I haven't seen HOTD but I am a little familiar with GOT, will that affect understanding ic things? Also, are roles like servants/peasants/etc accepted, or only higher born/more powerful roles? BTW this group is BEAUTIFUL and SO DETAILED I could cry.
You would not need to have watched HOTD to understand ic things here, we are an AU group where we have made many changes from the canon Dance of Dragons. And yes, you are welcome to apply for lowborn/smallfolk roles, bastards, people from Essos and so on.
And thank you! We're happy to hear you like what you've seen, hopefully you'll join us in Westeros. More information can be found here.
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There are tides changing in the north, in the aftermath of the Umber War there has been an uptick in smallfolk moving to the 7 under the belief that they were the ones who protected them the most. This has caused a divided between older northmen and younger.
Many credit the influence of the 7 on Owen creating new roads and improving the standing of the north, others credit the Old Gods for practicing through the new King in the North, a Northman.
Those who are staunchly against Owen's changes have begun to refer to themselves as the True North , notably many of these houses left court with Brandon Karstark though any who remain wish to influence the king back to being a Northmen. It should be noted this was not the goal of Brandon Karstark and he was surprised to hear of the faction formed around his "cause".
The 8 are Northmen who have adopted the 7 alongside their Old Gods, while they know the Old Gods number higher it was agreed that 8 simplified things. These groups live closer to the lands of the Manderly's though among the smallfolk the cause grows.
Loyalist are those who are loyal to the Starks. Perhaps they are weary of change. Maybe they're having some trouble adjusting but they trust House Stark to lead them as they have since the age of Heroes.
For the the first time in many, many years the North finds itself in the center of a web and war of words and ideas. A war of culture and identity. A fear of change. The Northmen had put away their swords and picked up quills.
Something of a new age is growing in the north, the people are weary of war and would rather refill their stores and get back to preparing for winter. While the smallfolk rebuild and argue among themselves, those who rule over them wage a cold war over control of the realm's future.
in the dimly lit chamber, heavy with the weight of anticipation the wisdom’'s voice bore the burden of grief as he delivered the dire news to the king of the north.
“only one of them can most likely live your highness. i’m so sorry.”
throughout the evening, the stone walls of the castle reverberated with anguished cries, marking the onset of labor for the next child of house stark. but this time, the arrival was fraught with unforeseen complications.
owen, somber and resolute, settled by his wife's side, his hand seeking hers in a silent gesture of solidarity. together, they listened as the sage relayed the harrowing choice that lay before them: the life of the queen or that of their unborn child.
in a heartbeat, rosalyn, with unwavering resolve, voiced her decision. her gaze met owen's, her eyes a reflection of unwavering maternal love and sacrifice. "our child, owen. we must choose our child," she declared, her words bearing the weight of an unimaginable sacrifice.
rosalyn knew the risks of what she choice. what it meant to have them focusing on saving the childs life. but she would willingly surrender her own life a thousand times over to safeguard the future of her children. if it meant they had a chance. she had known the risks everytime she laid down in the birthing bed. every woman did.
and so she choice their child.
with a heavy heart, rosalyn embraced the risk inherent in her decision, knowing full well the perilous path ahead. yet, she harbored no hesitation, for she would willingly surrender her own life a thousand times over to safeguard the future of her offspring.
as their children were ushered into the room, rosalyn savored a fleeting moment to shower them with kisses, her heart heavy with the bittersweet knowledge that these may be her last embraces.
alone with her husband in the quiet before the storm, rosalyn clutched owen's hand tightly, her tear-filled eyes. "don't let them forget me, promise me. please," she implored, her voice choked with emotion.
"i won't. i promise you, they will not forget you," owen vowed, his own grief mirroring hers. even he knew the likely outcome of this.
grasping onto the flickering flame of hope amidst the encroaching darkness, she spoke quietly to her husband "you are a good man, owen stark. you have a good soul. you doubt yourself i know you do…" she whispered, her voice trembling with conviction. "promise me you won't lose that."
rosa could swear she saw a tear moving down his cheek, “i wont.” he promised, his voice tight. quiet and solumn as he made his promise.
and so, as the night wore on and the castle fell into a hushed stillness, the cries of a newborn babe pierced the air, a beacon of life amidst the shroud of sorrow. the child was saved, but queen rosalyn was lost to them, her sacrifice felt by all those around her.
the child that survived has been named rosalyn jeyne stark. a baby with red hair like her mothers.
queen rosalyn will be buried in the crypts of the north, in the customs of the land she had gotten to embrace and call her own.
@owenstark
"Once a man has seen a dragon in flight, let him stay home and tend his garden in content, someone had written once, for this wide world has no greater wonder."
