Two years ago...KYLE
"So, what will it be?" The Barman asks. Kyle looks up at him, tracing the haggard lines in the mans face, the color of his mud brown eyes. He is about to answer, when he hears a commotion behind him. He turns, not because it's interesting to him, but because if he doesn't turn around he's going to have to say something, and for some reason he wants to put it off. He likes to drink, but drinking alone can be...depressing. He almost wished his friends were here.
Still-near the center of room perches a half dozen Ironmen around four tables, having a rousing celebration and blatantly ignoring the stares and scowls in the shadows around them. Hells, they're probably enjoying it. Amusingly, they are not here for reaving-since the Ironmen were defeated in Greyjoys rebellion, many like these have gone trader. Instead of fire and axes, they bring Peaches and Arbor Gold. He supposes it's an improvement of a sorts, but they won't ever enjoy an abundance of popularity with Northmen. It wasn't long ago they tried to burn this very tavern to the ground. Kyle notices most of the Ironfolk are wearing armor, but are disarmed-at least visibly. Oddly enough there is a woman among them-a lean and tough woman, with short black hair, and an unfortunate nose.
No doubt both of those have emboldened some of the usual sots. Kyle knows enough that something bad is probably going to happen. He wonders if he should do something about it-he is the Lords Son after all, and in theory has at least some responsibility here...or maybe he could just order some Arbor Gold...Dornish Red...Strongwine...Myrish Firewine...his mouth is suddenly dry with indecision.
So many ways to lose the day. Not to mention a life.
WILLIAM
William's mouth twists into distaste as the fur clad warriors shout their defiance and bang their shields, from the safety of the treeline. Relative safety.
"They seem confident, my lord." Comments Frederich, dryly as ever. The Man has served alongside William for many years-dutiful, if unimaginative. More of a leader of men, then a tactician. A poor chess player, but very good at cards.
"Shall I sound the charge? Or do you have something else in mind?" he continues on, eagerness carefully concealed in his voice.
William rubs his his chin, to quiet the tremor in his hands. Thinking, thinking.
Of course some Wildlings always get past the wall. Sometimes entire armies of them...it's rare to see an entire band, however. Rare doesn't mean impossible, of course-which is proven by the fact that there is a sizable group of them busy entrenching themselves in your lands. Which is odd, since they usually come to raid, not to settle. His scouts report at least fifty warriors, but many women and children-all camped in the overgrown Godswood your people often visited. It's too close to comfort to your own cities...when you received the raven from the wall, you were not pleased. Apparently they were once a much larger party-the wall and the mountain clans and the wolves and the snow have killed many of them. These are all that is left.
Still, the penalty for passing the wall without the Kings leave is death...but, the King isn't here, in the North. William is.
He has enough swords on hand to deal with them-of that, he has no doubt, since he brought all the men House Camber has. The Wildlings are leaderless, apparently, or so poorly led as to have no command. They would probably charge his lines and die gloriously if anyone blew a horn.
"Sir?" Frederich says, impatient as always. Such an impatient man.
HENRY
"So, are you Salt or Snow?" Hal Highoak inquires, a cruel smile playing on his lips. As usual, both of you have your own groups of friends, courtiers, and hangers on watching with interest at the noble quarrel. The winds blow tunelessly outside Last Harbors walls.
A dance both of you have gone though, many-a and many-a time. To think, this time Henry had just been trying to get to the privy when he came upon his old and dear friend in the halls...
"I asked you a question. I'm honestly curious!" He says, a young man of easy japes and a cruel temper-skilled with a mace, one of which is hanging on his belt at the moment, and prone to grudges. For some reason, long ago, he formed one against Henry. And, hardly a day has gone by he hasn't reminded you of it. He's not much more than a footman, really, but his grandfather was a famous warrior of Stonehearth. Not that he likes to be reminded he's not a famous warrior-or that his family is not very rich, or powerful. Henry has often thought that is likely the source of trouble between them, and always has been.
"I think the bastards gone mute." Hal says, goading, goading and grinning. His hand twitches-his mace hand. You've fought before, and both come out more or less with the same amount of damage, no clear winner.
People create space between you, as if on a mummers cue.
ELISE
The journey to the North was long and hard, but Elise's mother was with her every step of the way-an old, greying woman with an easy, tired smile.
