain wall.

The scene brings back memories of your youth, when an army gathered to attack the city you called home. Lord Grafton’s men had put a pike in your hands and a rusty mesh of mail on your head and told you that King Aerys needed you to defend the realm and the city. The battle itself was a terrifying blur, but the sigil of Grafton (a burning tower) proved prophetical. Lord Arryn took the city and his most fearless warrior went on to be King. Funny how that happens.

Night

Before making his way to the Lost Key, Banion - the dutiful and wayward son - visits his mother in private. He spends the better part of three hours filling her in the best he can on his latest travels and presents her with the swatch of silk he procured while on The Sisters and the manifest for safekeeping. He inquires of her needs and spends some time tending to issues she has left for him, minor requests a son might automatically oblige to ensure their mothers are comfortable - fetching fresh water, assisting her with laundry for the lords, etc. She also fills him in on some of the rumors floating about the keep that normal servants would pick up on while tending to their duties or roaming about general areas. When he's had his fill, he parts amicably and heads on to seedier pastures.

Morning

It was a long night of drinking and gambling for Banion, the man taking part in the excitement of battle. While the danger of scattering a mountain tribe was still present, the near constant routes were something to look forward to.

He is startled awake by the sound of metal crashing against metal nearby, the middle-aged rogue sitting up sharply after having fallen asleep in a hay pile. Blinking his eyes and clearing his throat, he looks about him to gather his bearings. And that's when the headache starts to make itself present.

His face scrunching agony, Banion lets out a groan before pushing himself up to his knees. He crawls away from the pile for a bit, mud and other sediment squishing into his fingers, before he's able to amble to his feet. He staggers towards a water trough and then immediately drops back down to his knees, muck splashing outwards as he does so. Taking a deep breath in, he plunges his face headlong into the water, completely submerging his head for a few seconds in an effort to wake himself up.

Throwing his head back and sending a small storm of water out behind him, he blinks his eyes and looks about, his head starting to clear a little and the importance of the day settling in.

Recharged (albeit slightly), Banion gathers his gear and heads for the keep. For one reason or another, Lord Alyn never though much of Banion as a soldier - but he was trustworthy (and expendable). Most often, he was left to watch over Lady Alyssa and keep her entertained. But other times he was asked to join scouting parties, serve in reserve, or merely tend to Lord Alyn himself. Whatever the case, Banion always made himself available to the Lord of Greycrown Keep's whims, and today would be no exception.

[Simsimillia]

Night

After Mera had excused herself she had planned on seeing Iron Jenny, but she had been too tired and instead went straight up to her chamber. She spend a few moments to get rid of her armour and weapons and wash her face before falling into bed. Tomorrow would be a big day. Her baby-brother would act on her report and her findings and while those Mountain Clansmen were nothing compared to the Lions, many great men had underestimated their foes in battle and payed the price for it. She should know, as she'd been underestimated many times herself, most of them had felt her spear soon slipping through the chinks in their armour soon enough.

Lying in her bed and waiting for sleep Mera's gaze fell on the books the Maester had prepared for her and she shook her head slightly. He was still trying to get her to read all of those tomes. Granted, she had a few favourites, in short all the stories and legends that included female warriors which weren't many but she had read those in Maester Rowan's collection all multiple times. She was especially a fan of Nymeria, the legendary warrior queen and founder of House Martell that ruled Dorne ever since. She wondered if one day, a girl would sit down and read about her deeds and be as inspired as she was now. Her thoughts still circling around that topic she quickly fell into sleep.

Morning

Mera awoke late by her standards, but considering the last few days she could be forgiven. While the soldiers readied themselves in the yard, Mera prepared herself for the day and the battle. Unlike Eldric who enjoyed the service of maidens, Mera had to look after her weapons and armour herself, which was fine by her. Though she had often teased Eldric about Anya and threatened him with making advances on the gorgeous maid herself if he didn't act soon. Mera chuckled at the thought about Eldrics face if she'd actually went through with that as she tested the edge on her winged spear. Not that she had expected to have dulled, since the last time she sharpened Dark Star she hadn't used it and she always took great care of her weapons. After checking her other weapons and brushing off her gambeson Mera dressed in fresh linen and went on to the kitchens to take a quick breakfast.

Shortly after she emerged from the Maester's tower ready for battle. As she crossed the yard towards her waiting horse she was stopped by Ser Oswell Moore and found herself handed a lance. Mera couldn't help but feel a little suspicious. Ser Oswell was a good man from what she could tell, but he was also the sworn sword of Lady Alyssa and it wasn't even really even an open secret in the keep that Mera and Alyssa didn't see eye to eye. Was the lance rigged to break in battle? A little perplexed she nodded and thanked the other warrior for the weapon regardles, holding back a witty comment and hoping that her concerns weren't too obvious.

Soon Eldric found her, commenting on the war lance, provoking a sarcastic answer from Mera "You're right, Ser Oswell gave it to me. How refreshing to see Lady Alyssa so concerned with my wellbeing, what's next? Plate armour and my personal honour guard?"

[Q'telun]

Alyssa

Night

Despite your fear, you feel some pride at the Morris’s bravery. He reminds you of a younger Alyn, back before he took the arrow to the chest. Sleep refuses to come as you toss and turn in your bed.

Morning

Your handmaid Val enters to wake you, laying out a blue winter dress of wool, set with a handful of pearls on the bodice.

Soon enough, your sworn sword Ser Oswell enters to tell you that he has offered to personally guard Morris, along with Ser Stanly. Val stays close by after bringing in a rasher of bacon with eggs. She must be sensing your nerves.



Lady Alyssa

The Lady finishes dressing quickly behind her screeen. It would not do to be without her armor in front of a man. She appears, and gives her handmaid a small smile before turning to stare out the window forlornly. "Ser Oswell, when I was younger, I loved to watch the House knights march off. They would always shine so brightly, I thought that nothing could touch them in their righteousness."

She turns back to the knight, a dull look in her eyes. "When I was older, I was able to watch them coming back. I began to dread their departures, and felt relief when they returned. These feelings were only strengthened when I married. Every time my husband rode out of those gates, I worried for his health."

She shakes her head, and regains her composure. "Ser Oswell, if you only do this house one last service, I would ask it be this. Do not let Lord Morris die, no matter the cost."

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa

Ser Oswell drops heavily to one knee and claps a mailed fist to his breastplate. “I swear it on my life, milady. He will come back. He will.” When he rises, you catch him blinking tears away. Ser Oswell spent countless hours training Jon at arms. You have no doubt that your sworn sword took Jon’s death as a personal failure.

Ser Oswell has lost some of his strength, but he is still the man you remember from the Greyjoy Rebellion—quick as a cat and utterly fearless. The Ironborn of Pyke could not withstand him and you can only hope the mountain men are the same.

He turns on his heel and takes his leave.

Out your window, you see the companies form ranks as your little boy addresses them.

Banion

Night

The gossip and observations of the Keep servants is mostly what you would expect. Lady Alyssa mourns day and night and worries about Morris. Ser Gorlen was chased from the servant’s quarters after failing to produce a stipend he promised to the mother of one of his children. Anya the Maid trades favors so that she can clean Eldric’s room. The others say she is known to “polish his sword” of her own accord, which you gather is true only in the straightforward sense…for now. There are visitors from House Belmore—a knight and twenty men-at-arms. The knight is not so gallant looking, but he is stern with his men and they have not caused trouble.

Morning

The companies are beginning to take shape in the yard. You could probably find a place with either the archers or Ser Tommard’s company of woodsmen if you wish to engage in battle. You also spy Lady Alyssa looking down at the yard from her window high on the main keep.

The Yard—Morris, Eldric, Mera, Banion

After a flurry of shouting, the companies form their ranks and fall silent. Denys Stone and Lord Morris make their way through the ranks to ascend the stair on the inside of the curtain wall, giving a vantage point to address the men.

The companies set to march are each cut from a different cloth. Ser Tommard’s men are a scrappy looking lot, armed with a motley array of axes, swords, and spears and armored in boiled leather. Each man also carries a sling and lead bullets or a small bow. The Mountain Marks wear heavier ringmail and carry longbows, each man further equipped with a sheaf of red-fletched arrows and a longsword. Last of all come the Turnkeys, armored in grey mail under a Corrett doublet. They carry heavy maces, iron-banded cudgels, and warhammers. They look to be the oldest group, with few green boys among their ranks. Dryn the Redtooth commands the Marks while mounted, while Ser Tommard and his men are all afoot. Two serjeants of the Turnkeys are mounted, as will be Denys Stone. Ser Stanly and Ser Oswell are also mounted, holding Morris’s rounsey at the ready.

Silence overtakes the yard as Lord Morris looks out over the men.

The men don’t seem to know how to take Lord Morris’s address, especially the focus on public speaking. Denys Stone steps in after Morris finishes. “The mountain savages have come to our lands before. We fight for every coin stolen by their craven hands! For every field set aflame! For every boy cut down in his youth and for every maiden carried off into the snow!

“We will drive them from our lands, by sword if necessary! Corrett! Greycrown Keep!”

The men take up the chant of “Greycrown Keep!” for a good minute, banging their weapons on shields and stomping their feet.

The sun slowly clears the curtain wall, illuminating the banners of the companies more fully.

Denys turns to Lord Morris.

“We await your command, milord.”

As noted earlier, any unit that Eldric or Mera attaches to gains +1D to Fighting or Marksmanship.

Since Banion isn't a combat-focused character, I'm ruling that he doesn't grant such a bonus, although he is welcome to participate.Should the mountain men give battle, I'm planning on interspersing the "Warfare" rounds, which are 60 seconds long, with some individual combat rounds, which are 6 seconds long. This will allow each player to participate in different parts of the battle.

Banion staying behind would also create a good opportunity for Banion-Alyssa interaction.

[bluntpencil]

Morris doesn't mount his steed.

If the men are walking, so shall he.

"I do not seek to fight the clansmen, Denys. They may be here with reason, as unlikely as that is. They are impoversihed goat herders, as far as I am aware. Poor weather, or any other bad turn, could cause them to be here.

And, let us not forget, my sister loosed the first arrow.

Anyway, what is done is done. I do not honestly expect any attempts at negotiation from them, but we must remain open to such, lest we become butchers akin to those at the Dreadfort."

He says this quietly of course, he doesn't wish to publicly admonish the man, especially for such a display of loyalty. He smiles, then shouts to Eldric,

"Do you believe you can earn your knighthood, Eldric? I would like to see you prove yourself in person. Maybe, the Warrior willing, I might keep up with you, if you march beside me."

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa

I've been wanting to spew this info out at some point and never managed to find a great time to do it.

Down in the yard you see Morris giving a speech to his men. You spy Alyn's helm under his arm.

Over the last five years or so, Alyn had been working toward several goals at the same time. You had worked with him on some, but dissuaded him from others. You finally convinced him to give up on his grandiose vision of removing House Egen as your liegelord house and instead attempt to have some of House Corrett’s historical lands returned from House Egen (they had been stripped or claimed by other houses following the Blackfyre Rebellion). He also sought to encircle House Lipps (the other benefactor of Corrett losses) by strengthening ties to House Wydman, the Lipps' other geographical rival.

Fortunately, your relationship with Lord Rufus Egen was strong and he showed some willingness to accede to your demands, provided you assisted him at court. You were well on track to securing House Egen a number of favorable decrees related to which roads must be patrolled by law when Jon Arryn perished in King’s Landing. His death terminated Nestor Royce’s tenure as High Steward of the Vale and suddenly you were negotiating with Lysa Arryn instead, who proved erratic in her grief. Your stymied progress was washed away by the deaths of Vardis Egen, your collaborator in the Eyrie, and Rufus Egen himself. And then Jon, Mera, and Eldric ran off to war.

Alyn responded by brooding and scheming, seeking leverage against Rufus’s son and successor, Lord Roger. He sought to learn everything he could about Roger Egen, going so far as to seek out information on Ser Jon Hersy, for whom Roger squired, what kind of wine he liked, and all kinds of other shards of pointless trivia. It all amounted to very little. House Lipps sought to marry their daughter Jeyne to Roger, but he demurred, telling Alyn that she seemed prone to illness. Lord Roger is not much of a warrior and never even bothered trying to earn his spurs, though he has a passion for hunting and falconry. He was fostered to House Hunter prior to squiring Jon Hersy. Roger favors green doublets and feathered caps. Roger takes a strawberry in his summerwine. Roger probably played Grumpkin in the Moat when he was small. Little help any of this proved to be.

All of this court-gossip and intrigue amounted to some useful information. For instance, Alyn discovered that House Corbray has been visited by an unusual number of Braavosi emissaries and that House Wydman’s Maester Lucias was a born a commoner, yet had his training sponsored at the Citadel by House Arryn of Gulltown. He found that Rufus Egen was attempting to talk the Corbrays into taxing boats making for Strongsong and House Belmore. All of this is potentially useful information, though it came at the expense of Alyn’s stewardship of his own lands.

His death arrested the diplomatic progress that was being made. Hopefully Morris can pick up where his father left off--with some assistance from his advisors of course.

[Old Overholt]

As the Corrett forces gather, Banion mingles about some of the more notorious footmen, mostly just carousing and giving others a verbal shot in the ribs - all in good jest. He and Fingers, a man of the guard rightly named so for the disappearance of two of them, appear to be wagering a bet on something as the pull coins out of their respective purses and hand them to Morg - a man too slow and reliable to run off with the money. When they've agreed on the terms, Banion gives Finger a swift slap on the shoulder and a smile before moving on. Walking back towards the keep, he gooses Smelly Karl between the legs with the edge of his sheathed dirk as he passes him by, chuckling as he gives the oaf a small startle - but cautiously shields himself from losing any teeth just in case the man decides he isn't up for a little joviality that day.

Making his way out of the rabble, Banion looks about the grounds with a mixture of contentedness and sorrow on his face. His eyes wander over Morris, and then Mera and Eldric, and eventually spot Lady Alyssa on the balcony. Exhaling through his nose softly, he seems to make a decision quietly in his mind. Walking back to the wall of the keep, he presses his back into the stone and folds his arms across his chest, watching and waiting while the Corrett Army begins to march for the encampment - giving friendly (and less so) faces casually waves and half-assed salutes as they march on. When a majority of the armed force has made their way out, Banion turns to enter the keep, on his way to find his mother or one of the other house staff to see if he might secure an audience with the Lord's mother.

[heretic]

Banion

The men are pleased to see you, eager for some levity to ease the tension. Fingers is cocksure of his wager, offering to go even higher. Smelly Karl responds to your rough-horsing in kind by pulling your face into his armpit and trapping it there for a moment. A few minutes later, it’s time to go and they step into ranks and begin to trudge off. Hopefully they’ll all make it back.

Back at the Keep, you spot Lady Alyssa’s handmaid Val, whom you know well. Val is a comely woman a few years younger than you, with dark brown hair and a pleasing smile…but married to Jarack, the barrel-chested Turnkey serjeant. She’s also a kindly sort, willing to look after your mother while you’re gone and see that the other servants aren’t bullying her. She wears a winter rose on her breast and you recall seeing the same tucked into Jarack’s mail.

The Army—day one

With a great muffled tread, the men begin to march through the raised portcullis and out toward Nestor’s Lookout. No horns serenade the departure, lest the keen ear of a clansman scout interpose. Instead, the smallfolk of Greycrown Keep wave kerchiefs at the departing army. Most of those waving have a husband, a father, or a brother among the ranks of armored men.

Outside, the ground is stiff with frost and stone. The column is a long one, with some three hundred-odd men afoot and perhaps a half-dozen mounted. Ten baggage-laden mules make up the rear.

At the front of the van, Ser Oswell and Ser Stanly have followed Lord Morris’s lead in dismounting, although they lead their horses by the reins. (Ser Oswell has brought along Morris’s horse as well—he’s determined to have all the tools he needs to protect the young Lord’s life)

The steady thump of the men’s marching stride has slurred into a low, constant rumble. Winter’s chill fades a bit as the sun reaches its zenith. It begins its descent at about the same time the army does, as you follow a switchback trail on the mountainside where it exists and forge a new one when it fails. Beneath your boots, you can feel the earth getting softer.

A number of Ser Tommard’s men are ranging out ahead, as is their wont. Also off-trail is Ser Gorlen, who materialized at the last moment and volunteered to scout. So far, they report no sign of the mountain men.

All-purpose trail banter or tactical considerations (PC scouting, orders regarding marching pace/rules of engagement, etc.) welcome.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The men are pleased to see you, eager for some levity to ease the tension. Fingers is cocksure of his wager, offering to go even higher. Smelly Karl responds to your rough-horsing in kind by pulling your face into his armpit and trapping it there for a moment. A few minutes later, it’s time to go and they step into ranks and begin to trudge off. Hopefully they’ll all make it back.

Back at the Keep, you spot Lady Alyssa’s handmaid Val, whom you know well. Val is a comely woman a few years younger than you, with dark brown hair and a pleasing smile…but married to Jarack, the barrel-chested Turnkey serjeant. She’s also a kindly sort, willing to look after your mother while you’re gone and see that the other servants aren’t bullying her. She wears a winter rose on her breast and you recall seeing the same tucked into Jarack’s mail.