-- Tyrion Lannister, A Dance with Dragons, George R. R. Martin
CLAIMED DRAGONS
BALERION, the black dread
current rider: king viserys targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 94 AC
age: ~208 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: colossal & ferocious & terrible
origin: house targaryen
appearance: black
last known location: the dragonpit
past rider(s): king aegon i targaryen, king maegor targaryen, princess aerea targaryen
known battle(s): burning of harrenhal, field of fire, burning of the sept of remembrance, battle of the great fork, battle beneath the gods eye
BRIGHTFYRE
current rider: lord vaegon velaryon
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased 131 AC
age: 21 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: nimble & quick
origin: house velaryon
appearance: scarlet and gold
last known location: rook's rest
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the brightstorm, battle of rook's rest
CANNIBAL, THE
current rider: lord vaegon velaryon
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 139 AC
age: ~250 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: massive, terrible, territorial, cannibalistic
origin: wild
appearance: coal black w green eyes
last known location: tumbleton
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the darkstorm, battle of the gullet, battle of tumbleton
CARAXES, the bloodwyrm
current rider: king daemon targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased, year unknown
age: ~68 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: huge & fierce
origin: house targaryen
appearance: red and lean
last known location: above the gods eye
past rider(s): prince aemon targaryen, prince daemon targaryen
known battle(s): assault on harrenhal, battle above the gods eye
DREAMFYRE
current rider: queen helaena targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 130 AC
age: 98 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: believed to be a more psychic dragon, bestowing further dearms upon dragon dreamers, confirmed egg layer
origin: house targaryen
appearance: pale blue and silver
last known location: the dragonpit
past rider(s): queen rhaena targaryen
known battle(s): n/a
MELEYS, the red queen
current rider: princess rhaenys targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 131 AC
age: 56+ years
known gender(s): female
known traits: splendid & magnificent, the swiftest dragon ever recorded, lazy and but fearsome
origin: house targaryen
appearance: crimson and copper
last known location: rook's rest
past rider(s): princess alyssa targaryen
known battle(s): battle of rook's rest
MERAXES
current rider: queen rhaenys targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 10 AC
age: ~124 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: colosal & fierce
origin: house targaryen
appearance: silver w golden eyes
last known location: hellholt
past rider(s): unknown
known battle(s): field of fire
MOONDANCER
current rider: lady vhaenessa velaryon | @vhaenessavelaryon
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased c. 140 AC
age: ~4 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: nimble & quick
origin: house velaryon
appearance: pale green and pearl
last known location: dragonstone
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle at dragonstone
MORGHUL
current rider: princess jaehaera targaryen | @jaehaeraxtargaryen
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased c. 130 AC
age: 7 years
known gender(s): n/a
known traits: spectral
origin: house targaryen
appearance: feathered in appearance w pale iridescent hues of pink and lavender
last known location: the dragonpit
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): n/a
MORNING
current rider: lady aerea velaryon | @mourningblood
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 131 AC
age: 4 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: nimble & quick
origin: house velaryon
appearance: pale pink & black
last known location: unknown
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): unknown
QUICKSILVER
current rider: prince aegon targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased 43 AC
age: 36 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: fleet & energetic
origin: house targaryen
appearance: silver and pale white
last known location: the gods eye
past rider(s): king aenys targaryen
known battle(s): battle beneath the gods eye
SEASMOKE
current rider: lord deimos velaryon | @deimos-velaryon
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased 139 AC
age: ~33 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: nimble
origin: house velaryon
appearance: pale silver-grey
last known location: tumbleton
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the gullet, battle of tumbleton
SHEEPSTEALER
current rider: nettles
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: alive
age: ~107 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: vicious, ill-tempered, merciful to humans, loves mutton
origin: house targaryen, went wild
appearance: skinny and mud brown
last known location: the mountains of the moon
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the gullet, capture of king's landing
SILVERWING
current rider: princess caerella targaryen | @caetargaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: wounded but still living
age: 106 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: relatively docile & friendly
origin: house targaryen
appearance: silver
last known location: rook's rest
past rider(s): queen alysanne targaryen, ulf the white
known battle(s): battle of the gullet, battle of tumbleton
STORMCLOUD
current rider: lord aerion velaryon
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased 132 AC
age: 12 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: nimble
origin: house velaryon
appearance: silver-grey with white
last known location: the gullet
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the gullet
SUNFYRE, the golden
current rider: king aegon ii targaryen
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased 140 AC
age: ~33 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: splendid & formidable
origin: house velaryon
appearance: huge, heavy, and noted as the most beautiful dragon ever known to the world -- beaten gold and sunlight w pale pink
last known location: rook's rest
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of rook's rest, battle of king's landing
SYRAX
current rider: queen rhaenyra targaryen
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased 140 AC
age: 43 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: huge & formidable but inexperienced, confirmed egg layer
origin: house targaryen
appearance: yellow
last known location: king's landing
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of king's landing
TESSARION, the blue queen
current rider: prince daeron targaryen
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased
age: ~10 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: nimble
house of origin: house targaryen
appearance: cobalt & bronze
last known location: tumbleton
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the honeywine, battle of tumbleton
VERMAX
current rider: princess caerella targaryen | @caetargaryen
claimed or cradle: cradle
status: deceased 132 AC
age: ~18 years
known gender(s): male, female
known traits: ill-tempered in the cold, rumored egg layer
origin: house targaryen
appearance: olive and orange
last known location: the gullet
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): battle of the gullet
VERMITHOR
current rider: king jaehaerys ii targaryen | @jaehaerysiitargaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased
age: 105 years
known gender(s): male
known traits: massive & fierce, tolerant of people
origin: house targaryen
appearance: bronze and taupe
last known location: tumbleton
past rider(s): king jaehaerys i targaryen
known battle(s): battle of the gullet, battle of tumbleton
VHAGAR
current rider: prince aemond targaryen
claimed or cradle: claimed
status: deceased
age: 190 years
known gender(s): female
known traits: massive & terrible & warlike
origin: house targaryen
appearance: bronze w green and green eyes
last known location: the gods eye
past rider(s): queen visenya targaryen, prince baelon targaryen
known battle(s): battle in the waters off gulltown, field of fire, battle of rook's rest, battle above the gods eye
OTHER/UNCLAIMED DRAGONS
ARRAX
status: unknown
hatched: c. 115-120 AC
known gender(s): male
known traits: nimble & quick
origin: house targaryen
appearance: pearl and gold
last known location: the dragonpit
past rider(s): unknown
known battle(s): unknown
GREY GHOST
status: unknown
hatched: unknown
known gender(s): unknown
known traits: skittish & fond of fish
origin: wild
appearance: grey as morning mist
last known location: dragonstone
past rider(s): n/a
known battle(s): n/a
SHRYKOS
status: unknown
hatched: c. 123 AC
known gender(s): female
known traits: unknown
origin: house targaryen
appearance: unknown
last known location: the dragonpit
past rider(s): unknown
known battle(s): unknown
TERRAX
status: likely dead given the doom and extreme old age
hatched: before 102 BC
known gender(s): unknown
known traits: unknown
origin: house belaerys
appearance: unknown
last known location: old valyria
past rider(s): jaenara belaerys
known battle(s): unknown
TYRAXES
status: unknown
hatched: c. 117-120 AC
known gender(s): male
known traits: unknown
origin: house targaryen
appearance: unknown
last known location: the dragonpit
past rider(s): unknown
known battle(s): unknown
URRAX
status: likely dead given the legend and extreme old age
While home and recovering Lady Manal II Manderly tries to get back into the swing of things. Which is why it's surprising when she wakes one morning unable to rise from her bed due to feeling ill. The maesters worried of this, mentioning their concerns regarding the deep wounds from her rough treatment at the hands of the Little Umber.