"It's a harsh land...but, it can be beautiful. Always harsh, though-and cold...Northern women have to be strong. I don't think you'll have trouble, my dear."Endless miles of white and brown-a blue sky, as wide as an ocean. For a woman who had spent her youngest years in the cramped alleys of Kings Landing, well, it's quite a sight...and it smells much nicer, here. It's a long way from Pisswater Bend.
As the carriage rattled into Last Harbor, Elise finally was given a city to play in. Last Harbor was no where near as large as Kings Landing, but...well, she would have to find her place.
...
"I can tell by your accent." He said, the small man, with the careful goatee. The dangers of a noble girl sitting in a waiting room-you might get accosted by a castellan. The perils of measuring the value of the drapes, sadly.
"You're Arria's daughter, are you not?
My name is Maynard Camber, Castellan of Last Harbor. I've been instructed to provide you whatever you might require...assuming you decide to reside here." He says carefully-Elise has the feeling this is a man who always carefully weighs his words.
"Or, will you be residing with your mother in the Horn Manor?" He asks.
BENJICOT
Your father is tired.
It's a distressing thought, truly...Desmond Stonehearth still takes the time every day out of three to speak to the commons and nobles, addressing their concerns and meting out justice and reward, solving their petty problems for them. Recently, he's taken to have you sit alongside him. It's important the people see you-know who you are. You suppose it's only a matter of time, until...
"Benjicot, my son."He looks up at the sound of his name. His fathers voice has always been brusque, cold, and formal, in public-like an executioner, he heard someone say once. Benjicot knows he can be kind, but...not here. Never here.
"I think it's past time I retired. Would you take the chair, and sit in my place as Lord's hand? I would give you the authority to make justice in my name." He asks.
Benjicot looks at the crowd, some looking at his with respect...others with unease. He knows he will sit in judgement of them today, if he says yes....
ALESSA
Alessa sits up to attention as her "dancing master" instructs her in the finer arts of swordplay. She wonders why they chose they highest tower in the Shieldlands to do so, however. There's no one up here but the Starlets-beautiful, tiny, fragile little things, they pipe their chirpy music very sweetly, though you know they have very sharp beaks and can give a nasty peck...and with your father off dealing with the wildlings, however, this is probably the safest place for you to be...
Almato Corsaze snaps his fingers to gain your attention.
"A girl's wits wander-would she notice if the tower was burning down? " He asks sardonically.
"I think that will be tomorrows lesson-leaping from burning towers.
Today, Almato wants a pet bird. Please, little girl, catch me a bird-the ones you call Starlets. Do trouble not to harm one." He asks, with an easy smile.
Indeed. Easily said...all one has to do is climb up the rickety scaffoldings into the towers arches, and pluck a walnut sized bird that flies incredibly quickly from the air. Starlets are very finicky-even a hushed voice can cause them to fly away in a blurring cloud.
Alessa knows that all Almato's lessons are like this-oddly enough, he only trains you with a sword now and again. Frequently, you are chasing stray castle cats, balancing on high beams, holding your breath while hanging upside down from a rafter, sitting under a frigid waterfall...his first lesson was teaching you how to snap your fingers. All part of becoming a water dancer, yes?
Surely!
RILMAD
You look at the ruin of your hunt with something like remorse. You were having a good day up to this point.
The Drunken Lordling on his horse motions toward you with a shaking sword. He's only one man, but he must have a dozen fawners around him-many young and drunk as him, riding through the Stonehearth woods. You notice more than a few House badges. Boltons Flayed Men, Glovers Iron Fists, Dustins Crossed Axes, Stanes Trees and the Horses Head of house Ryswell...you can only assume they are a hunting party from House Glover, trespassing on Stonehearth Lands.
"You there! The boar was mine! Back, lowborn cur!" Says the Lordling. His friends laugh.
The Boar was yours. Your arrow took it in the throat...then a stampede of drunken Lordlings rode it down.
"He's just a peasant boy." Says one of the others, a chunky boy swaying on his horse.
"And a crossbow is a cravens weapon!"A young woman rides up behind him, with her own knot of women. Slim and pale-beautiful, but so cold. And, not drunk.
"You had best leave, young man." She says with an imperious air.
"My friends are drunk enough likely to forget the boar and roast you, if you make them angry." You have been dismissed.
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Topic: ASOIAF RPG-An End to Summer (Game Thread) (Read 6051 times)