Banion approaches Val, stopping a few feet short of the woman, and clears his throat to announce his presence. His hands clasped just below his gut, the vagabond-like commoner with uncommon access to the Keep starts out slowly by saying, "Ma'am..." - waiting until she is clearly giving him her attention. "I was wondering if I might have a word with your Lady?" Banion further inquires. "... regarding a matter the late Lord tasked me with. She might know the urgency of it all." he further explains, giving Val reason to go fetch Lady Alyssa should she deem it worthy.

[Q'telun]

"I would of course be happy to hear your report, Banion." Lady Alyssa rounds the corner slightly after Val, with an amused smile on her lips. "In fact, I had been expecting this to come sooner. "

The Lady nods to her handmaid, dismissing her. Once the girl is out of sight and earshot, Alyss turns to Banion again. "Well? What news do you bring me?"

[Old Overholt]

"I would of course be happy to hear your report, Banion." Lady Alyssa rounds the corner slightly after Val, with an amused smile on her lips. "In fact, I had been expecting this to come sooner. "

The Lady nods to her handmaid, dismissing her. Once the girl is out of sight and earshot, Alyss turns to Banion again. "Well? What news do you bring me?"

Hearing Lady Alyssa's voice, Banion seems a bit surprised or startled, but immediately lowers his head in reverence for the woman as she draws closer to him. After he's given his ample display of respect and fealty, he raises his head and eyes back to her face and clasps his hands at his midsection. "M'Lady," he says in acknowledgement. "As our Lord is off doing his duty and we don't know when he'll return, I thought it best I bring news from The Sisters to the family's attention," Banion explains. "Your husband had sent me off to retrieve the manifest of a ship. While I did my best to locate it, I'm not quite sure I retrieved what he wanted. I figured you or the Maester might could tell if I procured anything of value. I left the parchment with my mother upon my arrival for safe keeping 'ere in the Keep."

[heretic]

The Army—Night one and day two

A light snow begins to fall as the host makes camp. The Corrett army has descended too low to spot the lights of the clansmen’s fires up ahead, but the scouts have reported seeing them in the same place Mera, Eldric, and Ser Gorlen did. Cold bean stew with sausage and hard bread is the fare of the day. A few men have brought along wine to take the edge off the march, including Dryn and Ser Gorlen. The mood is somewhere between apprehension and boastfulness.

The watch passes without incident and the camp rises to a light dusting of snow, just enough to stick to the ground.

Hours pass as the snow disappears and the ground becomes less and less rocky. Soon enough, the scouts bring in a peasant man named Rolf from up ahead. He is a hard-looking man in dirty roughspuns and goathide sandals, a small pouch of coins tied to his rope belt. Before being disarmed by the scouts, he carried a stout club. He claims that the mountain men made off with his goats and his daughter, Walda, and he seeks to purchase her freedom. The Corrett sigil is familiar to him, though he offers no outward expression of fealty.

By the time the sun sets on the day, the host has descended well below the frost. The ground here is not frozen and the expanse of stars above feels less restrained by the mountains. Still, there is no sign of the mountain men except their fires (alight again tonight, the scouts say) and Rolf’s tale.

Mera

As the ranks break to form camp on the second day, one of the younger men sidles up to you. He’s maybe a year or two older than you and overtops you by a good six inches, but you can tell he’s never seen battle. “Pardon me, Mera…” His voice trails off as if he does not know what to say. “Have you ever seen a coif like this take an arrow?” He’s holding the leather piece in his hands. “I have an iron half-helm too, but it slides down o’er me eyes sometimes.”

A few other men approach you with their own questions, some prudent and some embarrassing. You realize that while the men are well-trained, the majority of them have never joined battle.


Day three

The men march a bit stiffly today, eyes flicking from hill to hill and hands nervously gripping weapons. You will overtake the mountain men’s camp today for certain and everyone knows it. It is barely past noontime when Ser Gorlen appears in the vanguard and announces that the mountain men are visible over the next hilltop. He reports close to three hundred foot, formed up in battle formations on the high ground of a hill near some trees. There are perhaps ten men riding small mountain garrons.

The company serjeants look to Lord Morris for orders.

http://imgur.com/AakaeNQ.jpg

Red triangles are mountain clan units. Dark brown is hills, tan is open ground and green is light woods, which grants +2 Defense cover. Each square is ten yards. You may place your units and unattached characters on the bottom of the map within the first three full squares, but the Watchers may be placed in cover instead somewhere on your half of the map. Placing units won't immediately join the battle--there's still time to parley.

As a rules note, we will be using the unit facing rules and if you choose to use them, special orders. I'm thinking no special formations for this battle, just to keep things simple.

Alyssa and Banion
OOC: I'm going to let this develop naturally. Carry on.

EDIT for Q'telun: Feel free to play Ser Oswell directly during the parley/battle.

[Q'telun]

Alyssa raises an eyebrow. A ship's manifest? There are any number of reasons that Alyn might have wanted that, but the purpose escaped her. Troop movements? The passengers? The Cargo?

"I am glad it is in a safe place. I do not wish to disturb your mother, so please have it delivered to my quarters."

She looks about, making sure that they are alone. "In the meantime though, I have a request. Do you know of any apothecaries that are... discreet?"

[Old Overholt]

Alyssa raises an eyebrow. A ship's manifest? There are any number of reasons that Alyn might have wanted that, but the purpose escaped her. Troop movements? The passengers? The Cargo?

"I am glad it is in a safe place. I do not wish to disturb your mother, so please have it delivered to my quarters."

She looks about, making sure that they are alone. "In the meantime though, I have a request. Do you know of any apothecaries that are... discreet?"

"I'll deliver it to your handmaiden personally," Banion says without hesitation, acquiescing to Lady Alyssa's gentle command. When he notices the Lady starting to look about, his eyes narrow a bit, unsure as to what might have her so concerned. It's not until she makes her inquiry that the man's face relaxes a bit. In fact, it goes from curious, to calm, to worries in a matter of a few heartbeats. It's an unusual request, that's for sure. There's a slow, singular nod of the man's head before he says, "I know one or two depending on what it is you require."

[bluntpencil]

"The Watchers should advance through the woods on our left flank, and use the woods to conceal themselves."

He points as he says this, then just his chin at the hill.

"The Turnkeys and the Marks advance slowly, then loose volleys until they are forced to advance on our position. When they advance past the Watchers, they spring the trap, shooting them in their exposed right flank. At this point, the Turnkeys and the Watchers attack the weakened foe."

He then smiles, then adds,

"Of course, if they are wise, they will accept our generous offers to leave peacefully."

[Battlemage]

Eldric Blackfort

Day of Departure

Eldric smiles at Mera's comments. "Let me know when the plate armor arrives, I could use a set myself"" Then his attention is caught by Morris' voice calling over the yard.

"Do you believe you can earn your knighthood, Eldric? I would like to see you prove yourself in person. Maybe, the Warrior willing, I might keep up with you, if you march beside me."

"I will do my best not to disappoint you, my lord! I'm sure you will do more than just keeping up with me, I heard you fared well against Denys just yesterday!" Eldric answers with confidence and enthusiasm in his voice.

Day two

Eldric stews as he hears Rolf's tale. "First they enter our lands unasked and uninvited, now they steal our people's daughters? This cannot stand! I will do everything I can to get her back safely, and prevent any other women from suffering the same fate!"

Day three

The young warrior rests his hand on the pommel of his sword as he listens to the scouts' reports, masking the adrenaline in his veins by acting especially calm. Three hundred mountain men awaited them. Looking over to his friend and lord he waits for his orders.

[heretic]

The Army--Morris, Eldric, Mera

At Morris's command, Ser Tommard's men creep around the hillside, keeping the terrain between them and the foe. Simultaneously, the Marks and Turnkeys crest the hill.

The mountain men are indeed arrayed on the opposite hill in a large group. They must not have anticipated archers, because they are nearly two hundred yards away--within bowshot already. Spears, bronze axes, and cudgels are the most common weapons, although a few men carry steel, no doubt stolen off a corpse in a raid. They wear leathers and roughspuns and some carry hidebound wooden shields. Like as not, there are three hundred men on the hillside. Clearly, they must have spotted the Corrett forces descending, but they don't appear to have had time to dig any trenches or other defensive earthworks. Or perhaps they don't know how, as mountain clans rarely stand and fight instead of fleeing.

A whisper runs through the ranks of the Turnkeys and at a signal from Denys, Ser Stanly turns to Morris. "They've some more men in the wood." These men have painted their faces and covered themselves in branches and foliage. Nevertheless, a bit of movement here and there betrays the presence of another hundred or so men in the woods, ready to strike. Ser Tommard's men are now entering the same wood, edging up expertly through the foliage. The mountain men seem none the wiser. Dryn the Redtooth snaps at his men, "Eyes front! Eyes front! Don't look at our men!" A few of his men turn their heads away from the wood, chagrined. Other archers are tossing little pinches of sand to measure the wind and a few are finishing stringing their bows.

When the Corrett host comes to a stop on the hill, the mountain men on the opposite hill let out a great protracted yell, shaking their weapons and stomping their feet. It's a high pitched sort of scream or yowl, somewhere between the screetch of a rabbit and a shadowcat. This goes on for some thirty seconds, each man taking a brief respite before rejoining the howl.

"Yee-aay-eee! Yee-aay-eee-aay-eee! Yee-ayy-eee!"

When the yelling, stomping, and shaking subsides, five of the men mounted on garrons break from the lines, riding slowly for the center of the field. They appear to be the leaders--their armor has the glint of steel and they carry themselves with poise. One of them unfurls a white cloth and lifts it high on his spear. Apparently, they want to parley.

Mera and Eldric

You recognize one of the men coming under the flag of truce as the man that Mera feathered with an arrow several nights ago. In the light of day, you can get a better look at him. He's somewhat tall, and even taller seeming with a wolfskin draped over his head and shoulders. The hilt of a greatsword protrudes over his right shoulder and his armor looks to be scale. His eyes and beard are wild and dark. Of the Corrett men, only Eldric and Denys are larger and stronger. Some of his companions have a more starved look about them, but this man eats well.

http://imgur.com/Aj4psFf.jpg
The blue triangles are the Corrett units. From left to right: The Watchers, the Turnkeys, The Marks. The blue circle represents the unattached Corrett characters.



Corrett Order of Battle

Commander: Lord Morris Corrett (Warfare 2)
Sub-Commander: Ser Stanly Hoyne (Warfare 3)
3 Orders per Battle Round: 2 at Warfare 2, 1 at Warfare 3

Unattached PCs and Narrator Characters: Note that there is an opportunity to attach after the parley but before any orders are given to units.
Lord Morris Corrett (Commander; if attached, may not issue orders)
Mera Stone (-3 Discipline and +1D Fighting or Marksmanship to attached unit)
Eldric Blackfort (-3 Discipline and +1D Fighting to attached unit)
Ser Stanly Hoyne (Sub-Commander; if attached, may not issue orders)
Ser Oswell Moore

The Greycrown Turnkeys (Elite Garrison)
Defense 6, Armor 3, Discipline 0, Movement 4

Awareness 4
Fighting 4 (3 damage)
Endurance 5

Status
15/15 Health
Facing Forward
Garrison Home Turf: Discipline already at 0, can't be reduced

The Mountain Marks (Trained Archer/Garrison)
Defense 8, Armor 2, Discipline 9 (6), Movement 4

Agility 4
Awareness 3
Marksmanship 2 (6 damage) (range 20 squares)
Fighting 2 (3 damage)

Status
6/6 Health
Facing Forward
Garrison Home Turf: Discipline reduced by 3

The Mountain Watchers of Whitehorn (Veteran Guerrillas)
Defense 8 (10), Armor 1, Discipline 6, Movement 4

Athletics 4
Marksmanship 3 (3 damage) (range 2 squares)
Stealth 4
Fighting 2 (4 damage)

Status
6/6 Health
Facing Forward
In Light Woods: Defense increased to 10
Concealed: +1D on first Fighting or Marksmanship test; Ambush special order available


Howlers Clan Order of Battle

Commander: ?? (Warfare ??)

Each unit's stats will be revealed to the extent that you interact with it. For instance, attacking a unit will reveal its Defense and damaging it will reveal its Health. The same will occur if it attacks you. Stats that are derived from revealed stats will also be revealed. (revealing Defense also reveals Agility, Athletics, Awareness)

Left Footmen (?? low armor)
??

Status
Facing Forward

Center Footmen (?? low armor)
??

Status
Facing Forward

Right Footmen (?? low armor)
??

Status
Facing Forward

Forested Men (?? low armor, has stealth)

Stealth 2

Status
Facing to the right
In Light Woods: Defense increased by 2

[Simsimillia]

The march and the camp:

As the army set out to face their enemy on the field Mera followed the example of her brother and led her horse, shortly behind him. During the march she occasionally joined groups of Mountain Watchers to scout. She had often thought about joining their ranks with the hopes of one day ascending to command these safekeepers of Corrett lands. Maybe she should ask her brother about that someday. Right now Ser Tommard was still able and spry for his age. But he was getting old and it was only a matter of time until he would retire Mera guessed. Not that she wished the man ill, she respected and actually liked the older knight.

When the night set in and the host settled for the night, Mera was a bit surprised when a young man not much older than her approached her a bit nervously. At first she thought she had to turn down another awkward advance. By now she had gotten used to it. During the war, after she had been revealed she had to turn down many advances, especially from drunken Wolves and even had to use her fists or knives to lend some weight to her refusals. So far she hadn't come across a man that interested her.

That being said, she was quite surprised when she recieved a question that wasn't a more or less snarky way to ask her if she wanted to "wet his whistle". "I haven't seen it", Mera answered and
gave the man a serious look, "and that's because every man I fought with also wore his helmet. Just secure it properly on your head, if it's still not fitting properly, use some more stuffing until it does. It may be hot beneath that helmet, but it will save your life."After the first had broken the ice others came with their own questions and Mera realized that she had something many of these man had not: Experience. And they respected her for that despite her gender. Mera couldn't help but feel a little proud about that. She answered the prudent questions seriously and gave tips to the best of her knowledge, while countering the stupider once with witty remarks, usually at the questioners expense and to the amusement of the others. After a while a small crowd had gathered around her campfire and Mera had switched from tips and answering questions to telling war stories.

"...so there I was, standing in the middle of Ashefort. Alone with noone but my brother Jon. He had stopped screaming now and was fighting to remain awake...he had lost a lot of blood. I had carried him into a smithy, hoping to avoid further fighting and hold out until the Wolves advanced further into the city. But we should have no such luck. I hear banging on the door...someone had seen us enter. I had just enough time to put back on my helmet and grab my spear and shield when BANG! the door flew wide open and three Lions pushed their way in. Two of them had been foot soldiers, the third a tall knight in red armour carrying a sword in his one hand and a giant mace in his other, he was almost as tall as the Mountain. He was the one that had wounded Jon. I didn't hesitate and with a war cry on my lips I charged forward, running Dark Star through the first of the soldiers.", Mera poked a stick into the burning embers, letting sparks fly up.

He screamed in agony and keeled over, taking my spear I had run deep into his stomach with him. The other charged at me with his axe. I parryed his first blow with my shield, danced away from the second, but then I made a mistake and he hit me on the shoulder...I was lucky though, his edge was off and while my shoulder was in pain I could still fight. I smashed the side of my shield against his head and then cut his throat with my dagger. That's when I heard the red knight laughing, commending my spirit and promising me a quick death should I surrender my arms. My right shoulder hurt, I had only my shield, my dagger and my knives against a knight in plate armour, but I wouldn't give up my brother so easily and only tightened my grip. I could see him grin through the breathing holes of his helmet and I thought I was done for, but I refused to give up, I would fight to my dying breath!", Mera made a short pause checking the faces of her listeners and was happy to see them all caught on her lips eager to hear the end of the story.

"He came at me with a speed I would have not foreseen and swung his mace in a mighty swing. Just barely in time I could bring my shield up, I heard a loud CRACK! and at first I thought he had broken my arm, but instead my shield had shattered. I jumped backwards to escape his second attack with his sword and led the useless remains of my shield clatter to the ground. I had only my dagger and he came at me again, I dodged and parried as much I could while being driven through the smithy by him. He barely gave me any room to breath and I couldn't find an opening, all the while he was laughing and mocking at me. I realized he was playing with me. He was arrogant and I used that to my advantage. When he attacked the next time, instead of dodging backwards and away I tried to dive below. I got me in my face and cut it open, that's where this scar is from, but I also got close enough to ram my dagger into the gap at the back of his knee. He screamed in pain and got down to one knee, giving me enough time to wrench my spear from the dead Lion. When I turned around, he was up again, but had lost his sword and was limping, bracing himself on his mace, while I had my spear again. He said: 'you'll pay for this boy!' 'Try girl, you fool! You've just got beaten by one!', I mocked him before ramming my spear through the slits of his helmet...so yeah, that's how I got my scar.", Mera ended her story.

It hadn't exactly happened like that, at least the fight against the red knight. He had actually beat her and after discovering that Mera was a girl wanted to have his way with her, not knowing that she still had a knife on her. It was a much less heroic story and not something anyone needed to hear.

Day of the Battle

When Mera arrived at the field of possible battle she could see the loose formation of the enemy clansmen and immediately noticed that that couldn't be all. She informed Ser Tommard and Morris, that she suspected there to be more clansmen waiting in ambush. It had been dark and Mera hadn't spied the entire camp, but she knew that they had to be around 500 men and not all of them were accounted for yet.