Her fever comes on quickly, hot to the touch with a coat of sweat covering her every inch forcing the bedding to be changed multiple times a day. As the sickness slowly takes her, their mother sits by her bed day and night refusing to leaving her side. As family comes and goes she ends each day calling for Amir. Amir who wasn't home, ravens flew from White Harbour by the dozen, words to the Lord to hurry home. Words to commanders to find their Lord and send him home.
It is her last night, Nasir Manderly at one side and Zaida at her other, when she sighs and laughs for the first time since coming home and claps her hand against the bed lightly. "Amir? Come now, stop your hiding. We must go to bed. Amir? Come now, stop your hiding." When Nasir takes her hand she smiles and raises it up, kissing the back. "My Amir, there you are."
Manal Manderly has died.
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"The moon cracked, brother. I seen the eggs tumble and I heard them break."
- Viserys Targaryen
The youngest of the Green children who still lives is Prince Viserys Targaryen, Little Viserys, survived the dance in the way of cravens and dragon pups. Hiding in the many caves and tunnels of the dragonpit, listening to the slaughter of the creatures he loved so much. The young Prince stayed in hiding, tucked away from the view and voices of those looking for his cousins and any survivors. The tamers hid the boy among themselves, keeping him there once they confirmed Jaehaerys Targaryen was alive through a network of connections of their own.
When his brother rose to the throne Viserys chose to stay in the pits. The young Prince, the dumb dragon, earned such a name when in a tourney the handsome, young, knight was knocked off his horse and his helmet was dented, from that day Viserys seemed to only know High Valyrian and was visibly distressed in the presence of his grandmother and aunt.
The news reaches the King late in the evening in the form of his brother storming into his bedchambers waking him and the Queen with small dragons in his hands on his shoulders.
"Zaldrīzoti!! Zaldrīzoti!!"
NOTE: As in canon these dragons will only get so big but the Targaryen's will never return to dragon strength again.
The Seven Winter Feasts of the Riverlands, an annual Yuletide celebration inspired by Irish traditions, stands as a testament to unity and resilience in trying times, notably during winter's darkness and hardships. Hosted at Riverrun, this week-long festivity begins with smaller gatherings as travelers arrive at the castle. Inviting Houses from the Riverlands to join in this holiday at the Royal Tully Home, each night features a grand feast led by a different house, showcasing blended cultures and honoring harmony amidst adversity.
These celebrations epitomize the unity of the Riverlands, where houses intertwine their unique cultures, weaving traditions into a vibrant tapestry of diversity. Amidst winter's challenges, these feasts symbolize the illumination of unity and cultural fusion. Each night's theme, from revelry rooted in Riverish traditions to reflections on maritime heritage and interfaith bridges, reflects the Houses' dedication to unity and resilience in challenging times.
During times of war and winter's harshness, these feasts shine as beacons of cultural celebration and solidarity. They serve as reminders of the richness found in the Riverlands' diversity, demonstrating that unity, cultural harmony, and celebration can thrive, offering hope and warmth in the midst of winter's chill.
The Houses selected to host these feasts rotate yearly, often based on their rank and contributions. This year, with the completion of The Trout’s Mouth Canal, The Seven Houses chosen hail from the main branches of The Trident, representing the diverse facets of Riverlands' culture and heritage.
ooc: this is just an info dump. the details of the first feast is coming later.
king tyland lannister, first of his name, and queen consort katherine serrett are pleased to announce they are expecting their first child. a large mass is held in honor of the queen's pregnancy, and people from all over the realm rejoice with various celebrations and events at hearing the joyous news. markets bustle with activity as merchants and artisans prepare special wares to commemorate the royal announcement. the air is filled with music, laughter, and the sounds of merriment as the entire kingdom unites in anticipation of the new addition to the royal family.
THE NIGHT THE MOON WENT DOWN: THE END OF THE QAMAR OF THE TOR.
In the heart of Volantis, the ancient city brimming with juxtaposition and intrigue, Lord Rashid Jordayne of the Tor found himself entangled in a web of political schemes. His mission, meant to renegotiate peace and trade treaties initial set by Prince Mors of House Martell between Volantis and Dorne, had drawn the attention of shadowy figures with divergent interests to the entirety of rulers of the mighty city.
As the moon cast its silvery glow upon the sprawling city, Rashid attended a grand banquet in his honour, hosted in a lavish estate adorned with tapestries depicting the history of Volantis. He was unable to look away from the scenes depicting brutal slavery upon it; the whips, which seemed to become all too real. To many nameless slaves in the room that waited on him, their only depiction of their ancestors were the enslaved souls on the tapestries.
There was one moment in particular where a slave girl's hand shook as she offered him a drink, trembling as though she feared he would bestow something upon her.