When the Clansmen started their battle cry Mera herself, mounted Redfoot and raised her voice, so she could be seen and heard better. "Men! You know why they're crying like animals?", she made a short rethorical pause before she continued "Cause that's what they are! Frightened animals crying for their mother's tits! Let's show them what warriors sound like!" And with saying that she banged the blund side of her axe against the metal binding on the edge of her shield, hoping for her fellow soldiers to join in and send an echo of clattering and hammering steel across the battlefield. She knew how important morale was and showing of their superior equipment before the battle even started would hopefully unnerve the Clansmen a bit.

After that was done, she joined up with her brother and pointed out the tall man in the small group that had broken off from the enemy host. "That big one, I put an arrow in his shoulder the other night. We should also be careful, this could be a trick. Send an envoy to speak in your name instead. The Corretts can't afford to lose it's last son...and your mother would have me killed if you died."

[bluntpencil]

"No, that is not going to happen. I speak for myself. You will lead the Watchers, Eldric shall ride with me, with Ser Oswell and Denys Stone."

They were capable of defending themselves, reasoned Morris, and looking weak in front of the enemy, or his men, would not do. He had to project strength, for there to be any possibility of this ending peacefully.

[heretic]

Mera

The March and the Camp

The men listen to your story, wide-eyed. One of them murmurs something about the mountain men lacking steel, as if to reassure himself. After a few minutes of small talk, they return to their compatriots. You were much the same when you first started out with the Young Wolf. Some questions are better posed to grizzled strangers than to your own brothers-in-arms. Isolated as it is, Greycrown Keep is not exactly teeming with unfamiliar faces. Eldric is somewhat unapproachable in his hugeness, leaving you as the sole remaining veteran that men might turn to for succor without fear of being named a fool or craven before the company.

The Army—Morris, Mera, Eldric

At Mera’s call, the men begin to shout and rattle their weapons and shields. Calls of “Greycrown Keep!” and “Corrett!” and “Lord Morris!” fill the air. Ser Stanly sends his horse into a controlled rear, punching the sky with his lance. The cheers of the Corrett men are not as queer as the screams of the Howler host, but they sound just as loud. Dryn’s men begin to spike their arrows into the ground, the better to grasp and reload. However, they do not nock so as not to threaten the mountain clan leaders.

Following Lord Morris’s command, Denys Stone mounts his roan charger and trots to Morris’s side. He holds a massive kite shield on one arm, painted bright with the Corrett sigil. His signature three-headed flail lies across his lap. Ser Stanly reins back, leaving Eldric, Denys, and Oswell together to approach the mountain men negotiators.

The mountain clan leaders have stopped halfway across the field. Ser Oswell shifts warily in his seat as you approach, clearly uneasy with the risk of treachery, even with a hundred archers at your back. As you get closer, the mountain men appear less imposing than they did at a distance. Their garrons are smaller than your rounseys and chargers, and the men themselves have an emaciated look about them. Mountain clan leaders arm themselves with stolen steel and these men are no exception. The greybeard on the left with the pinched-looking mouth carries a steel-tipped spear and the two flame-haired younger men each have a long sword belted on. The bald one carries a double-edged battleaxe and the larger man in the center has a two-handed greatsword. This one also wears a jacket and skirt of scales while the others show only leather and bone on their chests and arms.

When you come face to face, you find yourselves looking down from your taller mounts. For a moment, no one speaks as each side sizes up the other. The man with the greatsword speaks first. He is almost as big as Denys, though Eldric overtops him easily. He looks to be about twenty-five by his face, framed by a wild black beard and a wolf’s skin draped on his head and shoulders. Addressing Morris, he speaks, referring to himself by name.

“You are far from Grey Crown lands. Gerfried, son of Gunthor has more men than you and you have no knights. Submit to Gerfried and go in peace. Gerfried demands only small tribute. Leave your horses.”

He’s wrong about the lands of course, though these lands have not been patrolled or taxed by the Corretts in many years.

Denys and Ser Oswell remain silent, deferring to Lord Morris. All of you can feel the eyes of both armies on you.


Mera

Following Morris’s directive, you manage to easily circle back out of sight of the mountain clan army, and enter the wood. The center of the wood is marked by the muddy remains of a stream or ditch, and following it keeps you out of sight of the mountain men up ahead. Soon enough, you find yourself among the Corrett men concealed in the wood. Most of them are crouched or laying ont he ground, while others stand with their backs pressed into trees. Ser Tommard has darkened his face with mud and is peering around a tree.

Not much farther than a stone's throw are the not-so-hidden mountain men, who have oriented themselves toward the open ground. Their method of concealment is to cover their men in so many brambles that each one appears to be a small bush. But you've never known such a wobbly, lively set of bushes. Try as they might to remain still, the whole line of them shifts and shudders as the men scratch their arses, flick away beetles from the earth, and otherwise fuss. Their numbers are filled with many younglings and greybeards, you suddenly realize. You fought with and against the same in the lowlands: a force raised in haste or conscription, easy to kill and easier to rout.

Out on the open ground, you see Morris, Eldric, Ser Oswell, and Denys come together with the man you shot and his subordinates.

Based on your remarks, I'm assuming you're going with the Watchers here. I'll leave it up to you as to whether to bring your mount into the woods. You can do so without detection thanks to the low-lying stream bed.

[bluntpencil]

"You speak to Morris Corrett, son of Alyn Corrett, Gerfried, son of Gunthor.

I know that an intelligent man such as yourself would know that we cannot, and will not, give in to any such demands."

The young lord looks entirely unfazed. Their foes are poorly equipped, and very obviously hungry. They had a small numerical advantage, but that hardly counted in the face of training, steel, and full bellies.


Taking a Withdraw action, to raise my Defence. I assume I have initiative.

[roll0]

[heretic]

The Parley—Morris and Eldric

Gerfried, son of Gunthor looks at Morris for a few moments. His garron swishes its tail lazily. Finally he speaks. “Gerfried sees Morris, son of Alyn is a man, not a boy. Men fight their own battles to spare their people the wrath of war. Fight Gerfried, son of Gunthor here on this field, man against man. If you win, the Howlers will fly these lands. If you lose, we take your horses and steel, but let you run back to the Grey Crown.”

His compatriots give a nod at this suggestion. It is not uncommon for mountain clansmen to engage in ritual combat to decide leadership matters and territorial disputes, although it’s unheard of (as far as either of you know) for a civilized Valeman to participate.

Ser Oswell seems coiled as if he wants to either blurt something out or lay his sword into someone. Like as not, the prospect of Morris engaging a wild mountain chieftain in a duel would send him into conniptions.

Eldric

You don’t fancy Morris’s chances against Gerfried. Gerfried is bigger, stronger, older, and likely a more experienced combatant. And his sword and armor are good steel. There are a few missing scales and the hilt of the sword could use a re-wrapping of leather, but their condition is no worse than can be expected for a traveling warrior. Most clansmen are pathetic fighters both for lack of skill and steel, but their leaders are another matter—they rise by being the most ferocious and take the choice spoils in steel for themselves. You, on the other hand, are a better match for Gerfried.

Morris

Gerfried doesn’t scare you by his mere presence. However, he would probably dispatch you easily in single combat.

Clan leaders typically earn their positions rather than inherit them, and clearly, Gerfried was not made chieftain in recognition of his wits. He can probably handle his sword as well as any trained knight. In any case, his terms are lopsided: if you win, they leave, but if he wins, he disarms your entire host.

Lady Alyssa and Banion

Septa Tanselle interrupts your discussion by swooping through the doorway, clearly in need of attention. “Milady, I’ve lit a candle beneath my statuette of The Warrior for Morris. If you have a need, we can say the prayers together later.” She takes notice of Banion, wrinkling her nose a bit and eyeing him up and down. Pretending to address no one in particular, she continues, “and of course, I also said a prayer for the Father to take mercy on sinners and judge them mercifully…but maybe I should light a candle as well, just to be safe…” She continues to prattle on about The Seven, occasionally waving about her small crystal prism necklace.

[Q'telun]

Alyssa's face flashes brief annoyance, before she turns to face the Septa with a weary, sad smile fixed in place. "I appreciate that, Septa. It gladdens me to hear that the Keep is accepting of Lord Morris." She puts a small emphasis on the 'Lord'. It would hardly do to have the Septa forgetting Morris's title.

"And it does my heart glad to hear that you are so worried about those who have sinned. Perhaps rather than the Father, the Mother and the Crone might be beseeched for mercy and wisdom?" She still smiles. But her tone of voice, well, Arryn once was on the receiving end of that voice, right after Mera had come to the keep. It was a warm tone, welcoming and inviting further discussion, but somehow conveyed a warning at the same time. Arryn had capitulated almost at once after she had used it on him, and he was the Lord.

[bluntpencil]

"I acknowledge your noble request to fight for your, apparently hungry, people, but I do not see it as a truly fair offering.

If I were to fight, and win, we would gain nothing that we did not have already. If I were to lose, we would lose a lot of good steel.

If you were to fight, and win, you would gain a tremendous amount of good steel. If you were to lose, you would lose nothing - this land is not yours anyway."

Morris straightens up a little, then continues,

"I do not gamble with the welfare of my people, and, from your one-sided offer, I am certain that you do not, either."

He brings his hands together,

"I may, however, have something to offer which would benefit all involved, with a minimum of lives lost, as you, very honourably, seem to desire."


Some sort of chit-chat roll?

[roll0]

[Old Overholt]

Alyssa's face flashes brief annoyance, before she turns to face the Septa with a weary, sad smile fixed in place. "I appreciate that, Septa. It gladdens me to hear that the Keep is accepting of Lord Morris." She puts a small emphasis on the 'Lord'. It would hardly do to have the Septa forgetting Morris's title.

"And it does my heart glad to hear that you are so worried about those who have sinned. Perhaps rather than the Father, the Mother and the Crone might be beseeched for mercy and wisdom?" She still smiles. But her tone of voice, well, Arryn once was on the receiving end of that voice, right after Mera had come to the keep. It was a warm tone, welcoming and inviting further discussion, but somehow conveyed a warning at the same time. Arryn had capitulated almost at once after she had used it on him, and he was the Lord.

When the Septa looks Banion up and down, the gruff-looking man with the rust-colored hair raises his eyebrows and offers her a smile, as if silently asking her 'You like what you see?' He doesn't take annoyance with the implication that he is a sinner, instead standing there silently as he wasn't the one addressed. Lady Alyssa can certainly handle the Septa's intrusion. But his eyes remain fixed on the Septa while she stands there with that stupid grin, Banion's gaze a bit defiant and perhaps even somewhat inflammatory to the woman. The two have crossed paths many a time in the past, having several exchanges of his choices in life, his religious views, and his friendship with Jenny.

When Lady Alyssa seems to have given her advice tot he Septa, Banion does perk up a little. His chain raising about a half inch or so, he says in a respectful, 'Oh by the way...' sort of tone in his rough voice, "And Septa Tanselle... if you are headed that way, would you mind stopping to speak with my mother? She has a special note she is holding for Lady Alyssa." Banion tilts his head in the Lady's direction, but doesn't turn to look at her quite yet. "Could you ask her to bring it to her?" he further inquires, finally looking back to Lady Alyssa with a broad, pleased smile.

[heretic]

The Parley—Morris and Eldric

Gerfried tilts his head to one side, regarding Lord Morris carefully. “Name your terms, then.”

Lady Alyssa and Banion

Septa Tanselle takes Alyssa’s rebuke well, curtsying and leaving with a promise to light more candles and fetch Banion’s mother.

Lady Alyssa

It occurs to you that Banion may be privy to some of Alyn’s political machinations. The man is skilled in guttercraft and can drift forgettably through settlements alongside the other smallfolk. If he was Alyn’s catspaw for the manifest, perhaps this cat has lived more lives for his master…

You can have Banion’s mother enter whenever you want. She bears the manifest, whose contents are below.



Sunset Wind—Capt. Gulljon

Tyrosh

Off:

20 tons steel swords, armor
5 tons fletcher’s glue
4 dragonbone bows

On:

30 tons brandy (pear, grape, apple)
20 tons peppers
5 tons saffron
Vyrio Shinepenny-Myr
Ozno zo Khazdaq, Yunkish emissary and 3 bodyguards-Myr

*[]*

Myr

Off:
30 tons brandy
10 tons peppers

On:
10 tons peppers
5 tons saffron

20 tons, dyed wool carpets
10 tons, silk screens
100 2-inch Myrish lenses
500 pounds, Myrish fire
63 slaves (Raenor of Myr)
Garth Storm-Pentos
Bald dwarf (mute)-Pentos

***

Pentos

Off:

10 tons peppers
5 tons saffron
62 free bond servants
500 pounds, Myrish fire

On:
20 tons, dyed wool carpets
10 tons, silk screens
100 2-inch Myrish lenses

1 talking bird (summer isles)
4 chests gems
5 tons azure dye
5 tons silver bullion

Stallicho Hestirah, Bright Banners-Sisterton
Ketter of Moonhome-Sisterton

*-*-*-*-*

Sisterton

Off:

1 birdcage (empty)
1 chest gems
20 tons, dyed wool carpets
5 tons, silk screens
5 2-inch Myrish lenses
5 tons azure dye

On:







You recognize Ketter’s name as one of House Egen’s serjeants, though he is a fairly unremarkable man of middle years. All the other names are unfamiliar to you.
You would vaguely guess that the Bright Banners are a mercenary company.
As for locations, Moonhome is House Egen's seat and that Pentos, Tyrosh, and Myr are free cities. Yunkai as a city on Slaver's Bay, east and south of the Free Cities.

[Simsimillia]

Mera wasn't happy at all with Morris rebuke and order. For a moment she considered protesting, at least she wanted to be at his side when he rode out to meet the Clanleaders. She hadn't been able to save Jon, she couldn't forgive herself if she lost Morris as well. After a moment though she turned her horse and rode back over the ridge and out of sight of the clansmen. Arguing with her brother now would do his lordship and command no good. She didn't want to sabotage that. If this would turn out to be an ambush he would have to hear her say 'I told you so' afterwards, granted they both would make it.

Leaving Redfoot and the heavy war lance with some men in the backline, Mera set out on foot to join the Watchers, only stopping shortly when she passed the stream bed to smear her face with mud and made sure that there would be no clanking when she stalked through the woods.

She quickly found the Watchers and the Mountain men who could've been almost invisible if they were more disciplined. She joined up with Ser Tommard, nodding towards him. Morris had told her that she'd have the command, but she'd refer to the older and more experienced man in this matter. She doubted that the Watchers would be very willing to follow her anyway. Most of them were seasoned veterans, unlike the men she had entertained the other evening.

After settling in, in her own position among the men laying in ambush she peered over to the meeting taking place between the leaders. Bow and arrow were ready to draw in her hand should anything unforseen happen.

[bluntpencil]

"My terms are as follows:

You, and your men, shall surrender.

In return, you shall be granted most generous boons.

You shall have pastoral rights in these, currently unexploited lands. You may graze sheep and cattle here. It is my hope, and surely yours, that your children will not suffer hunger in the years to come. I will do what I can to assist you in this - I do not wish to see any child go without.

However, this will require some reciprocity.

First, you shall find, and return, a missing maid, whose father, rightly or wrongly, believes that your troops have kidnapped.

Secondly, you, and your people, will swear fealty to me, Lord Morris Corrett, lord of Greycrown Keep. This will involve service in times of war, should it come to that, and the payment of taxes. It will, of course, also ensure that you have the protection of our forces.

Finally, you shall also give over certain individuals as wards of the Keep. They will be provided for as if members of my own family, but will be held in order to ensure good relations."

Morris' voice is even, almost dull, throughout his offer. His offer is great, and his officers are unlikely to agree, but he's not willing to let some hillfolk barbarians starve simply because they're savages.


Rolling Shield of Reputation to improve his opinion of me...
[roll0]

[heretic]

Lord Morris

Gerfried considers your offer. “You would give Gerfried what is already his.” He sweeps his arm about, indicating the land around you. “Land is sweet, but the Howlers want more than they already have. With winter upon us already, we cannot simply be lowland goatherds. We require steel.” He pats his sword hilt, causing Ser Oswell’s eyes to bulge.

Your retainers have remained silent, though you can read their reaction to the negotiation. Denys is listening respectfully, but you can tell his preferred method would be a simple, threatening ultimatum demanding unconditional surrender. Battle would join soon after, no doubt, because the Howlers believe themselves to outnumber your host two to one (in actuality, it’s four to three). Your appeal to the clan’s food supplies has the potential to strike a chord unrelated to each side’s likelihood of victory. Ser Oswell would likely approve of your shrewd diplomacy, but he is preoccupied with playing the part of bodyguard.

Gerfried continues, “The Burned Men and Black Ears carry steel now. They do not flee before the Broken Spears anymore.” You take him to mean House Wydman’s sigil of five broken lances. “With steel, the Howlers can stand against the Burned Men, the Black Ears, and more. Without it, we cannot withstand steeled men…” He realizes the implication of what he’s saying, and quickly corrects himself in order to maintain his position of strength. “…unless we have numbers.” He gestures to the three hundred on the hillside and grins a little grin.

“So hear my terms, Lord Corrett. You give us three hundred blades with steel mail and helms to match. Our women and children herd the goats on this land and pay your tax. We send you wards to train in your keep with steel in hand. Our men return to the mountains to find spoils and also revenge against the Burned Men. But we swear not to raise a blade against the Grey Crown. Together, the Howlers and Grey Crowns defend the women and children here. As for the maid, she is betrothed to Pimmen, son of Pard.” He gestures to one of the red-headed men beside him, who nods silently. “Name your champion and they may please the gods by dueling for her.” You’re not sure why he keeps returning to single combat as part of his terms. Perhaps the clan will only understand and accept a pact wrought in part by blood. It could be that he’s looking for a way to save face, a victory to soften the unmanly news of a peace treaty, or a defeat upon which to lay the blame for unfavorable terms. Or maybe it’s all a façade and what he wants is a chance for one of his men to hack your head off before joining battle nonetheless.

In any case, his terms are frightening in some ways, but less so in others. Arming a mountain clan and unleashing them into the mountains is dangerous and unseemly, but at the same time, Gerfried’s willingness to proffer hostages and pay taxes is surprising. You don’t fail to notice that he declined to address the subject of fealty. The mountain men haven’t sworn an oath to any proper lord since before the coming of the Andals, when the houses of the First Men dominated the Vale. After the Falcon Knight, Ser Artys Arryn, defeated the last Bronze King, Robar II Royce, over half those houses were destroyed. The survivors fled into the mountains, leaving behind all order and civilization. It would be momentous indeed if some of these men were to bend the knee after centuries of savagery.

Your Shield of Reputation ploy works, improving his attitude by one step. At this point I'm not going to bother rolling for Gerfried. He's basically reacting to you now and I think RPing his counteroffers is more meaningful without pairing it with his dismal rolls.



Tyramear
Greycrown Keep

It’s been several months since Lord Alyn passed away. Maester Rowan insisted on treating him, despite the fact that you are the better healer. From what you saw, Rowan did a reasonable job, but Alyn was not strong enough to hold off the hacking cough or the nausea and dizziness that soon followed. The Lord of Greycrown Keep had been good to you, especially after you cured his daughter Anya when she was touched by a sudden fever while out riding on Whitehorn with her brothers. You have never known a mentor as thoughtful as he. His curiosity knew no bounds and he didn’t scoff or dismiss you when he learned of your interest in magic. Instead, he asked insightful questions regarding your areas of expertise and even granted your bold request for a shadowcat pup in return for saving Anya.

The high air of the Vale has certainly awakened your spark. Not only did you successfully tame Balericat here, but you have noticed other signs of otherworldly influence. Balericat has lead you to several high caves hidden in the mountainside, their walls covered in the runes of the First Men. Inside, you found an obsidian dagger seemingly as old as the mountain itself, and in another, a blue winter rose growing improbably from a frozen puddle beneath a stalactite. Yet another held a black and white falcon that locked eyes with you, somehow imparting that it was as wise as any man. Finally, the smallfolk of the Corrett lands have come to love you for your healing abilities, which they attribute to your magicks.

Winning their approval is uniquely satisfying for some reason. Perhaps because at the Citadel, praise was hard to come by. The Archmaesters proved to be a capricious and catty lot, more concerned with maintaining their status in the hierarchy than properly training their charges. Even in healing, one of your best subjects, Archmaester Ebrose sneered at your work as soon as he learned you were seeking a link of Valyrian steel. That link never came to be, for Archmaester Marwyn seemed to enjoy the company of whores, red priests, and hedge wizards more than his own students. He cancelled his seminar on the occult after an acolyte insulted him.

Balericat yawns loudly, his (OOC: her?) jaws snapping shut audibly at the end. You’re standing before the cart-stall of Hargrear the Apothecary, who shares with you a sort of symbiotic rivalry. You could not function half as well without his medicinal supplies and he sometimes buys fresh herbs from you, but at the same time you have caught him whispering your healing recipes (or what he thinks are your recipes) to the smallfolk, intent on cutting you out. Perhaps that was payback for the time that you undercut his price on river mint. Or that time you stopped supplying him with white wattle and then offered it at inflated prices. Or that time when you sold him leeches “fresh from a clean pond” when in fact they came from the body of a feverish and rabid sow you found staggering through the woods.

Hargrear turns back around, handing you the small sack of mushrooms that you requested and pocketing your silver. He’s a short man, his face distorted by bulbous growths and checkered with whiskers. Now that winter has set in, he’ll probably stay about the Keep instead of making his travels to Moonhome, Strongsong, and even Saltpans. Even though he only has two main customers (you and Maester Rowan), his supply will likely start to wane soon.

"Will that be all, Wanderor?"

[bluntpencil]

"Your numbers concern me little, my good ser. I am more than aware of the hungry boys and old men that are hiding in the woods.

Be that as it may, and I am sure you can understand, that we are not in a position to trust you yet. If you were to live in our lands, paying our taxes, it would involve following our laws, and that would require you to recognise me as your lord.

I will add a caveat, however...

I will respect your pride as Howlers, and not demand that you kneel when pledging fealty. I am willing to accept fealty from a strong-backed individual, standing tall.

In turn, steel will be granted, in time, and within reason. Three hundred suits of mail, and swords, is too much, too soon. However, spears, shields, bearing Greycrown colours, and helms, may be possible. We might also provide some manpower to assist, although I would suggest that there be no kidnapping of womenfolk. The details, I am sure, we can work out in time."

Morris smiles a little, quite happy at how this is going, and actually rather surprised at the fact that this man is being somewhat reasonable.

"Now, I understand that single combat is an important tradition to you - it also has its place in... the highest of towers, in the Eyrie.

Therefore, I shall nominate Eldric Blackfort, who shall face Pimmen, son of Pard, in honourable combat."


Spending a Destiny point to improve my target's disposition one step further, then trying to Persuade.

[roll0] Persuasion

[DukeGod]

"Yes yes, this should be all for now."

The mushrooms were of course hardly everything Tyramear wanted, but he preferred to return some other day. If anything he wished to purchase a veritable stock of things to try out, but it was unwise to do so in the winter. One never knew how long they lasted after all so better to space out the usage of medicine so you had enough materials to last through it.

He toys with the bracelet on his right arm. It was made of many links, similar enough to a maester chain. There weren't enough links for a maester chain however, not that he cared, the principle was the same. Maesters probably didn't like it, but they couldn't take it from him, he and the Citadel had parted in mostly good terms unlike those who had been banished. He'd maybe yet one day find his way back there. Probably never to get the full chain, it seemed that becoming a full maester removed too much of one's freedom.

Still, best to get back to the keep. Sick people weren't spoiled for time as he was. He had to ferment the chaga he had just bought, it'd help a number of the elderly to make it in winter. He'd do similarly for the caterpillar fungus, which should help Rila get a child...maybe tell her to give some to Brynden too so the man would stop being coy too. With a click of his tongue he gets White Socks moving. There's no need for a similar command for Balericat, who'd either hear Tyramerar walking and simply follow or find him later. He'd likely follow though.

[heretic]

Lord Morris

Gerfried's face twitches when you mention his men in the wood. He is clearly not pleased that you do not betray any fear in the face of his numbers. However, when you mention providing steel, he appears ready to accept your terms.

"The Howlers will bring the Burned Men to their knees with your steel. I will pick five daughters and five sons of chieftains to send to the Grey Crown. Now, let the champions decide the fate of the goatherd's daughter. Then we feast." You are under no illusions as to whom will provide the food.

Eldric

Upon hearing Lord Morris name you his champion, Pimmen, son of Pard's eyes scan the group and alight on the Blackfort device on your shield. After the terms of the parley are decided, he trots back a few paces and dismounts. He likely realizes that he holds the disadvantage while riding a garron, even though you still tower over him on foot. Turning to face the Howler ranks, he draws his lordsword and traces a dramatic arc in the sky, letting the light catch the blade. The Howlers explode again into a frenzy of shrieks and spear-rattling. Both sets of negotiators back away by twenty yards.

Your opponent waits for you on foot. He is a lean, hard man some five or six years older than you, but has a starved and stunted demeanor. Boiled leather covers his chest and shoulders, and forms a short skirt above his roughspun breeches. His shield is small and covered in goathide and his sword is stolen steel. He waits you to prepare yourself, taking your measure.

When both of you are ready, one of the Howler negotiators sounds a horn blast and it begins.

Pimmen [roll0]
Eldric [roll1]
Pimmen wins the tie based on Quickness bonus dice


Tyramear

Hargrear turns back to his cart. You can see that life in the courtyard around you has slowed a bit in the absence of most of the garrison. Women are clustered in little circles, sharing gossip, worries, and prayers. Some children are running wild across the yard. Up by the entrance to the Keep itself, you spot Lady Alyssa speaking to Banion, Lord Alyn's hired ghost. Perhaps she could use some herbs to calm her nerves. Losing a husband and son is bad enough without having your remaining son ride off to war soon after.

Eldric

Pimmen gets off a half step before you, closing the distance between you and sending a series of blows towards your legs. He is almost a foot shorter than you and clearly means to use it to whatever advantage he can. You manage to hold off his attack for the most part, but his blade slips past your shield once and his scores your shin painfully with the just the flat of his blade.


See OOC for roll of 15. Pimmen hits with one degree of success for 4 damage, reduced to 3 from your padded armor. You can decide how to deal with the damage on your action.

[Q'telun]

Lady Alyssa takes the manifest from the doddering old lady with a small, but gracious bow. She might have use for someone who can control the man in front of her. Scanning the pages quickly, some parts of the manifest cause her to raise an eyebrow. Most of the trade is of little consequence (barring the bit about the arms and armor), and the passenger list is of little concern, but the Egen serjeant and the mercenary disembarking at Sisterton is... disturbing. True, it could be coincidence, but it would be wise to be cautious in this time.

She looks up from the paper and at Banion. "Banion, what was the name of the ship that you were to retrieve the manifest from? And did my husband explain to you why he wanted that particular manifest?"

[Old Overholt]

Lady Alyssa takes the manifest from the doddering old lady with a small, but gracious bow. She might have use for someone who can control the man in front of her. Scanning the pages quickly, some parts of the manifest cause her to raise an eyebrow. Most of the trade is of little consequence (barring the bit about the arms and armor), and the passenger list is of little concern, but the Egen serjeant and the mercenary disembarking at Sisterton is... disturbing. True, it could be coincidence, but it would be wise to be cautious in this time.

She looks up from the paper and at Banion. "Banion, what was the name of the ship that you were to retrieve the manifest from? And did my husband explain to you why he wanted that particular manifest?"

Banion offers his mother a quiet, half-smile as she appears with the manifest, the right corner of his mouth rising on his cheek as he looks sidelong at her - still facing the Lady as he waits to hear her response to the manifest. Aveline backs away from her Lady, giving the two a comfortable circle of privacy as she stands against the wall and bows her head, eyes closed. It's a moment for her to take a respite from her daily labors and silently listen to the going-ons of Greycrown Keep.

When Lady Alyssa puts forth her questions to him, Banion shakes his head at the inquiry. "No ma'am," he says in a quiet, but hardened voice. "His Lordship rarely disclosed to me his reasons - only the importance of what I was doing and... the 'sensitivity' with which I was to treat it," Banion adds. "But I do recall the name, yes - hard to forget waiting on that ship for a month. The Sunset Wind," he then discloses. "Does it mean anything to you?" he then inquires, curious if there are some other details he can provide to make sense of his task or merely to try and pry as to what he was sent to accomplish.

[DukeGod]

Tyramear approaches the two. He was sure it involved secrets of some sort, the kinds of which he didn't quite know, but education was always good

"Good day Lady Corrett, Banion. It's nice to see you here, be a good idea to catch sun while we still can I say. But less of winter, how are you? No illnesses or ailments I hope, please don't hesitate to call if necessary"

[Q'telun]

Alyssa purses her lips. "It means that you retrieved the correct manifest. Much of it is of little concern to me, but it appears as if one of House Egen's serjeants was in Pentos recruiting mercenaries." She taps the offending line sharply. "If House Egen had committed men to the war, I would be less concerned. And I still have no idea of what Alyn wanted with this." She sighs in frustration, and turns back to Banion. "I don't suppose you saw any of House Egen's men in that port, did you?"

When the Maester approaches, she bows politely. "I am doing well, Maester Tyramear. Though, I believe we may need your help discerning the motives of my late husband." She offers the manifest to the man. "Can you make sense of why Lord Alyn would require such a document?"

[Simsimillia]

Eldric

Eldric had to admit to himself that he didn't like how these negotiations went. He thought they would've just been for show with impossible demands made from both sides or an ambush. But instead they talked and even reached an agreement. He shuffled a bit in his saddle discontent, like Morris other advisors, but not daring to speak up and undermine the young Lord's authority. He liked the idea of fighting for the hand of a woman even less. It seemed barbaric, but such were the Mountain Clans, even if they seemed surprisingly reasonable.

Reluctantly Eldric dismounted Soldier, put on his helmet and drew his bastard sword out of it's shaft. He nodded towards the man called Pimmen. It took some heart to go against a who was better armed, taller and stronger, Eldric had to give him that. Then he surprised him with his swiftness.

Mera

From afar, unknowing what exactly was happening, Mera watched the proceedings on the open field. She saw Eldric and one of the Clansmen ready themselves for a duel and bit her lower lip with worry when she heard the clanging of metal against metal from afar. Little brother, what are you doing?

Eldric

He grunted when the flat of Pimmen's blade hit his shin and danced back out of reach for a moment. He had endured worse and the other man had surprised him with his speed, but that wouldn't happen again. With a battle cry Eldric went on the offensive. Relentlessly raining hammering blows down on his opponent.



(Assuming Advanced Combat Actions are used, I think so because Mera used Aim earlier)

Using Lesser Actions"Maneuver" and "Standard Attack", trying to hit Pimmen and press the offensive to reduce his Dice.

Maneuver: [roll0] vs. Pimmen's Fighting result

Attack: [roll1] vs. Pimmen's Defence

[heretic]

Eldric

After his offensive, Pimmen tries to dart beyond the length of your blade, but your footwork is sound and your stride long. Trapped in your reach, he withers under your blows. The first splits the leather and wood of his shield and knocks his left arm low. The second batters aside his feeble parry and bites into his arm. The third knocks his shield from his arm and drives him to one knee.

It is over quickly. Pimmen was not the worst opponent you have faced, though he is among the worst equipped. Victory tastes sweet in the moment. The Corrett forces throw up a cheer even as the Howlers begin rattling their spears. Their leader Gerfried moves to placate his men as the other members of his entourage tend to Pimmen.


Your Maneuver result of 19 beats Pimmen’s passive Fighting result. Your attack result of 21 is good enough for three degrees of success against Pimmen’s Defense of 8. You deal 21 points of damage, reduced to 18 by Pimmen’s armor. This is enough to defeat him.

You can decide the manner of his defeat: death, wounded, a chance to ask to yield, etc.

Tyramear

The manifest is similar to the historical manifests preserved at the Citadel, which you had some occasion to inspect in your studies. It lists the cargo and passengers for the cog Sunset Wind, captained by one “Gulljon”—a possible portmanteau of the common Westerosi name ‘Jon’ and the only city in the Vale, Gulltown.

The Bright Banners (alluded to by Lady Alyssa) are indeed a sellsword company from Essos, and one of some historical ignominy. It was the Bright Banners that fled the defense of Qohor over four hundred years ago, leading to the famous stand of the three thousand Unsullied against a massive Dothraki horde. You can’t recall any other mention of them in the annals you have read, although continuing to exist for four hundred years is something of an accomplishment for a free company.

Other than that, the manifest is relatively unremarkable. Weapons off at Tyrosh, spices taken on and off at various cities, slaves being shipped from Myr to Pentos under the guise of them being “free bond servants” to appease Pentoshi law, some passengers from Slaver’s Bay and such. It’s a shame the talking bird from the Summer Isles died. You’ve never seen one, but they’re said to speak with vocabularies larger than even the cleverest of ravens. Any beastmaster or falconer would be loath to lose such a prize after securing its passage.

Lord Alyn’s machinations were quite obscure to you. He would ask you all kinds of questions regarding prophecy, clairvoyance, and the like, though he never quite worked up to asking you to attempt any magic on his behalf. He did occasionally ask you to report back on the status of his far-flung smallfolk, to whom you were the only face of House Corrett. Once, he asked you if you ever had ever tended to one Jeyne Lipps, a daughter of House Lipps. You had not, but the question was strange because he never asked you about the health of anyone outside of his lands.