Unbeknownst to him, whispers of dissent slithered through the halls. The night took a treacherous turn when Rashid, known for his vehement opposition to slavery and unwavering commitment to social justice, voiced his concerns about Volantis' reliance on the slave trade. His last words during the banquet had only been "We Are All Made Of The Same Clay" to bring a civil end to a no doubt tense discussion. His impassioned words resonated with some, but invoked resentment in others who thrived on the city's economic foundations. Those who believed Rashid's own opinions were a representation of Dorne's: and their involvement in the ways of Volantene governing.
Underneath the veneer of diplomacy, a clandestine plot unfolded. As Rashid retired to his quarters, he was ambushed by a group of masked assailants wielding concealed daggers. None would know the way in which he looked upon them when he turned, his intuition correct - for there came a strange, accepting sense of calm to realise one only had some moments left. "You had me wondering."
The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows as the attackers, faces obscured by dark hoods, struck with lethal precision. A deadly silence enveloped the room as Lord Rashid Jordayne, advocate for change and a voice against the chains that bound men, succumbed to the cold steel of betrayal. His body, now a pawn in a deadly game of power, lay lifeless as the conspirators melted back into the shadows.
Only minutes later, that very same enslaved girl was the first to stumble across the corpse of the light of Dorne. Her tears came not only from a place of shock, but a place of mourning, for a man she had only known for the course of a banquet. We Are All Made Of The Same Clay. In the hours that unfolded, there was a rush by the Voltanese rulers to figure out what divergent group of extremists had done such a thing.
And a dispatch was sent to Sunspear, to inform them that the moon had gone down.
myriam would have been the one written to, and it would have been her who broke the news to the council and his only living family left, his wife the princess loreza martell and a single sister, who now rules the tor.
once returned home, rashid's body is embalmed with oils to keep it's state. many swear it looks as though he is merely sleeping, and can smell perfume and musk from him. he is kept to lay in state, first in sunspear for those to pay respect to the first justiciar of dorne, and then onwards to his lands of the tor.
rashid's cremation takes place within the sept of the four doors, a location of high religious significance within dorne. his ashes are then scattered into the river torrentine, as per tradition.
tl;dr because this is 3000+ words: Alys, in the wake of finding out her sister has been taken by the false Umber king, performs the darkest of rituals in the woods to bargain with something that lurks from before the times of Men. The price is steep, but she wants this war over before she loses another sibling. Afterwards, word of plague has come from enemy camps, just as she paid for.
trigger warnings: death/murder, drugging, witchcraft/sacrifice, blood, eldritch entity horror, body horror, mention of previous assault, probably more so just be real careful reading.
In the nights after Jon’s violent end, the eldest Stark poured over ink and blood-stained Skagosi parchments in bitter anger that she hid from her siblings. They were all angry, but for her there was the taste of blood and iron on her tongue that could not be washed away with beer. Alys didn’t know where it came from, save that it felt like it was from the very core of her. She focused on it through long days and nights once on the warpath, the quiet hunting she-wolf in the north, prowling between the Wall and Last Hearth for errant camps and turn-cloak members of the Watch. It was a quieter front than south towards Karhold or White Harbor, but one she was fully familiar with, easily spotting ravens flying where they shouldn’t between the Wall and Last Hearth and gathering the messages to be passed to whichever brother needed it. Loyal mountain clans raiding the unfaithful to the west on her command. And ever so slowly, she pushed down the Kingsroad south to Last Hearth. She didn’t have as many men as more southern lords but they were as hungry as her, as angry. She bore a heart gone cold at the idea of ending a human life, especially when the blood of a Stark was on every hand of those who followed the giant in chains or the flayed man.
Some questioned why the king did not bring more men to her fifty leagues of land and push south as it was obvious the Umbers did not think of them as a threat. Alys silenced that talk by questioning if the men meant to talk treason in front of the very woman who came into this world with the King. But in the night, she bit at her cheek as she read another page, another ritual, wondering the same. Her keep, her lands, bordered Umber territory. With enough men they could take Last Hearth. Give the false king no where to retreat to. But she did not question her brother’s choices. Instead she waited and worked.
She received the news at an Umber camp months later, a success she had not expected falling into her lap just moments before. The capture of an Umber, the youngest brother of the False King. The irony was almost palatable as she read over the paper found on a table in his tent. The bastard had Cassana.
Her vision narrowed to her sister’s name in the chicken scratch of Hother Umber’s bragging, as if the rest of the world turned to ash in the face of this information. She could not tell if it was more anger, more fear, more of something else entirely, that filled her. Every moment after felt like the swelling of a sea of blood in her veins, every breath giving it height and power as heat rose to her neck, licking its way up her jaw as it clenched hard enough to break a tooth. Her fingers curled around the letter slowly, piercing the paper with her nails as it was crushed into a compressed ball. Perhaps someone would expect her to be frothing with rage, but she was silent as she placed the ball back on the table. Her mind swam as she contemplated what she had for options, what her blood begged of her, as she exited the tent and watched the men taking what they could from the dead and dying, raiding the camp of goods and supplies. Only the Umber they ensnared remained living.
The memory of Cass as a baby played in Alys' mind. She was the youngest, the smallest, the one Alys remembered best in all her stages of life. How soft her tiny little hand was at their first meeting, how big her brown eyes were, the sound of her laughter, her cries to be picked up, her begging to be brought along to the archery field when she was still much too small for it. Alysanne wanted to will Queenscrown to Cassana, to call her heir and secure her with land and an income separate from Winterfell. To ensure she did not have to wed a man if she didn't want to, to not be a burden on the family in spinsterhood. In some perfect world, if they both remained unwed for their own reasons, they could be the two strange aunts up in the tower, spoiling the army of children their other siblings would no doubt have. But it was not a perfect world, and Hother Umber had decided to make the worst move by taking the wrong sister.