Sunset Wind—Capt. Gulljon

Tyrosh

Off:

20 tons steel swords, armor
5 tons fletcher’s glue
4 dragonbone bows

On:

30 tons brandy (pear, grape, apple)
20 tons peppers
5 tons saffron
Vyrio Shinepenny-Myr
Ozno zo Khazdaq, Yunkish emissary and 3 bodyguards-Myr

*[]*

Myr

Off:
30 tons brandy
10 tons peppers

On:
10 tons peppers
5 tons saffron

20 tons, dyed wool carpets
10 tons, silk screens
100 2-inch Myrish lenses
500 pounds, Myrish fire
63 slaves (Raenor of Myr)
Garth Storm-Pentos
Bald dwarf (mute)-Pentos

***

Pentos

Off:

10 tons peppers
5 tons saffron
62 free bond servants
500 pounds, Myrish fire

On:
20 tons, dyed wool carpets
10 tons, silk screens
100 2-inch Myrish lenses

1 talking bird (summer isles)
4 chests gems
5 tons azure dye
5 tons silver bullion

Stallicho Hestirah, Bright Banners-Sisterton
Ketter of Moonhome-Sisterton

*-*-*-*-*

Sisterton

Off:

1 birdcage (empty)
1 chest gems
20 tons, dyed wool carpets
5 tons, silk screens
5 2-inch Myrish lenses
5 tons azure dye

On:








Banion

The sigil of House Egen takes a moment to come to you in full, because it’s one of those sigils that wants to be a puppet show—too many objects dancing around, making it hard to remember, though recognizable enough on sight. It consists of a yellow sun, white half-moon, and white star on a stripe of blue above a field of white. You saw it nowhere on Sisterton, and yet…yes, you did see that same sun design on blue, on the shields of some footmen while you were making for the Sister’s Sweets. There were maybe two or three men bearing the yellow sun on blue, though the moon and star were missing.

[Simsimillia]

Eldric

It had not been a fair fight, but they had asked for it. He had his blade extended towards his defeated opponent looking expectantly towards his Lord. He wouldn't end the man's life unless commanded to do so.

[bluntpencil]

"Gerfried, son of Gunthor! Your man has proven the courage and mettle of the Howlers, in combat against the tallest man in my service, the great Eldric Blackfort!

Do remind him, though, that from now on, the brave Howlers will not kidnap brides from our people. Our laws, just like your valour, are to be honoured."

Morris then nods to Eldric. It went just as expected, and thankfully ended without bloodshed.

Later, when the feast begins, Morris privately makes an offer of conciliation.

"Perhaps, in the future, marriages can be arranged to strengthen ties between our two clans - we shan't need to steal your women, and neither shall you need to steal ours."

[Old Overholt]

Banion's brow furrows at the inquiry made by Lady Alyssa, the man apparently thinking rather hard about what she asks. His eyes drift away and to the right for a moment as his eyes casually blink. His jaw shifts as he searches his mind's eye for what he's seen. And slowly, he begins to shake his head as his eyes return to Alyssa and he says, "No... I don't recall them exactly, my lady - I..." There's a brief pause as some unspent air escapes his lungs before he continues, "... I could be mistaken, but I think I saw some, but not?" The expression on Banion's face is one of uncertain honesty - unsure what to say, but not hiding the truth. She has seen that expression only a handful of times before in all the time he has served Lord Alyn, mostly when she has spied him answering to his mother for some public indiscretion, but the last in recent memory an encounter between he and Septa Tanselle where the Septa appeared to be reading him the riot act near the Keep's Gate, dressing him down like a child that had lied to a parent.

"... it was the yellow sun on a blue field, but that was all. I didn't think much of it at the time, but perhaps... there were some on The Sisters," Banion explains as Maester Tyramear approaches and Lady Alyssa turns the manifest over to him. As Tyramear reads through the list, Banion remarks in that low, grumbling voice of his, "Well if it isn't the medicine man himself." He says nothing more, allowing Tyramear quiet to concentrate on the list and avoid annoying Lady Alyssa with his banter.

[heretic]

Eldric

Pimmen’s sword drops to the ground. You realize you are breathing heavily despite the briefness of the exchange. Once Lord Morris blesses the combat and Gerfried makes no move to intercede, it’s clear that it’s over.

The other red-haired mountain man rushes to Pimmens side and cradles him in his arms. Your opponent is bleeding badly from one arm and is holding the other as broken. You notice for the first time that your blade took him in the collar on one of your blows. The other mountain men help Pimmen to his feet and staunch his wounds with cloth. He nods once to you, a token on respect that will not be missed by either side’s men. He looks as though he will recover, even able to ride from the field after being helped into his saddle.

Lord Morris

The Corrett men give a cheer when your champion prevails. Eldric is clearly an expert swordsman and soldier. You have seen a fair bit of fighting—in Greycrown Keep’s yard, the tourney in King’s Landing for Prince Joffrey’s nameday, a quick rout by Corrett footmen of bandits on the high road, and the like. But none of that compares to two strangers slashing at each other with pointed steel on a field of war. Pimmen was quick and skillful enough with his stolen blade, but Eldric’s reach, his puissant counter, and Pimmen’s lack of armor decided the combat.

The Howler ranks begin to rattle their spears and shields, perhaps thinking the duel to be an appetizer before the butcher’s course of battle. Gerfried rides back and forth with a hand raised until they quiet. Riding a bit closer, he begins shouting to them as a group. His address is partly instructions—the men in the woods slowly rise and join their compatriots on the hillside—and partly an explanation of what just transpired. His account takes some extreme liberties with the truth. You don’t catch every word, but the thrust of it is clear.

“Brothers and sisters, the Grey Crown Lord fears the Gerfried <unintelligible> Howlers! He pleaded for peace. Gerfried said no! He <unintelligible> silver. Gerfried said no! He offered gold. Gerfried said no! Then, Gerfried demanded steel, mounts, and food for all <unintelligible>! He said yes to food and half the steel, but wagered the rest on his champion, against a woman and ten child hostages. Pimmen championed the Howlers and his wife. Gods and men bore witness. We must now honor our bargain and claim our reward!”

The reaction is some muted shuffling and shouts that could be either defiance or confusion. Gerfried moves closer and engages the shouters.

Across the field, your Corrett men remain in quiet, disciplined ranks. Denys leans in for a word. “Milord, we should remain cautious. I don’t think this is a trap, but fights could break out as we deliver the bread. I would advise we take the hostages as soon as possible and keep the armies separate.” Ser Oswell nods. “And keep our eyes on Gerfried and his serjeants. He faces a test of leadership now and clansmen are a treacherous lot, even to their own kin. A mutiny against him could lead to war and we will have surrendered our high ground, our hidden troops, and the daylight for our bowmen.” He finally relaxes his hand on his sword hilt. “It also isn’t too early to think about our Liegelord. Roger Egen will have much and more to say about exchanging steel for promises.” Denys shoots him a look, even as Ser Oswell realizes he may have gone too far. “For promises, hostages, and fealty,” he corrects himself. “House Egen has yet to learn of your father’s passing as well, and it will be much to take in.”

When Gerfried turns back to you and hears your admonition not to bride-nap, he nods somewhat distractedly.

Lady Alyssa

The sigil Banion is describing—a yellow sun on blue—is indeed a variation on House Egen’s. If you recall correctly, House Egen splits the garrison of their seat, Moonhome, into the Dayguard and the Nightguard, boasting the sun and the moon on their shields respectively. You have traveled to Moonhome countless times with Lord Alyn to attend Lord Egen’s court. Such attentiveness is required when one’s banner is sworn to another house.

Most of the houses of the Vale are sworn directly to House Arryn, but several find themselves sworn to bannermen of the Arryns. The Sunderlands hold three banner houses, one for each Sister, the Waynwoods hold the Hardyngs, the Redforts the Breakstones, the Graftons the Shetts of Gulltown, and the Royces of Runestone boast the Coldwaters, Tolletts, and Shetts of Gull Tower all as bannermen. House Corrett was once sworn directly to the Eyrie, but was reduced to House Egen’s banner house a few generations ago.

Acting as banners to House Egen clearly chafed at Lord Alyn, just as it chafed his father. You knew little of Lord Addam, as he died before your marriage to Alyn, but rumors told of a planned rebellion against House Egen. A rebellion that Alyn talked his father out of, impressing on him the consequences of disloyalty—especially for a house founded by a turncloak. Alyn’s interactions with Lord Rufus Egen were cordial and productive. Together, they found victories at court in the Eyrie and Lord Rufus was almost ready to relinquish House Corrett from his service. Lord Rufus’s death was most untimely in that respect and his son, Lord Roger, is a veritable recluse in comparison to his father.

Alyn's first attempts at coordination with young Lord Roger were met with platitudes, deflections, or malaise. After a year or so, he began working to find leverage against Roger, vowing to "get him." You're not sure exactly the full extent of these activities, but they definitely included alternately conspiring with and blackmailing Roger's uncle Ser Vardis (may the Father judge him kindly) and otherwise gathering rumors about the detached young lord. Perhaps Banion has been the enforcer of these missions.


Mera

Eldric drops his opponent with relative ease, though it is unclear what that means. The clan leader is shouting at his men and presently, the poorly concealed men before you rise and shuffle off to join their armsmen on the hill.

The Watchers remain in place, hidden in uncertainty. You surmise that the contest settled some terms, although which ones you're not sure. Lord Morris marched off with a significantly broader mind that most of the Corrett men when it comes to clansman interlopers. You doubt Ser Stanly would have even bothered to parley before charging. Could your little brother have actually negotiated a peace with the clan? And how much did he wager on Eldric's sword? Whatever peace was struck must needs be sold to the rank and file as well. You can only hope the terms are favorable. Besides that, the clansmen are generally known to be honorless knaves and brigands. If anointed knights will break the sacred guestright, then what can the words of a wild mountain clansman be worth?

[DukeGod]

"No, I'm sorry, I can't say with certainty what Lord Corrett might want from the contets of this manifest or why he wanted you to find the manifest instead of just sending you after the items."

Tyramear fiddles with his bracelet again. It distracted him a bit

"However, if the topic of Lord Corrett's motives has been brought up, I recall his curiosity at whether or not I had treated a girl from House Lipps. What do you know of them?"

[Simsimillia]

Eldric

When he recieved the signal to stand down from his Lord, Eldric sheathed his sword and returned the nod from Pimmen. He had fought well, but not good enough. He still wasn't happy with Morris decision to ally with these barbarians, but he didn't show it. At least the peasant's daughter would not be forced to marry one of them. He strode back to Soldier and swung himself into the saddle, returning with the others to the ranks of the Corrett army.

Mera

Mera knew of Eldrics skill with the sword, she still let out a sigh of relief when he dropped his opponent. Not only meant that whatever terms had been negotiated their sight was at an advantage, but also that Eldric was still well. No matter how great a warrior, every fight could be your last. That was a lesson Mera had learned during the war.

The badly hidden ranks of the Mountain Clansmen in front of them left the forrest, rejoining with ther peers up on the hill and recieving a speech from their leader, that was hard to make out, but there wouldn't be a battle today, at least of the leaders of both armies would have their way. Mera didn't doubt the discipline of the Corrett men, but wasn't so sure about the Clansmen. Mera found Ser Tommard, signaling him and the rest of the Watchers that they would return. On their march back to the army she kept close to the Commander of the Mountain Watchers

"I don't like this. I think Morris negotiated some sort of truce, but I trust those Barbarians about as far as I can throw them. Keep your eyes and ears open and your weapons close."

When they reached the Corrett ranks Mera saw her little brother surrounded by his advisors and in company of the tall Barbarian she shot with an arrow. She would've liked to talk to him in private, but that would have to wait. Instead she joined the assembly.

"Lord Morris, the Watchers are back. What was the outcome of the negotiations?"

[bluntpencil]

Morris informs his sister of what has happened. He nods away any mention of risk - he is more than aware.

"Be prepared for absolutely anything to go wrong. No alcohol for anyone."

The order to Mera and Eldric very obviously refers to the Red Wedding which they attended. He ensures that his men are kept separate from the clansfolk, instructing the Watchers to 'forage'.

Of course, that meant staying away from camp, in order to provide relief from a flanking position, should something go wrong.

[heretic]

Lord Morris

Back at the Corrett lines, the men are confused by the result of the parley, but hasten to carry out your orders. Your men marched with provisions for three hundred men for more than two weeks—great flatloaves of hard bread, dried meat, bags of oatmeal, pickled cod, and earthy potatoes and carrots. These are brought forth piled high on some extra shields. Denys’s handpicked men carry the food carefully to the Howlers, their eyes watchful and their hands never far from their weapons. The Howlers nearly riot for the food, mobbing the Corrett men and only forming an orderly line after Gerfried begins screaming and laying about with the flat of his blade.

It is clear that this group is near-starved. Up close, you can see that there are many greybeards and sallow youths mixed into the ranks. With food in hand, the fierceness they displayed on the hillside is forgotten, at least for the moment. Even now, they are plopping down firewood and copper kettles, laughing and joking as they form dozens of small campfires. As you ordered, the Corrett wine is withheld, but you can see that some of the Howlers have some skins of their own rancid-smelling ale. So far, it hasn’t caused any problems.

Mera

The two armies have largely remained in place, though they are intermingled where a group of Denys’s men are handing out rations and Morris and his retainers are observing. Upon receiving the order, Ser Tommard and his men slink off into the hills, with sentries placed just below the crest of each hill. You can see that the Howlers sent out their own scouts at Gerfried’s command, and now they are returning. In their wake come another couple hundred limping wounded, women with babes in arms, whitebeards, and children. They make for the food.

Lord Morris

You’re not particularly surprised when the clansmen noncombatants appear—Gerfried seemed to negotiate from a position of weakness, with much value being placed on food. It looks as though the entire clan was displaced and these are the survivors. His vow to take revenge on the Burned Men makes more sense now.

The clansmen produce Walda, the peasant girl whose freedom Eldric earned with his sword. She is frightened and hungry, but appears unharmed. Her captivity can’t have lasted longer than a few days and most of that was spent marching, by the looks of her. Gerfried also provides you with the wards he promised—two of his own sons, plus one each from his three younger serjeants, and five daughters, two from serjeants you recognize from the parley and three others. They range in age from about ten to fourteen, although they don’t appear to know their own ages. The mountain men know the seasons well, but don’t keep the calendar. Only the oldest girl can remember the last winter, something that you barely remember from ten years prior. They are a thin, scared looking lot, but you can sense a curiosity behind their wide-eyed stares. They’ve like as not never seen this many civilized men or eaten such good food, hardtack though it may be.

Back at the Corrett camp, the men appear more than a little confused and wary. Those that have met the clans before are not accustomed to such confrontations ending peacefully, and are quick to reclaim their manliness with a boast or a jape at the expense of the ‘savages.’ The newer recruits boast twice as loud, for they have twice as much to prove. Luckily, Denys selected the food-bearers for their cool heads and the separation between the camps has prevented any conflict.

You can sense that your own test of leadership is coming. Your men need reassurances that you are no craven, and that your duty to your people will not be harmed by the peace agreement. You have a tourney to think about as well. Nearly every lord in the Vale will be there, along with their best knights. No doubt, the other lords (including your liegelord Roger Egen) will take the opportunity to ask prodding questions about the agreement with the clan. Some may take your amnesty as a threat, while others might see it as opportunity of some kind. The tourney will also require your attention in other ways. House Corrett will need a champion, though your other retainers can compete against the hedge knights and mystery knights for an extra place in the lists if they wish it. All in due course.

At this point, you’re free to explore the feast or we can move on to marching back to the Keep, and presumably onwards to the tournament.

[bluntpencil]

Lord Morris stands and addresses the people before him. He needs to make it clear that the Howlers are now his bannermen, but they also need to know that he is on their side.

"Eat, my people.

Now that your wise leader has pledged to my banner, and now that you are our kin, I swear that justice shall be visited upon those that harmed you.

Your loyalty to us earns loyalty in return."

[Simsimillia]

Mera stayed close to her brother, spear in hand and her shield lazily slung over her shoulder, ready to face any threat coming for Morris. But her worries seemed unwarranted, when she saw the line wounded, mothers, children and old of the Mountain Men come out of the woods. Seeing them made her feel sorry about her eagerness for battle earlier. Those people were desperate and even if the clans terrorized the Vale folk for generations, they were still people. Maybe Morris had made the right decision, certainly not the easy one though.

When Walda was brought before them, Mera took care of the peasent girl. She got a soldier to bring her some food and drink and wrapped her in her heavy cloak lined with black fox fur. She figured it be best if another woman took care of her instead of more men.

"Your name is Walda? I'm Mera. Did they hurt you?", Mera asked the girl after she had taken care of Walda's most immediate need of food, drink and cold. "Your father had set out to get you back from the clan, he'll be glad to have you back."

[Old Overholt]

"It must not have been any of the items," Banion says before clearing his throat. Looking towards Lady Alyssa briefly and then back to Tyramear, Banion says, "And I doubt he would have sent me to The Sisters regarding a girl you had treated some time ago in House Lipps. But anything is possible," then remarks, taking a few steps over to Tyramear's right side. "There were some Lipps men on their way back from The Sisters - nothing out of the ordinary that I could tell...you wouldn't mind reading that manifest to me would you?" Banion seems keenly interested to hear what else is on the paper besides what has been eluded to by Lady Alyssa and Tyramear. Perhaps some of it will make sense once he's told what exactly he retrieved.

[heretic]

Lord Morris

Once the Howler bellies are mostly full, Gerfried and his serjeants present to swear their fealty to you. As promised, they do so on their feet. Having never done so, they must needs recite after an oathman. None of your sworn swords are particularly occupied with etiquette and ritual—Ser Tommard and Ser Gorlen are scouts and woodsmen, Denys and Mera are family, and Ser Oswell is your mother’s man. Thus it falls to Ser Stanly, brash as he may be, to lead the proceedings.

Stanly Hoyne struts up and down before the Howler leaders, his short salt and pepper hair bathed in the afternoon’s rays. Finally he stops before them and begins to solemnly intone the oath, pausing for the recitation after each line.

“I swear by the Old Gods to take Lord Morris Corrett as my liegelord;”

“To follow his commands with leal service;”

“To uphold his justice as does the Father;”

“To nurture his men in want as does the Mother”

“To defend his honor, as I do the Maiden’s”

“To award him taxes from the fruits of my labor, as I do the Smith”

“To heed his wisdom, as I do the Crone’s”

“To follow his banner in battle, as I do the Warrior’s”

“In return, I accept his protection and succor, his salt and bread, and his open hand.”
(Here, Gerfried adds “and his steel”)

“I, --now say your names”

“—hereby swear as much before these witnesses and the Gods;” (Stanly again omits mention of the Seven here)

“I lay my sword at his feet and humbly request that he accept by blade;”

Ser Stanly looks to you. After you accept he continues.

“Rise now as bannermen to Lord Morris Corrett, bound by honor and oath, and let us celebrate!”


Mera

Walda tucks herself into your armpit as if you are a mother hawk and she is the hatchling. In response to your question, she shakes her head no and clutches the cloak a bit tighter. After a few minutes and after she’s had a bit to eat, she speaks. “They said I was to marry the red-haired man. They ate all our goats too. Thank you, m’lady.” She knows you’re a lord’s daughter somehow, despite your armor. It must be the way you carry yourself. “Thank you.”


Mera and Lord Morris

Following the feast, the armies part ways. Gerfried and his retainers are giddy with their newfound wealth—a couple of Corrett pavilion tents, a few steel helms and spear tips, and provisions for another few days, including a large sack of salt. The clans appear to prize salt for its usefulness and scarcity in the mountains. You’ve heard tell that their winter meats are fermented through burial rather than salted. The Howlers will eat a measure better thanks to Lord Corrett’s open hand.

As the Corrett host begins its ascent, Ser Stanly begins to offer his thoughts. “Well, I never expected to administer an oath to a crowd of wildmen! If these whoresons break their vow, give me command and I’ll break them.”

The steady tread of Corrett boots fills the remaining hours of daylight with a pleasant thrum.



Tyramear, Banion, Lady Alyssa

As the day moves on, the discussion moves with it to the great hall. There, the cooks bring out some warm day-old soup served in trenchers of stale sourdough and for Lady Alyssa, a capon crusted with pine nuts and served over lemon slices. The hall is chilly without so many inside it, so everyone sits at the same table above the salt and near the hearth. Further down the bench are a group of children playing with the Sadclown as they eat, and a handful of guardsmen are breaking their bread as well.

Banion

As you state that you doubt Lord Alyn sent you to the Sisters to find the Lipps girl, you realize you have heard of her. Lord Alyn sent you to spy on her health not nine months ago. You quickly surmised she was healthy (she even had a shaggy trapper for a lover) and spent your remaining time at Step Hill negotiating with a corrupt goldsmith’s ‘prentice, who bought several ounces of gold that you had shaved off of some coins. The coup of finding a gold fence all the way out at Step Hill seems to have nearly eclipsed the memory of why you went in the first place!

OOC: I’m taking a few liberties to move things along here. Let’s assume that all three characters know what I’ve posted in the others’ narrations. The most relevant ones are below.


Lady Alyssa
Down in the yard you see Morris giving a speech to his men. You spy Alyn's helm under his arm.

Over the last five years or so, Alyn had been working toward several goals at the same time. You had worked with him on some, but dissuaded him from others. You finally convinced him to give up on his grandiose vision of removing House Egen as your liegelord house and instead attempt to have some of House Corrett’s historical lands returned from House Egen (they had been stripped or claimed by other houses following the Blackfyre Rebellion). He also sought to encircle House Lipps (the other benefactor of Corrett losses) by strengthening ties to House Wydman, the Lipps' other geographical rival.

Fortunately, your relationship with Lord Rufus Egen was strong and he showed some willingness to accede to your demands, provided you assisted him at court. You were well on track to securing House Egen a number of favorable decrees related to which roads must be patrolled by law when Jon Arryn perished in King’s Landing. His death terminated Nestor Royce’s tenure as High Steward of the Vale and suddenly you were negotiating with Lysa Arryn instead, who proved erratic in her grief. Your stymied progress was washed away by the deaths of Vardis Egen, your collaborator in the Eyrie, and Rufus Egen himself. And then Jon, Mera, and Eldric ran off to war.

Alyn responded by brooding and scheming, seeking leverage against Rufus’s son and successor, Lord Roger. He sought to learn everything he could about Roger Egen, going so far as to seek out information on Ser Jon Hersy, for whom Roger squired, what kind of wine he liked, and all kinds of other shards of pointless trivia. It all amounted to very little. House Lipps sought to marry their daughter Jeyne to Roger, but he demurred, telling Alyn that she seemed prone to illness. Lord Roger is not much of a warrior and never even bothered trying to earn his spurs, though he has a passion for hunting and falconry. He was fostered to House Hunter prior to squiring Jon Hersy. Roger favors green doublets and feathered caps. Roger takes a strawberry in his summerwine. Roger probably played Grumpkin in the Moat when he was small. Little help any of this proved to be.

All of this court-gossip and intrigue amounted to some useful information. For instance, Alyn discovered that House Corbray has been visited by an unusual number of Braavosi emissaries and that House Wydman’s Maester Lucias was a born a commoner, yet had his training sponsored at the Citadel by House Arryn of Gulltown. He found that Rufus Egen was attempting to talk the Corbrays into taxing boats making for Strongsong and House Belmore. All of this is potentially useful information, though it came at the expense of Alyn’s stewardship of his own lands.

His death arrested the diplomatic progress that was being made. Hopefully Morris can pick up where his father left off--with some assistance from his advisors of course.



Banion

As your drunkenness continues to lift, you remember spending a bit of time at Step Hill, investigating for Lord Corrett as to the health and well-being of Jeyne Lipps, a fair maiden. She was fit as a fiddle, though she was prone to take a secret tumble or two with a certain hairy trapper. Step Hill itself is relatively unremarkable, rocky land. It sits lower in altitude than Greycrown Keep and much further to the southwest. It must be a long journey for these men, though you will share a route in the beginning, even while maintaining your cover story.

The mutton-chopped man makes a face at losing and doesn’t ante in again. The other two do, tossing the dice.

Presently, the shore appears and the crew begins making preparations for landing.

[bluntpencil]

Morris nods to his new bannermen,

"I accept your fealty, and swear to honour it in turn."

He then nods to Ser Stanly, by way of thanks for his taking the role of herald for the night.

"Your service is much appreciated, Ser Stanly. Well done."

He then ensures that he sits near Gerfried, with Eldric and Ser Oswell by his side, to show respect to his new bannermen, and to receive their due respect in turn.

Afterwards, he confers with his officers,

"We will need to have our smiths produce spearheads and axe blades as quickly as possible - this will be much quicker than swords and mail. Pole-turning will be less necessary - they can replace their old spearheads and such with those we provide. If we have old shields, helms and similar which can be repaired or put to good use, we shall give them those, too."

[Simsimillia]

"I'm no lady, Walda. Please, call me Mera", the bastard daughter gave in response to Walda's words. "If you ever don't want to feel helpless again, come to Greycrown Keep and ask for me. I'll teach you how to defend yourself."

The rest of the journey Mera let Walda ride on Redfoot, offering the girl comfort when she needed it, keeping her company and getting to know her until she was delivered back to her father.

Meanwhile her urge to speak with her brother rose, but she would wait until they were back at the keep where they could have their privacy.

[heretic]

Banion and Tyramear

The soup is a welcome addition, warming your bellies and palms with chunks of potato and chicken. Indeed, the fare is somewhat better than your regular fare. It pays to share a table with the Lady of the house!

At Banion’s request, Lady Alyssa reads the manifest out loud slowly, taking the time to repeat some of the sections twice for emphasis. Looking up, she begins her own commentary. “Now this Ketter is a familiar name—one of House Egen’s swords, though lowborn and no knight. And the device of the smiling yellow sun on blue is one used by the Egens as well. Their garrison is split between the dayguard and the nightguard, with sigils to match. It seems that our liegelord Roger Egen has a hand in Sisterton.” She motions for the salt and tosses a pinch across the skin forming atop her soup.

“Alyn’s respected Lord Roger as a teacher respects a good student, grown to adulthood. Only some students are fierce willful.” Neither of you has heard a noble muse about their liegelord this way. “Alyn wanted to find something out about Roger, of that I’m sure. Why else send you to retrieve this parchment.” She nods to Banion. “Or inquire about Jeyne Lipps?” She nods to Tyramear as well. “I suppose he could have been curious for Morris’s sake—the boy, ah, Lord I mean, needs a wife, but the Lipps girl was all but betrothed to Lord Roger. It never came to be, on account of her weak health Roger says. I can’t blame him for wanting to secure his line. Alyn did more than secure our own and it made the difference.” She sniffs.

Lord Morris and Mera

The Corrett officers heed Morris’s command, taking inventory during the march back and laying preparations to meet the requisition. Marching upward takes four days rather than three—the ascent is steep, but at the same time, the men march with hearthlust instead of the caution that marked the descent. Provisions are no longer abundant after the feast. The men boil water in their helmets for porridge each night and receive a meat ration of salt beef, stiff and hard as a boot.

Walda hunches low on Redfoot, keeping low against the chill breeze. Her father never materializes and she makes no mention of him. It seems the Keep will have one more behind its walls. Eldric has remained quiet throughout the ride except for a wheezing cough. His win in the single combat won Walda’s freedom—a more virtuous reward for his labors than the fruits of the Young Wolf’s campaign ever were. Nevertheless, his mood is dampened by the chill and his sickness.

Soon enough the Keep is in sight, prompting a chorus of “Hip Hip Hooray!” from the men. They marched to battle only to see it disappear, but they return triumphant nonetheless. Seeing the Howler leadership pledge loyalty has inflated their pride in the Corrett sigil, at least in the short term. There will like as not be turbulent waters ahead regarding the Howlers, but not today.

Mykael Stone

The last few months have not turned out as planned. Lord Alyn was clear that you were to observe court at the Eyrie and wait for his arrival, but you never got past the Gates of the Moon at foot of the Giant’s Lance mountain.

The bench beneath you shifts a bit as Ser Albar Royce rises, making his way toward the quintains that the other knights are tilting at. He’s a big, somewhat dull man of thirty-odd years who has quite unexpectedly found himself heir to the Gates of the Moon. It was his father, Nestor Royce, who forbade your ascent (and everyone else’s) on the orders of Lord Protector of the Vale Petyr Baelish, better known as Littlefinger. For this, Baelish elevated Royce from “Keeper of the Gates of the Moon” to “Lord of the Gates of the Moon,” thus making the castle a hereditary seat for the first time. And so Ser Albar, Nestor’s son and a distant cousin of the main line of House Royce, suddenly found himself to be a proper lordling of a new cadet branch of House Royce.

The weeks after the change were a dull monotony of watching the snow fall and practicing in the yard against Ser Albar and Ser Marwyn Belmore, the lanky captain of the guards. Ser Albar’s recently widowed sister Myranda seemed just as bored, especially since it is her that rules the castle in their father’s absence and his new title has smothered his appetite for travel. Her own cure for boredom revealed itself after a few cups of wine (“…please, call me ‘Randa…”) and when nobody else is looking.

Malaise quickly gave way to panic when a group of powerful lords laid siege to the castle with a host of six thousand men, demanding the removal of Petyr Baelish as Lord Protector. These were trying times, for the garrison in the castle was but three hundred. It never erupted into war, but you were made to take oats and barley for a month until these Lords Declarant parleyed with Littlefinger and lifted the siege, giving him one year to rule as Lord Protector.

Your status during this time was delicate. It seemed you were half a hostage, but at the same time used as a symbol of House Corrett’s allegiance with Littlefinger against the Declarants. When Lord Nestor initially parleyed with the Lords Declarant, he asked you to ride in his honor guard, yet left his own Captain, Ser Marwyn behind. You did not realize until later that Lord Nestor was using both of you as pawns—your presence signaled Lord Alyn’s opposition to the Declarants, even though it was coincidence that put you in the Gates of the Moon. And Marwyn Belmore’s absence denied the Declarant Lord Benedar Belmore any knowledge of his cousin Marwyn’s status as friend or foe, or the opportunity to persuade him to switch sides. That parley proved icy, especially between Lord Nestor and his cousin, the Declarant Lord Yohn Royce, called Bronze Yohn.

A month after the resolution of that standoff, the castle received word that there is to be a tourney and that Littlefinger and his court were descending to the Gates of the Moon for the winter. The winners of the tourney would form a new Brotherhood of Winged Knights to protect young Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East.

Littlefinger’s household is sparse. Aside from Lord Robert, It includes his natural daughter, Alayne Stone (a brown-haired beauty a little younger than you), Maester Colemon, a handful of guards under Ser Lothor Brune, and his young wards Gyles Grafton and Terrance Lynderly. They say Lord Robert is eight or nine years old, but once they arrived, you quickly saw that he looks more like a sickly five year old with perpetually red eyes and a runny nose. Littlefinger and his household servants take great pains to conceal Lord Robert’s inadequacies from the court, but you have seen him in all of his stupidity, his child’s tantrums, and his disturbing episodes of shaking, which occur when he is agitated or afraid.

Competitors seeking their Wings have been arriving at a steady trickle from all across the Vale. Each of Lord Robert’s bannermen have sent two knights, and there are some hedge knights and mystery challengers as well. Many of the lords are also in attendance with their retainers and families.

The knights run the gamut in terms of reputation. There are several storied and gallant competitors—Ser Andar Royce (heir to Runestone and veteran of Robert’s Rebellion), Strong Sam Stone (Runestone’s legendary master at arms) and Ser Lyn Corbray, whose reputation precedes him. Corbray is probably the deadliest and most foul-tempered knight in the Vale, known for slaying the Kingsguard knight Lewyn Martell during Robert’s Rebellion and for regularly killing men in duels with House Corbray’s Valyrian sword, Lady Forlorn. The hedge knights are universally obscure— Ser Byron, Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse, Ser Morgarth, and others. In between these extremes lie the majority of competitors, whose names are recognizable but not for any amazing deeds. You’ve met most of them— Ser Wallace Waynwood (who stutters), his uncle Ser Roland (who is younger than Wallace somehow), Ser Mychel Redfort (the “best young blade” in the Vale, according to some), and Ser Harry Hardyng (Robert Arryn’s heir by way of his father’s sister) come to mind.

Since the knights have arrived, you have faced many of them in the yard with blunted steel and seen them ride at rings in preparation for the joust. You measure yourself the better of most of the hedge knights in swordsmanship, though your lancework is rusty. Many of the true knights are a good match for you at swords, but it remains up to Lord Alyn and Lord Roger Egen as to whether you will compete.

You have not challenged the most hotheaded or vainglorious knights, but you have observed at length—there is little else to do. The two knights representing House Royce are both powerful fighters—Andar Royce, heir to Runestone, is past forty but has his father’s strength, and Strong Sam Stone is even older and even better. Mychel Redfort is a shade faster than you with sword and rides better than most. Jaime Wydman, Harry Hardyng, Gaelen Grafton, and the mystery challenger ‘Knight of the Stone Scepter’ are all puissant fighters as well. The best of all is Ser Lyn Corbray, who rides like the wind and batters men to the ground in the yard with savage ease.

Before you, Jaime Wydman lands a resounding hit on the quintain, sending it into a spin. A herald’s blast echoes off the walls, announcing the arrival of another house. “House Corrett of Greycrown Keep!” shouts one of the gatekeepers.

Finally…

“Pardon, my Lords, it’s House Tollett, not House Corrett!”

Blast!

[DukeGod]

"Hmmmm...this is curious"

Tyramear thinks over as he eats. So, they'd likely need to find out what it was about Roger that Lord Alyn wanted

"Banion? Perhaps we should travel to the Lipp's lands? We can talk to Lady Lipps, I think I'm starting to worry about her health. Also, it has been some time since I've been in this castle, I wonder if the people have already forgotten who is the witch doctor that wanders the Vale"

[Q'telun]

Mykael sits back down with a sigh, and runs a hand through his hair to hide his disappointment. True, when he reunited with Lord Alyn he would have some explaining to do, but the Lord was a decent man. Or, at least, a fair man. So even with the possibility of a dressing down he was looking forward to seeing his Lord again.

They young man sighs and shakes his head, then goes back to oiling his armor and idly daydreaming about the Tourney. It was hard not to, the air was practically humming with a strange sort of tension because of it. That, and Randa had been teasing him about carrying her favor into the jousts when she was in her cups. He had been considering asking Alayne for it instead. That would be a more fitting match, in his mind. Mind, if he could get Randa's favor, that would be an excellent start at revenge on her father.

He yawns, and watches Albar start his joust. It is an exceedingly dull day so far.