Alys commanded that the rebel receive no water and only the driest hardest heels of bread for meals. He would be in a cage subject to the elements as they moved, chained and gagged to keep him quiet. That night she went to her book, as it was hers now and not some dead Skagosi’s, and by dimming candlelight she found a ritual written in the old tongue with the runic markings of the Children along one side, reading and deciphering until the dew glittered in the dawn’s cold yellow and pink light. Then she directed her raiding party towards the edge of the forest around Last Hearth. She did not care if they thought that finally they would be pushing towards a siege, only what she had planned remained in the forefront of her mind. Three days it took for them to come across their first weirwood, and Alys instructed them to camp farther back. Any who wished to pray at the foot of the great white tree were to be back by dusk and in their tents an hour later, no exceptions. No guards, no fires, complete silence and stillness. And no arguing about it.
For those three days before, Alys ground herbs and dried mushrooms into a fine powder when camp was established. Every night she cut her forearm and bled into a bottle after supper was finished, whispered prayers to the gods older than the dirt beneath her feet uttered in the old tongue. Every midnight she gathered black maple twigs, walking backwards to camp with them in her arms no matter how dizzy she was from the loss of blood. Focusing just on the why, the reason, the sister that was trapped somewhere. This would speed things along, wipe men from the board that would make finding her harder, saving her harder. Alys wanted an end to this war, it'd dragged on enough.
It was a new moon that night they found the weirwood. No great white eye peered down upon her from the inky black sky. Not even the stars wished to witness what she was planning. The Umber had been given his first drink at dusk that day, and so thirsty he was that he sucked down the small water-skin provided by the princess, so quickly drained that he did not taste the herbal concoction that was inside. When she came to him an hour later, she watched him for a moment in his cage, eyes wide and frantic with sporadic movement while his breath was shallow. His body was curled into itself like a child hiding in the corner from some great beast, the look on his face was that of a man seeing past the veil into untold wonders and horrors. She almost wanted to ask what he might be seeing, what truths lay past that barrier between reality and the gods at the knife's edge, but she could tell from how his mouth was frozen in some weeping scream that she would get no answers.
Perhaps she gave him too much nightshade or monkshood or in his water. She had doubled what the book suggested, as he was an Umber and they were unfortunately large. But she dragged him to the weirwood after opening his cage, his limbs still drawn up into himself so she pulled him by his arm and clothes. Twigs cracked under the weight of them as they moved through the forest at a snail’s pace, the sound of the man dragged across grass and dirt the only noise in the forest besides her labored breaths. No birds or small animals anywhere near them, as if aware of what the night will bring.
Sweat clung to her skin and froze in the cold air as she worked, nestling him amongst the roots of the ancient tree, pulling his arms away from his chest by tying hempen rope around his wrists and throwing the rest of the length over a thick branch. Pulling and tying until he was prepared. It felt like dealing with a beast brought back from the hunt after a while, not much would be different. Her sleeves pushed back, her hair tied up as she ensured he could not break free. She was ready to burn the clothes she wore if they were too bloodstained to save. Perhaps it would be best just to burn them anyway after this.
Her cleaning knives rested beside her, alongside the effigy of black maple twigs and the book. A single candle was lit to provide something to see only faintly what she was doing in the deep dark of the night, as what she had to do should not be seen by any eyes, not even her own. She could carve up a deer or boar by touch alone with only a mistake or two, up to a point it would not be so different.
The slicing of fabric brought the Umber’s wild eyes to Alys’, twitching as they looked between her two hazel irises, frantic still in that close proximity that let her see. His shallow strangled breaths from the paralytics feeling like icy clouds on her face. For a moment her breath hitched in her throat as wild desperation filled bulging eyes stared at her, the only part of him that could still move. Did he know what was to happen? No, how could he? He was no doubt seeing something brought on by the mushrooms she had put in his water. The woman sighed shakily and felt for her starting point, eyes skyward to focus on what she felt. The difference was palpable, smooth skin and not the hide of an animal. Her fingers skimmed along first, then the slow slice that let her get between skin and fat, the feeling of that strange squishing smoothness that protected the muscles caressing her digits telling her she was doing well. Then slowly she pulled back as she worked.
In another life, she’d have been a Bolton. Perhaps she would have made a good one.
He expired by the time his belly was emptied onto the grass, she made no effort to keep him alive. He stank like any other animal as she pulled the guts away to reach up for her prize, the sticky dark liquid that soaked them both smeared across her face every time she tried to rub away sweat or bat stray hair from her eyes as she worked. Umbers were kings once in the North, before they felt the weight of the Starks crush them down to lords under their dominion. They wished to be kings again. His heart, filled with ambition and desires for power, would fit the needs listed. Alys held it in one hand as the other cut away at the veins and arteries that kept it attached within. Slowly she pulled it free, like extracting some precious jewel or the first harvest after years of famine. The Stark laid it before the effigy in all its twisted glory, opening the bottle of her blood and pouring it on the muscle.
She bore the blood of kings, and the Umbers were once ones too and aimed to be again. If she kept thinking it was enough, it would be. The power of the will of humans was a strange magic all on its own. How they could convince themselves of anything. Like that this was the right way to respond in her rage and fear over the family lost.
Alys ducked her head after a moment and read aloud the chant over and over as she knelt on the ground, her lips and tongue continuing with memorized words when her vision became one big smear of black and red. She could taste the blood dripping on her lips from where she had rubbed it against her face, salty and bitter and metallic. But not acrid or unwelcome. Some desperate hungry part of herself knew that the blood was Umber, that it was spilled with purpose and for the right reason. It fed the anger in her core, soothed it like a lullaby, but still it throbbed.
The offer was made, the words were uttered. But it was the anger that was answered, the hunger that was the beacon in the night.