[Old Overholt]

Banion is able to conduct himself with at least a modicum of decorum while in the presence of Lady Alyssa. However, at the dinner table, he's more a stray dog than a man that has strayed. He eats with vigor and lacks most formal manners - a true commoner in his approach to devouring the soup: slurping, loud clanging of bowls and tableware, creating a veritable mess of crumbs and droplets in the area in which he sits. He remains mostly quiet as far as talking goes, letting Lady Alyssa and Tyramear do most of the talking. When he's finished, Banion is sure to be gracious to the lady, thanking her for her hospitality and the quality of the meal. It would be a rare instance that one such as himself had the opportunity to dine on food prepared by a Lord's private cook, where quality and care was paramount.

When Tyramear inquires about visiting the Lipps lands, there's some visible hesitation on the rogue's part. Sitting back in his seat and clasping his hands over his stomach, Banion considers the idea for a silent moment or two before saying, "I think that's a decision best left to the Lord, don't you think?" There's a brief pause before the ne'er-do-well continues, not even enough time for Tyramear to interrupt him. "Lord Alyn had /his/ suspicions - but there's nothing written in stone. The girl is alive and well. Lord Egen has his men moving across the Vale. But Lord Morris may have different plans. No need going and interrupting those plans and causing him concern where none is needed," he suggests.

[heretic]

Mykael Stone

Ser Albar strikes a middling blow, the quintain shuddering madly and turning only halfway. The other knights are barely watching his strike. Ser Albar is not the best jouster and everyone knows it. Ser Roland Waynwood is sitting further down the bench, examining his spurs. In the bitter cold, spurs are prone to grow brittle and break. Standing next to him is the pimply Ser Uther Shett of Gulltown who could easily be mistaken for a simple stableboy if it weren’t for the sword on his hip and the personal arms sewn into his thick doublet: russet, an azure bend sinister and two white gulls separated. From the other side of the makeshift list stand Gaelen Grafton, who just finished his strike, and Torwyll Peake from the Reach. Peake and Grafton are clad in steel plate, with steam rising visibly from their shoulders and helms.

Ready at the end of the lists is the Young Falcon himself, Ser Harry Hardyng. Hardyng has dropped his visor and couched his lance, but now seems to be uncouching and hesitating. A moment later, you see why. Myranda Royce and Alayne Stone are strolling past the lists in fetching dresses of thick wool. Several knights suddenly find reasons to stand up straight, puffing out their chests. Ser Albar takes little interest, but both Waynwood and Shett stand, not wanting to seen laying about. Uther Shett in particular is known to be a suitor of Myranda. Randa is an eligible young widow and sometimes it seems half the knights are present to court her rather than win their Wings. Not that they’ve been too successful. Having been here months longer than most, you can read Randa’s mood more easily than most. She clearly considers half her suitors to be useless dullards and the other half overly formal and solemn. Alayne has attracted nearly as much attention herself, despite rumors that she is to wed Ser Harry. For his part, the Young Falcon already has a lover and seems to have little interest in Littlefinger’s bastard.

Following behind them, you spy a less welcome sight. Ser Harden Breakstone, is walking with Lord Redfort and Lord Stavos Ruthermont, your “father.” It seems that Ser Harden will champion House Ruthermont, on account of his marriage to Chyenne Ruthermont, your older half-sister. The three of them are deep in conversation, with Redfort and Stavos doing the most talking. Ser Harden is a staunch knight of some twenty-eight years and a favorite of Lord Stavos, who has squired his two trueborn sons on him. You haven’t spoken with Lord Stavos or Ser Harden since they arrived last week. Unfortunately, your true mother, Lady Mera, is not with them.

As Randa and Alayne draw closer, Ser Harry recouches and rides a strong pass, putting the quintain into a full spin and earning a “well-struck, Ser!” from Randa. They return to their conversation and stop, apparently wanting to watch some of the knights in the yard. Ser Uther spies his opportunity, striding over and rapping your shield with his sword. “Up Mykael, put on your armor and let’s see your worth.”

Banion and Tyramear

Lady Alyssa motions for a cup of wine and takes a healthy gulp. “I think we have learned what we need to about the Lipps girl—that she was not sick, as Lord Roger claimed. House Lipps is hardly a significant house, with little land and less renown. They don’t even have a proper castle, just three towers, each smaller than the last, guarding some useless scabland. Marrying their daughter to Roger Egen would have been the best thing to happen to them in years.” She swills her cup about, watching the tears of wine recede down the sides back to the bottom. “Lord Roger sent us a raven a few days ago, asking us to meet him at Moonhome to travel to this moronic tourney. However, it will present us with an excuse to visit Moonhome. This new Lord Roger clings to his castle as if it were his mother’s breast; he rarely comes forth or takes visitors. This invitation is our chance to peek inside his walls. If he’s hiding an army, we must needs find it. And at the tourney, we will find a plum opportunity to meet other lords—including Ronnet Lipps— and see what they know.”

At Banion’s mention of Lord Morris, Lady Alyssa gives a condescending smile. “Oh, let’s not worry his head with the full details. He’ll be apprised in due course, but I don’t want to…complicate his rule with this sort of thing. Now, we’ll need you to be watchful at Moonhome. The Egens will surely escort the nobles about, making sure we don’t see anything we shouldn’t see. But they can’t watch all of our men. I’ll make sure we march with a healthy train of servants, cooks, squires, men-at-arms, and the like. You both will blend in nicely.”

She squints down the table, focusing her gaze on Dyanna, Denys Stone’s wife. “Banion, that trollop is wearing the same color as me. Take her down a notch sometime.”

[Q'telun]

Mykael stares at Uther quite levelly. "Of course, ser. But do take care when you draw your sword, it is not a septa's switch to be swung about at random, and I would not enjoy seeing anyone hurt. I am sure Lord Petyr and Lord Nestor would hate for something to happen to a guest this close to the tournament as well."

He stands, slightly taller than the young knight, and slips his mail on over a sea-green doublet. As he walks over to the ring he pulls on the metal gauntlets he received from Lord Arryn, and the helm that came with them. He'll have enough for a good set of plate some day, but for now he'll have to rely on oak and iron. He takes up his shield and the blunted bastard sword, and strides into the ring to take his place opposite Ser Uther.

He pauses there long enough to salute all present, lingering on Alayne and Randa of course, before setting his shield in front of him. He stands loosely, with inviting holes in his defense. It's unlikely that this youth earned his spurs in the War of Five kings. The knight will hopefully take the bait. And if he does, well, then Mykael will have the opportunity to "take" his arm, and then his head.

[bluntpencil]

Morris is not in any way relaxed. Things were going to become complicated. Well, such was life.

He marches into the Keep, and sees about washing up and eating, before sitting down to more work. He would need to go to the blasted tournament, after all, in order to maintain face with the others of his station.

First, he would ensure that his side of his bargain with the Howlers was kept. Steel was promised, steel would be given.

He would also need to provide men, after the tournament, in order to fight their foes...

...and he would ride with them. He has to prove himself courageous to both his current armsmen, and to his new feudal lessers, lest they see him as avoiding the danger he would put them in. Loyalty must be earned, he reasons.

[Simsimillia]

To Mera's dismay, Walda's father never showed, making her wonder if the man they caught had really been thruthful in his intentions of getting his daughter back by paying a ransom. But Walda didn't say anything about him missing either. So they continued on with Walda. Mera promised the girl that they would find a place for her at Greycrown Keep.

Once they were back and Mera had stabled her horse, she turned to Walda and showed her to her humble room in the Maester's tower.

"Welcome to Greycrown Keep, Walda", Mera said and went on to hang up her gambeson and stow away her weapons. "And welcome to my room. Now I don't know if you want to stay, but for now you can stay here and rest. If you stay for longer you'll have to work, but for today you are my guest. I'll have someone bring you something to eat...now if you stay where would you like to work?"

[Old Overholt]

Lady Alyssa's indirect way of telling Banion to keep his mouth shut when it came to discussing the issue with Lord Morris was not lost on the man. While he may not have been the most educated man in Greycrown Keep, he was a student of subtly, especially when it came to Lady Alyssa and her requests. Her hints were indeed gentle commands. When she needed to be direct, he knew there was one of two things to be aware of: urgency or frustration, neither of which tended to be good for one's health. Banion gives the lady a simple nod of the head in acknowledgment of her direction before bringing his right hand up to scratch the stubble on his face. In his rough, gravely voice he says, "My mother always thought I would make a good cook," before producing a wicked smile.

His head then turns to look down the table as he hears the clear instruction from Lady Alyssa. It takes his eyes a second or two to find Dyanna Stone, his eyes narrowing as he finds the target of Lady Alyssa's envy and pride. He doesn't turn his head back to the lady to check what she's wearing - her word is good enough. His right finger now extending over his top lip, his hand mostly covering his mouth, he murmurs just loud enough for Lady Alyssa and Tyramear to hear, "... a notch it will be."

[heretic]

Mykael

Roland Waynwood’s handsome face splits into a grin as he hears your retort to Uther. He and the nearby knights have taken notice of what’s happening, watching as you pull on your armor and talking quietly among themselves. Ser Uther has disappeared into the Shett pavilion to prepare, and emerges in a finely polished breastplate with a single gull set in the chest in brown and white enamel. His preparation takes a bit longer given the plate and because he has no squire.

A quiet falls over the yard as you and Ser Uther take up positions in the ring. A few other knights have been sparring, but under circumstances friendlier than a formal challenge. Through your helm, you can see that perhaps a score more knights, lordlings, and ladies have stopped what they are doing to come watch. Randa and Alayne are giggling to each other, clearly delighted as this turn of events. You can see that one of them has plucked a flower from somewhere and they’re passing it back and forth, as if deciding who will bestow the favor on the winner of the bout.

Uther salutes toward Randa and turns to face you, lifting his small, square shield and longsword in a fighting stance. Somewhere, someone bangs a spare breastplate with a hammer and it begins.

He comes at you off a slow, flat-footed start, shouting "Gulltooooooooooooown!" You’re ready and land a powerful blow on the collar of his breastplate, arresting his battlecry and his tardy attempt to raise his shield. A cheer goes up at this from the crowd. He takes it well though, and returns the blow twice, landing a brace of strikes on your shield and following up with a backhanded shield bash into your extended swordarm. It’s painful, but you’re not worried yet. Uther may be a Ser, but he lacks the manly frame necessary to deliver staggering blows. He twirls his blade round his wrist and comes in again.

You won initiative (see OOC thread) and your counterattack interrupts his action. Your result of 15 is good for 2 DOS, dealing 10 damage to Uther, though his armor reduces it to 5.

Uther’s 18 is also good for 2 DOS, and he deals 8 damage to you, reduced to 2 from your armor. You’re at 12/14 and it's your turn again.

Mera

Walda’s eyes grow wide when Greycrown Keep comes into view, and she never stops looking upwards as you pass through the stout gatehouse, under the hanging portcullis and thick walls of granite brick. It occurs to you that she has never entered a castle before. Once inside, the many sounds, smells, and people seem to how cowed her into silent wonder.

In the Maester’s tower, she strikes a fire faster than anyone you’ve ever seen and soon a warm glow is emanating from the hearth. In response to your inquiry, she pushes her chestnut locks aside and says, “I used to milk the goats, gather firewood, cook to break our fast, and sew ripped tunics. And when a goat got lost, I had to track it down with Ralf. He is my hound. Er—was my hound.” She looks sad for a moment, then smiles. “I like it here. It’s warm and safe and nobody is going to carry me off again. Sometimes father said he might marry me off for more goats if we ran out. I 'spose Lord Eldric showed him! Nobody fights a duel over goats, but they did fight a duel over me!”

A soft rap on the door brings a couple bowls of soup and chunks of fresh bread. The cooks must have put new loaves in when the army came into view on the ascent.

Morris

Once you’ve rested up a bit, your men attend you in your chamber, going over lists of figures for steel spear-tips, axe-heads, and a lesser number of swords. Ser Rymun Castos takes all of this down, squinting at his parchment as he writes. Next to him, Ser Stanly is quietly dictating a list of noteworthy knights to his squire Rod, who is preparing the materials for your pleasure. For his own part, Stanly has made his own view loudly known that he should ride for House Corrett, rather than "the sot!" (Ser Gorlen), "the boy!" (Eldric), "the squire!" (Mykael Stone), "the girl!" (Mera), "the woodsman!" (Ser Tommard), or "the bastard!--er, Denys is very busy." (Denys). Such is to be expected, but the truth is that it’s actually a bit more complicated than that. Eldric is like as not the better fighter than Stanly, but has taken ill. Your father’s squire Mykael is capable as well, and has been observing court for months now—he likely has taken the measure of Littlefinger’s household knights. Theoretically, you could also send Ser Gorlen or Denys, but the former is a drunk and the latter not a knight.

Only one knight can enter the lists under House Corrett’s banner, and it has to be someone who can be spared should they prevail and earn their Wings as a Brother of the Winged Knights. These victors will become a sort of Kingsguard for the sickly Lord Robert, meaning they will have no time for other duties. However, there will also be a melee, during which you can prove your valor. You suspect that your sister Mera may enter the melee as well, and even the joust, if they allow mystery challengers to appear. This possibility is intriguing because it represents a way to enter more knights that your house has been allotted.

Banion and Tyramear

Your meal is interrupted with news of the return of the army. The herald is quick to assure Lady Alyssa that no harm came to Morris. She is visibly relieved, her shoulders sagging back down from their previously hunched position. It seems that Lord Morris negotiated some kind of truce, trading steel for the fealty of the clan and sealing the pact with a duel between Eldric and some savage warlord. The hulking boy-man from the Stormlands proved the victor. Lady Alyssa excuses herself, leaving the two of you alone to plot your next move.

OOC: I’m consolidating the timelines here so that you can all interact.

[Simsimillia]

Mera couldn't help but let out a hearthy laught when Walda gave her brother in arms the title 'Lord'. Granted she wasn't that far off. Eldric could have become a Lord if not for the downfall of House Blackford.

"Eldric is no Lord Walda, but a good young man nontheless. Men like him would always for a maiden or even goats if their king, lord or a maiden ask them to. I would too I..."

A rap on the door interrupted her as a maid came, bringing two bowls of soup and some fresh bread. Mera thanked the girl, slightly surprised that someone had been send up without her even asking. It was rare that she enjoyed such service and Mera was sure that Lady Alyssa was part of that. Not further questioning this event she carried the soup and bread over the table, shoving one of it across to Walda and breaking the other for herself. The warm soup and fresh bread was a welcome change from the road rations they had lived off during their way back.

"So, Walda, you like Eldric? Just know that he and the maid Anya have had their eyes on each other for some time now", Mera picked up the conversation again after a bit.

[Q'telun]

An awkward hit with the shield, after an even more awkward charge. This "Ser" definitely hasn't been blooded, and Mykael will be damned before he loses a bout to someone like that. The damn fool was even twirling his sword around.

Acting quickly before the advantage of the shield bash is lost, Mykael resets his own guard, and starts to press forward with a sharp strike to the gap between greaves and skirt. Not letting up, he rains down a hail of blows on Uther's shield, trying to force him back towards the fence.

[DukeGod]

"Not sick? Hmph, I rather think I'll be the judge of that"

Tyramear mutters. Well after their lady is gone. He's in a better position than others, as he could just go back to being a wandering healer, but he'd rather not to. Balericat likely wouldn't adapt well to somewhere outside the Vale too. In either case he makes plans in his mind to maybe pass by Step Hill if he ever finds an excuse to travel far.

[heretic]

Mykael

Your cut catches him just below his steel skirt, coming low while his shield remains high. He staggers back, favoring the leg you struck. Chips of shield go flying as you box him into the edge of the fence with fierce, steady blows. With each one, his shield falls a bit lower until finally he collapses bodily into the wooden fence and drops his sword. “Yield,” he wheezes out, his voice barely audible.

The spectators offer some polite applause punctuated with a few whoops. “Tell me again, who wears the spurs between the two—”“—best bout since Corbray split Ser Owen’s helm—”“—not every day that a starfish bests the gull!” That last remark is a reference to House Ruthermont’s sigil of five starfish. It seems your victory has earned Lord Ruthermont a measure of glory, despite the fact that you are a bastard and a sworn squire of House Corrett besides. Lord Ruthermont offers you a stiff nod, accepting some slaps on the back from his companions, Lord Redfort and Ser Harden, with an uncomfortable grimace.

Ser Roland brings you a skin of water, helping you manage with your arms and armor while you drink. “Well struck, Mykael. I fear Ser Uther was overcome in his passion for Lady Myranda and cast about for the nearest squire to challenge. It was folly to choose you, obviously.” He brushes a few chips of wood from the blunted edge of your sword. “I see you’ve got a little Shett on your sword—allow me to clean it,” he says, laughing.

His mirth is interrupted by a perfectly timed “ahem,” from a lady’s voice. Standing behind you is Alayne, Littlefinger’s bastard. She stands half a head shorter than you, tall for a girl and somehow more graceful than you despite your shared bastardy. Her eyes are bluer than you expected up close, contrasting well with her dark brown hair, which matches her simple wool dress. “You fight well, Mykael. I do hope Lord Corrett hails your victory by raising you to knighthood. Defeating a ser is surely a sign from the Gods that the victorious squire has earned his spurs.” She glances at the Young Falcon, then quickly back to you. “Many men have been anointed for less.” At this, Ser Harry flushes. He turns his horse away and begins trotting off. With a smile, Alayne presents a white flower, the same one she and Randa had been passing back and forth. “Randa said to give this to you and that…” She sighs embarrassedly. “…that while you may wear it as her gift for the day, she must needs see the measure of your lance before you can earn her favor in the tourney.” She blushes briefly. “And my favor is not yet promised, either.” Ser Roland withdraws tactfully as the crowd begins to disperse back to other activities.