There was a sound of creaking wood and labored wheezing breath that rattled like wind through trees. The book said no matter what to keep her head down. If she wanted to keep her eyes, she would not tempt the being with the sight of them. The footsteps were heavy, like some great beast, that thudded through the ground and dully shook her as she knelt there on the ground. Heavier than Bear or Smoke, like how Alys imagined the giant her brother had killed. Her words stopped as she saw, in the seconds before her candle was extinguished, two great legs made of forest and of beast. Roots and moss and muscle and bone. The air around her filled with the smell of evergreens and overripe fruit; something heady, strong, and decomposing. The scents mixed well with the blood painted on her face and was all the more terrible for it.
It spoke in the tongue of the First Men, but fumbled amongst the rounder pronunciations, like whatever tongue it bore was meant for another language. Its voice was like hearing bones crack and trees fall, like the far off cry of prey caught by predators. It was a beast of ends, a creature of decay, the beginning of what made rich soil out of all that was buried so that new life could grow. And it asked Alys what she wanted in return for her offer.
For a moment her voice was gone, like in the days after the Ironman found her in the woods, when two hands painted purple and red around her throat even though they were dead and buried along with the man who dared lay them on her. She could almost feel them on her again, and panic flooded her. Did the being do this to her, just by being nearby? It was when she hovered closest to death, and it was a being of death in the cycle of life. Maybe it was there, in those moments, when she broke her creed not to harm another human. How easy it was to throw it away again and again in the days since, the days here out in the woods. Then with a rattling gasp she long since thought was gone from her voice, a wheezing so much like the creature's, she spoke. “I ask for a plague.” The stillness after her words egged her on to continue, and the chill of freezing sweat coated the nape of her neck, exposed to the being by her hair pulled up while she stayed bent over the book in supplication. “A plague on those who challenge House Stark, on my blood’s rightful claim on the North’s throne. A plague to pull flayed men and giants into the ground, to decay and suffer to feed you and the forests. But spare the innocent, those who do not raise their hands against us. Those who are too weak or too young.”
The silence after her words unnerved her, and she almost looked up. Almost. Until there at the top of her vision reached a hand of black maple and rotting sinew, putrid and intensely fragrant with the smells of the forest, fingers too long and nearly brushing her own as it picked up the poppet and the heart. More sounds of flesh tearing and wood cracking and the smell of death only got stronger as she watched a withered rotten collapsing heart drop in front of her, black putrescent blood hitting her face with heavy thick drops. Then something crawled over her, burned into her, from the marks on her arms where she’d cut herself to fill the bottle and seared up into her elbows, her shoulders, down her collarbone and into her heart. The feeling was like nothing she’d ever felt, something burrowing into the muscle and making her curl up into herself like a child in ecstatic pain. In some strange moment of clarity, she realized something. She had given the creature of the Old Gods kingly blood and the heart of a princely traitor, yes… but she had given it part of her in doing so. So it gave some of itself to her as well, maybe. Some part of the forest drove itself into her.
There must always be balance.
The time after between then and dawn was a stagnant forever to Alys. Panicked and cold, the smell of cadavers and the forest swarming over her, eyes clenched shut in fear. The pain, her face buried into the grass and bloody mud underneath her, eventually ebbed away. There were sounds, she remembered sounds after in the safety of the sunlight, crunching and gargling and slurping. The Umber was gone, a smear of red on the weirwood’s bark and empty ropes hanging from branches the only evidence he’d been there at all. As the pinks and oranges painted the Northern sky, Alys pulled down the ropes and collected her knives, tying shut the black book of spells and scraping up the nub of the candle that remained. She shoved the items back in her sack as she knelt before the weirwood, her eyes trailing up to its carved eyes weeping red sap. It had not been weeping the night before.
Cassana had said that she could look through eyes like this, her green-sight extending from these ancient and eternal remnants from eons before the first man stepped on the continent. “I pray you never look at what I did tonight, Cass.” She whispered to the wind, nervous at the sound of her voice. It rasped like it had in the days after her first kill, like all her healing had come undone. “And I hope you forgive me if you ever do…” Alys heaved a shaky sigh before returning to the camp, ignoring the eyes of those who saw her covered in blood, who saw the empty cage, who smelled the death and forest that clung to her even after she bathed and burned her clothes.
A promise was kept. The thing in her heart throbbed, beating separate from her own rhythm, as she read about camps falling to illness, to fever and rashes and peeling skin. Infection and blisters led to much worse. And they were always camps of Umber and Bolton men, the loyalists safe from the plague she had paid such a steep price for.
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Manal has been a prisoner for almost a year (10-11 months) during that time they have moved a lot in the cover of darkness from Sheepshead Hills, through the Lonely Hills, and into the thick forests of Long Lake.
The Location: The Little King Camp
Important Players: The Little King, Manal Manderly, Nasir Manderly, and Jin Renshu, The Hugors, Reed and Manderly forces.
Set up: While tracking the Umber forces they are met by the loyal hill tribe, they come to provide additional assistance in navigating through the thick forest.
While tracking they see one man at the lake fishing and then they see several more. As evening comes one of the Hugors, a Manderly, and of the hill tribesman.
The orange glow fires, the smell of fires, and sound of voices let them realize they could find the camp. They do not get too close.
Ren, Captain of the Hugors, and a man from the Reed forces use stealth as they sneak into the camp in the dead of night and make their way to the prison tent where they free Manal.
Manal and freed from the Little King and immediately taken by the Hugors who travel in the dark of night to return her to White Habour. Manderly men join them to offer her some security.
Manal has visibly changed and been altered by the events. She's quieter, holding herself together before people, and she rarely offered a smile. The ladies assisted in adding dark ropes of yarn to replace her loss hair and then covered her hair with a head wrap.
Nasir Manderly rides into the camp with his forces and together they destroy the camp, slaughtering the men and burning the camp to the ground.
The Little King Umber has escaped their grasps, his numbers lowering as he arrives to another camp where they present him with a possible light in the tunnel, the taken Princess Cassana Stark.
t h e k i d n a p p i n g o f t h e s t a r k p r i n c e s s; ;
beneath a sky painted with hues of lavender and gold, the journey to their next destination was fraught with an electric tension. cassana and her female archers rode with wariness, each moment heavy with the anticipation of lurking threats, their forms etched in stark relief against the dusky landscape. the women of her archery unit were privy to the ominous murmurs, the insidious rumors swirling around the fate of their leader. they were acutely aware of the perils that danced at the edges of the road, but there was no safety in war. they pressed forward, anyways.
their forces had merged with another battalion led by lord long, a commander of unassuming stature but one who had proven combat prowess.
as they progressed, cassana's heard her name called by lord long. she guided her steed ahead, drawn to the scene where he stood, his gaze locked upon a toppled cart at the roadside. "princess, do you recognize this emblem?" his voice was taut with intrigue. "i believe it to be one of ours, yet word of a lost cart has not reached our ears."
a flicker of hesitation hung in the air, before cassana descended from her horse, drawing nearer to the cart he pointed to.
the distant echo of an arrow piercing flesh reverberated through the stillness. whirling around, she witnessed the cruel sight of one of her comrades falling, an arrow cruelly embedded in her chest, as an onslaught of shadowy figures descended from the hills.
"ambush!" the cry surged from behind, shattering the night, arrows streaking through the air like vengeful spirits. the assailants had cunningly targeted her troops only. none of lord’s longs men seemed to even join in the fight.
the realization struck with a bitter clarity—they had been betrayed.
in an instant, her sword was drawn, gleaming like a sliver of moonlight. it arced through the air, cleaving through the first foe who was near. she swung her blade into the next who came at her, ready to hit another when she felt arms grabbing onto her. she didn’t know how many, one, two three? but the sword was wretched from her hand. she fought back as hard as she could, driving her elbow into whoevers face was close by. her hand desperately reached for the dagger at her side but the hands kept pulling her back. she let out a scream as she was pulled back again and again.
she was pushed onto her knees, but still she fought back. finally managing to get her dagger. wretching her arm free she plunged it into the chest of one of the men next to her over and over and over, swinging at whoever was next. but she was overpowered. she was pulled from the man her arms pulled behind her back and she felt the rope tying them together. “no! NO” she screamed trying to pull away, trying to stand up, trying anything. she screamed and screamed and fought. gods she would not die here without a fight. she would fight until there was nothing left within her. but the hands on her were strong, keeping her down on her knees not giving her any room to move anymore. she didn’t know when they had shoved a rag in her mouth to muffle her screams of complete rage.
finally she felt the hand of the lord long’s on her face, turning her to look at the carnage around her. “look at it.” suddenly she felt like she couldn’t move at all. her fighters, her archers lay masared all around her. some of them still fighting, but many of them had lost their battle as they were quickly outnumbered. gods she hoped most of them had managed to escape “if only they didnt follow you then maybe they would have had a chance.” she heard one of the men say. the lord kneeled down infront of her, forcing her to look in his eyes.
“you have a very pretty price on your head, alive of course. nothing personal, your highness but i need the money. the other girls were just in the way.” he smiled.
leaning forward she headbutted the man as hard as she could, satisfied hearing a crunch of his nose breaking. another of the men holding her cracked her across the cheek. her vision blurred. cassana glimpsed the abyss of her fate. his smile was a grotesque mask of avarice. she met his gaze with a glare that bore more steel than any sword. she could not speak, but her intent rang loud and clear. she was not going easily.
if she could speak, she would tell him he was a dead man. when the starks heard of what happened, when they found out she was taken there would be no stopping them. they had lost jon, they swore to each other they would not lose another.
she knew his fate without ever needing to see it in a vision. he was dead from the moment he decided to betray them.
"i’m sure king umber will find it in his heart to forgive the bruises i deliver with his new bride," the lord mused, a veil of insidious satisfaction shading his voice. darkness descended with brutal swiftness, the world slipping into a void of unconsciousness.
The literary works of Lord Gael Hightower, Master of the Arts
While not every piece that Lord Gael Hightower works on reaches the public, at twenty-nine years of age the Reach's Master of the Arts has put into the world pieces that are both politically and socially relevant, as well as others that are more intimate and emotional works.
Collection of sonnets: Gael began publishing his poetry in his early twenties under the pseudonym Hadrian Dunn to hide from his father, who never approved of his son's artistic inclinations. The work became beloved by nobles and the literate common folk alike, appreciative of the author's emotional vulnerability while making clever use of historical and religious symbols in the works. In the present day, as it has become well-known who the author of that poetry is, the sonnets have been compiled and bound in a tome of poetry, occasionally called The Dunn sonnets.
The Ballad of Thorns and Roses: This was the first work by Gael after being appointed Master of the Arts by King Cedric Tyrell. The Ballad is a trilogy of plays, written in exquisite verse, which chronicle relevant events of the Reach in a fictionalized manner. To some, the tragic trilogy not only represents the current zeitgeist of the Reach, but is a profound exploration of unavoidable and timeless conflicts of loyalty, justice, and revenge. Each of the three plays was first performed at The Garden Court theater in Oldtown, but the theater company has performed them in several regions within the Reach by now.
Civil war work: During the period of turmoil caused by the false king Alaric Tyrell and his wife, Sienna Merryweather, Gael wrote several poems that reflected the situation of the realm and offered solace during such a harsh period. None of the pieces were overtly political at first glance, though with deeper analysis there are clear symbols and literary devices in place to denounce Alaric and his false queen, as well as those who sided with their faction.