Your attack is good for another 2 DOS, for 10 damage reduced to 5. This defeats Ser Uther. Your maneuver was also successful.

Mera

Walda ponders your words. “But he had a stout black fortress on his shield! I thought only lords had castles.” She eagerly slurps the soup. “Well, since he’s not a lord, I have a chance. I will hafta meet this Anya sometime. Father always said two folk who fancy the same goat might have more in common than they realize.” She winks, then yawns.

After some more conversation, your eyelids grow heavy and it is time to rest.

Mera, Morris, Tyramear

Dawn’s rays creep their way down the inner walls of the Keep, melting away the frost and shadows as one. Beneath in the yard, a train of horses and retainers is forming for the march to Moonhome, seat of House Egen, on the way to the tourney. A dozen men-at-arms are running to and fro, corralling obstinate horses and stepping around another dozen cooks, cupbearers, and other retainers. The arrangements call for a commanding entourage, as befitting the contingent of a house on the rise.

Unfortunately, Eldric’s illness has prevented him from attending. Both Ser Oswell and Ser Stanly are in the company, cinched into burnished armor under heavy furs. A handful of the Howler wards are hoping to travel as well. They’ve been uniformly awed by the size of the castle, as well as the abundance of food, steel and folk found within. And they’ve heard plenty of stories of knights, it seems. Enough to know what a tourney is. Awkwardly clad in some hand-me-down Corrett tabards and scrubbed for the first time in possibly years, they cut a queer sight.

I’ll leave it to you as to whether to go with the group to Moonhome or strike out for House Lipps with Banion in tow. Either way will be interesting.

It's up to you as to whether Walda comes along.

[Simsimillia]

Mera awoke the other morning at Walda's side, her arm wrapped around the other girl as if she wanted to cradle and protect her. The peasant girl was still sleeping, taking calm and even breaths. Mera watched her and noticed that despite her low birth, the rough hands and weathered skin that came from a harsh life in the mountains Walda had a unique beauty to her. No wonder the Howlers took her for marriage. It had been years since Mera had slept at someone elses side like this. The last time she could remember was when she crawled to Iron Jenny for comfort after her mother passed. This time it was different though. She was the one providing comfort and found that she cared for Walda more than she would have anticipated. She knew that she shouldn't think that way, but a part of her was glad that Walda's father never showed.

With a sigh, Mera decided to get up, careful not to wake the sleeping peasant girl, and washed and dressed herself before going down to the kitchens where she got into a short argument with Lenn about why she needed two bowls of oatmeal. When she returned, Walda was awake and to Mera's surprise was brushing off her gambeson. The bastard daughter wasn't used to have someone doing something for her, even that someone brought her food like yesterday was a rare thing.

"Good morning Walda, you know I'm not a knight yet, but I could do with a squire", Mera joked while placing the bowls on the table.

Walda looked up and smiled, but continued with her work, "Morning, Mera. I just wanted to repay your hospitality and make myself useful."

"I appreciate it, but you don't have to. I've always done this myself. I may be a Lord's daughter, but I'm also just a bastard. Now come eat breakfast with me", Mera said inviding the other girl to the table. Walda finished brushing off the armor and then took a seat and started eating.

"You know, we'll be leaving for a tourney soon, the winners will be joining Lord Robert's Honour Guard in the Eyrie. It will be a grand and important toruney. Do you want to come? Have you ever been to one?", Mera asked with enthusiasm. Walda first shook her head and then nodded, "I've never been to a tourney, but I'd love to come if I'm allowed."

Mera smiled, "I had hoped you say that and I'll see to that. The last tourney I was at, was the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing. You should've seen it! That red priest winning the Melee with his flaming sword and the Knight of Flowers besting the Mountain in a joust. It is said, Ser Loras fought unfairly by riding a mare in heat. The Mountain attacked Ser Loras in anger, who was saved by the Hound who stepped between his own brother and Ser Loras. I was still young then and I lacked experience. But I'll join this tourney. The archery contest, the melee and if I can find a way even the joust! Not that I'd have a chance to win, but it's my chance to go up against some of the greatest knights in the Vale proving myself to them and being seen while doing so!"

Mera's enthusiasm for the upcoming tourney was quite clear and she kept telling the peasant girl all about the tourney's she watched and read about until they stepped down into the yard, where Walda and Mera joined Ser Oswell and Ser Stanly, handing Ser Oswell back the heavy war lance he had given her a few days before. "A fine weapon Ser Oswell, you have my thanks although it turned out I didn't need it."

[DukeGod]

Tyramear doesn't really have problem with his horse. He has ample knowledge of animal handling after all, he did...mostly tame a shadowcat.

Who easily opens the way for him and his horse, White Socks

"Well, have a good tourney lads, I'll try to be there in time to put your skulls back in one piece, and nurse any injured pride. However, I heard some interesting news about...occult matters in some other direction, and I'm really really curious and the matters are time-sensitive, so we'll probably travel different ways for now, I'll go to the tourney once my investigation is over"

Well that seemed to make sense. He didn't know if Banion would follow along, it was edging the line of disobedience after all, but if he did all the better. Tyramear spurs White Socks towards Step Hill. He'd check on the Lipps girl and see what was so bloody curious about her health

[Q'telun]

Mykael returns the nod with a very polite, but stiff, nod of his own. It's not as if he'd been avoiding the other man. It had just turned out that neither of them had any real reason to interact. Lord Ruthermont had been busy with politics, and Mykael, well, Mykael had been busy with Lord Alyn's orders. And Myranda. And it's not like the two had any reason to interact, Lord Ruthermont was just one more Lord to Mykael, someone to obey when ordered, but otherwise it was best to just stay out of his way. It was a small mercy that Lady Ruthermont had not crossed his path though. That might lead to some shouting.

Mykael had just been about to respond to Ser Roland when Alayne interrupted. He wipes the water away from his mouth, mostly to hide the grin growing there, then bows slightly. Today was turning out to be interesting after all. "Thank you for the kind words, Miss. Though, I'll not be too offended should Lord Alyn choose not to knight me. It takes more to knight a bastard than a noble, and I've not seen a weirwood here, so I'd have no place to stand vigil."

When he receives the flower, he cannot help but grin as he pins it to the breast of his doublet. "Truth be told, Miss, I'd not meant to participate in the tourney, just the melee. However, if two ladies as fair as Myranda and yourself are looking for a champion, I've no choice but to join. Randa has her condition, what would gain me the honor of wearing your favor to jousts?"

[heretic]

Mera

Walda has sprung eagerly into her new duties as your squire. Clad in some of Jon’s old boiled leathers, she reminds you of a younger version of you—shouldering her way past armsmen and snorting right back at a horse in her way as she leads Redfoot across the yard. Ser Oswell accepts his lance back with a smile and a nod. With Morris no longer in danger, the man is back to his old self.

You feel a tug at your cuff and see Banion, the Keep’s ragamuffin at your elbow. “G’day, miss Mera,” he croaks, before pausing to hack up some green humors, which he casually spits to the ground. “I’ve been missing Lord Alyn somethin’ fierce—can’t seem to stop looking into things he asked me for. Trouble is, I can’t seem to put it all t’gether.” He wipes a hand across his stubbly jaw and draws a scroll from his sleeve. “M’lord Alyn bade me to find the cog Sunset Wind in Sisterton and be sure it sailed lighter by a scroll.” He hands the parchment to you. “Tyramear and Lady Alyssa tell me it’s a manifest and involves House Egen. I saw their guardsman at Sisterton as well, along with a barge full of Sunderlamp knights”—he must mean Sunderland—“and some men from House Lipps bearing salt cod back to Step Hill.” He steps back to let a couple horses and riders trot past. “M’lady is convinced Roger Egen is hiding somethin’ to do on Sisterton and she figur’d he lied to get out of marrying the Lipps girl to boot.” You recall meeting Jeyne Lipps a couple of times when the Lipps’ came to visit. She was older than you and prissy beyond her station. You vaguely recall that there was talk of a betrothal, though it never went anywhere. Banion hoists his satchel back up on his shoulder and continues, “the healer and I are making for Step Hill to check in on House Lipps. You’d do well to read that manifest and keep your eyes open at Moonhome. Trouble’s afoot most like!”

Mykael

Alayne smiles faintly as you graciously defer to your lord. “I didn’t know you kept the Old Gods. Your mother’s influence, to be sure.” When you ask for her condition, she pauses thoughtfully. “I have not yet decided who shall wear by favor,” she begins softly before raising her voice a bit, “but you stand to the fore, squire Mykael. You must beg a dance at the feast and tell me more of Lord Corrett. His castle is said to be breathtaking and my father says he’s a fast friend.”

Soon enough, she rejoins Randa, who has been watching your interaction closely and the two of them hurry off, occasionally throwing looks over their shoulders at you. Suddenly, you become aware of the other men in the yard who were watching the interaction. Ser Roland Waynwood is sitting back on the bench, Gaelen Grafton is leaning on a splintered lance, and Ser Lyn Corbray has appeared from his pavilion, watching impassively, his straight brown hair falling to his jaw on either side of his face. Even Ser Uther has regained his senses and was listening while sitting half-sprawled against a banner-post. And Ser Harry Hardyng, dismounted now, turns to stalk off, a sour look on his face. It's clear Alayne slighted him, though you're not sure exactly how. It's rumored that they are to marry, though Ser Harry has shown no interest and you haven't seen Alayne approach him as flirtatiously as she just did you. Mayhaps she seeks to use you as a pawn to prod him to envy. Or mayhaps she really was taken with your valor...

Tyramear

The scoundrel Banion finds you in the yard and soon enough you’re out the northwest gate, your horses’ hooves clopping on the stony ground. Out of the Keep, Balericat seems more at home. He stretches lankily before ranging off ahead, only to reappear curled up and waiting for you around the next bend. This he repeats, much to the panic of Banion’s rounsey, which skitters back behind White Socks whenever Balericat comes back into view. You can tell Banion isn’t much for animals, or even riding for that matter. He’s well-traveled, but seems to be better at suffering in good humor than mastering the road. Occasionally, he speaks up to offer some observation or comment regarding House Lipps.

He’s filled you in enough to make clear that he came to Step Hill over a year ago to inquire on the health of Jeyne Lipps, whom Roger Egen declined to marry on account of her poor health. Banion regarded her as hale and healthy because he happened to spy her taking a tousle in the hay with a trapper. Of course, his opinion is inexpert in a number of ways. For instance, the girl could be barren, which would account for Lord Egen’s reticence at pursuing her. Banion interrupts your thoughts. “I rode most of the way back to the Keep with some Lipps men as well. They’re an easy lot, though not the most trusting at first. Now if they remember me, we’ll have to say I was waylaid by mountain clansmen on my way to the Riverlands. I recall telling them I was making for Fairmarket.”

[Q'telun]

Mykael looks slightly discomfited at the mention of his mother. "I'd much rather have had the woman who raised me as my mother than my own. She was a fierce Snow, and taught me to be proud of my ancestry no matter whose son I might be." Mykael's look of embarassment fades, replaced by one of subtle pride.

'She was also the reason I took up sword and fought for the Starks, but the daughter of Lord Baelish doesn't need to know that.'

At the mention of Lord Alyn and Greystone, Mykael relaxes unconsciously. "Of course, I'd enjoy talking with you of the Keep. In fact, if your father does not find it inappropriate, I'd be willing to meet before the dance." Leaving the, "In private, away from all these Sers", implied.

He watches the two ladies go with a smile, only turning back to the bench once they are out of sight. Well, he could probably count his friends in this courtyard on one hand. The display with Uther might make some of them reconsider challenging him to a fight, and Roland might help him should a fight break out. But Corbray, Grafton, and Hardyng would be against them. Best to remain civil for now. So, he sits back down on the bench and draws his actual bastard sword out of its sheath for its daily cleaning, humming "Deremond" under his breath as he does.

[DukeGod]

"I can understand why you think she would be healthy after that yes but...well there are some conditions which might still provide her the opportunity to do it yet perhaps appear ill at other times. Some diseases seem strike every now and then. Hmm..."

"Sounds like a nice cover story. Hopefully, people of the Vale can still recognize me as a wandering healer, it'd make for me going around and maybe checking the girl out much more simpler"

[heretic]

Emely

The snowflakes stopped falling an hour ago, but a few of them are caught suspended in your hair, dangling out a bit from beneath the hood of your winter riding cloak. Midday’s light reflects off them, distorting the view of the road around you. Normally, you would not chance to travel to the Gates of the Moon in such cold, but the reward is sweet indeed. Tourneys provide a natural place to show off your horsemanship, and your Lancers are hungry for glory in the lists as well. You’re not sure exactly how many of them will find it—this tourney is different than most in that there must needs be exactly eight winners, which means the competitors must be found in perfect sums to present an equal number of contests for each victor. There are rumors that some remainder not filled by the noble houses will be taken by mystery challengers and hedge knights, a natural opening for the best of your Lancers to take a tilt at glory.

Over the last several months, you’ve enjoyed a comfortable but not spoiled stay at Strongsong, seat of House Belmore. It was Lord Alyn’s command that you were to take in the court and find the measure of Lord Belmore’s court. That proved to be an alternately exciting and infuriating task. The court was lively, with many visitors from houses from across the Vale and elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. At the same time, Lord Belmore was preoccupied with his obsession with grain prices and his coordination with the Lords Declarant—six powerful lords bent on removing Littlefinger as Lord Robert’s regent. Lord Belmore sent half a dozen ravens a day it seemed, and spent the rest of his time haranguing visiting nobles as to their loyalties. He did the same to you at first, until it was clear you didn’t know Lord Alyn or Lord Roger Egen’s loyalties.

Lord Belmore’s grandsons Larn and Tommen took far greater interest in you, seeking to take you out riding or impress you with their swordplay. Alas, they’re boys of eleven and twelve, thinner and shorter than you and full of foolish children’s fantasies. Their attention drew the ire of some of your more protective Lancers, who worried of some conspiracy to forcibly marry you to them. But you would be surprised if old Lord Belmore sought to marry any of his line to you. His is an ancient house (though you don’t know just how ancient) with much to lose with a risky marriage to a Lyseni transplant with no dowry.

The sound of Marble’s steady, throaty breath brings you back to the moment. Around the bend, you can see the Gates of the Moon up ahead. It’s a squat, serviceable fortress without any of Strongsong’s runic flair or Greycrown Keep’s sheer majesty. Like many Vale castles, it straddles the pass, preventing any travel around it. Outside the gate you can see a few dozen pavilions staked, with colorful pennants snapping in the cold winter breeze. Between the pavilions, a few score figures move about on foot and horseback. Knights preparing for the tourney, most like.

Behind you, your men send up a cheer at the sight of the castle.

“Huzzah!”

Mykael

The tension builds for a moment until Ser Roland breaks under its pressure, shifting on the bench awkwardly and offering up some lame conversation. “Ser Harry’s a fool not to pursue her, I say. You did well to court her, Mykael.” Grafton and Corbray are both listening, but at the same time idly watching the Knight of the Stone Scepter mount up for a tilt at the quintain. “Though don’t let my mother hear me say it. She means to betroth him to Alayne and as much as he stews, Hardyng is sworn to Waynwood and he must do as she says, even if he is heir to the Eyrie.” Lordly politics has permeated the castle, with Littlefinger and his allies skating on stilts around the Lords Declarant. But in the yard, the façade of stiff icy courtesy breaks down as old friends reunite and martial comradery forges new friendships. You’ve seen Royces of Runestone quietly complimenting Graftons, Ser Marwyn Belmore saluting Lyn Corbray after a well-fought bout. Regardless of the position of the houses, the yard has a language of its own and the respect earned and passions enflamed here do not follow the expected course.

The hedge knight with the stone scepter on his shield kicks his destrier into a hard charge, loam churning behind him. With a great bang, the quintain jerks into a full spin and the knight follows through hard, leaning over and then recovering. He’s a strange sort—keeps his greathelm on at all times outside his pavilion, which he shares with a dozen other hedge knights and their squires. The only other mystery knight to appear is the Knight of the Apple Tree, who has revealed his face, but hasn’t been recognized yet. Perhaps the Knight of the Stone Scepter is worried about the same happening to him. Better to preserve the mystery than reveal a common, unknown face. Ser Lyn nods at the strike, approving. Ser Gaelen plays with his mustache, which is freezing at the ends, and then grinds the splintered lance he’s leaning on deeper into the ground.

Tyramear

With little fanfare, you fly the Keep and ride for Step Hill. It’s not what you’d call a pleasant ride, with the wind whipping hard up against the switchback mountainways and swaths of treacherous snow covering the path. The days pass without significant event, though the salt beef seems to become harder with each passing day. It would be easier to eat a boot it seems. After making camp, you drift away to sleep.

Alert. Up ahead, you can see pinpricks of light from a fire, far in the distance. The snow and shale moves beneath your paws as you make towards the light. Your tail is low and straight, the better to balance. It’s time to hunt.

It’s warg dream time. You can try to influence Balericat, essentially taking control, with a Will check against Difficulty 8. You can also attempt to wake up with a Difficulty 9 test Will test.