He who speaks with the voice of the gods: This epic poem consists of one thousand stanzas and is an ode to Lord Leyton Hightower's participation in the reclaiming of Alaym. While Leyton is never mentioned by name throughout the work, there are enough clear references within the poem to make it very clear that he is the source of inspiration for it. Through the epic poem, the author grants his brother epithets that both allude to his identity as well as uplift him as a legendary figure (High-hearted Hightower, the Voice in Alaym, Shepherd of the Just). In this work, Leyton is immortalized as a most unlikely hero, detailing all stages of the septon's presence in Alaym: his arrival to the battle-torn region in Andalos, his unfaltering stance to avoid violence as he did the gods’ work, the ethereal silence that fell on the camps as he spoke to encourage the men in the camps, and his last stand prior to the return to Westeros.
No one knows the exact time the Order of the Sand Sages begun, but their time seems to have begun with the very start of Dorne itself. The Order of the Sand Sages, also known as the Sandhealers, stands as a beacon of compassion and healing in the arid lands of Dorne. Rooted in ancient traditions and guided by their unwavering commitment to non-violence, they have become revered across the region for their profound belief in the healing power of peace.
Spread far and wide across Dorne, the Order's presence is felt in bustling cities and remote villages alike. They hold firm to the belief that access to healing should be a right for all, not a privilege for the few. While they serve the common folk, it's not uncommon for certain noble houses to have dedicated healers, forging a unique bond between the healers and their patrons.
The Order of the Sand Sages is one of the few groups in Westeros that accepts both men and women as healers. This equality is fundamental to their belief that healing transcends gender. The wisest and eldest healers are both men and women
Upon joining the Order, each member solemnly swears an oath of non-violence, a sacred pledge to never harm another living being. Instead, they devote their lives to the relief of suffering, offering solace and care to those in need. New members of the Order must take the "Healer's Oath," which binds them to their duty of tending to the sick and wounded. This oath is recited under the light of the desert stars amongst the other healers, symbolizing the healer's connection to the land and commitment to one another.
Their mastery of herbcraft is unparalleled, possessing a deep understanding of the desert's flora and its medicinal properties. Their remedies are renowned for their efficacy, with some even surpassing the knowledge of maesters from distant lands.
Members of the sages travel across the desert, setting up temporary camps in various locations. They offer their services to some of the most remote settlements, building trust and mutual respect with the diverse communities of Dorne.
Through a peaceful trade network, they exchange their precious medicines for essential supplies and valuable information with intrepid desert traders. Crossing paths with a Sage is considered both an honor and a good omen, while harming one is viewed as the gravest of misfortunes, often met with severe consequences.
The healers have developed a form of silent communication through hand signals and coded gestures. This allows them to work efficiently in the field without the need for verbal communication, especially in situations where noise could attract danger.
The color within the pleats of the aprons worn by the members of the Order of the Sand Sages holds special significance, reflecting their hierarchy, roles, and accomplishments within the organization. As the sages grow in their ranking, they gain more and more colors within their aprons. Here are some of color ranking of aprons for the Sand Sages:
Sandstone Beige: This is the foundational color, worn by all members upon initiation into the Order. It symbolizes purity, humility, and the beginning of their journey towards healing.
Sage Green: After completing a period of rigorous training and demonstrating exceptional proficiency in herbcraft, healers are awarded a sage green apron. This color represents growth, knowledge, and the mastery of the desert's flora.
Royal Blue: Those who have shown exceptional leadership, wisdom, and have made significant contributions to the Order may be granted a royal blue apron. This signifies their elevated status within the organization and their dedication to guiding their fellow healers.
Goldenrod Yellow: Reserved for healers who have excelled in creating rare and potent remedies, the goldenrod yellow apron is a mark of their expertise and innovation in herbcraft. It symbolizes the radiant impact they have on the healing community.
Burgundy Red: Healers who have demonstrated extraordinary acts of compassion and selflessness, going above and beyond their duties, may receive a burgundy red apron. This color embodies the deep well of empathy and care they bring to their work.
Iridescent Silver: The iridescent silver apron is a rare and prestigious honor, bestowed upon healers who have made groundbreaking discoveries in medicine, surpassing even the knowledge of renowned maesters. It represents their unparalleled contributions to the field of healing.
Amethyst Purple: Reserved for the eldest and wisest members of the Order, the amethyst purple apron signifies a lifetime of dedication, learning, and leadership. These individuals are the guiding pillars of the Sand Sages, embodying the essence of their beliefs.
Crimson and Gold: The highest honor that can be bestowed by the Order, the crimson and gold apron is reserved for The Sunlit Sages who are the Grand Masters or Grand Mistresses, the leaders of the Sand Sages. This regal combination of colors symbolizes their wisdom, authority, and the profound impact they have on the Order and the wider community.
These aprons serve as tangible symbols of the healers' achievements and contributions, creating a visual representation of their individual journeys within the Order of the Sand Sages.
During times of conflict, the Order maintains a steadfast policy of neutrality. Trusted by all factions, they offer aid without bias or judgment, ensuring their safety even in the midst of war. This unshakable commitment to healing and peace has made the Sand Sages an enduring force for good for all.
Ophelia within the Order of the Sages
When she was a young girl one of the Sages begun to live in Skyreach as a healer to her entire family. Being the guardians and protectors of the Prince's Pass it was important that all the family stayed healthy.
One day Ophelia ended up helping the Sage when he was bandaging the wound of a soldier. Something sparked within her and even as a little girl Ophelia knew being a healer was her calling in life. Her mentor has said he had never seen someone so young have such an understanding for the skills and compassion it takes to be a Sage. Surely in her previous life Ophelia must have been one of the Sunlit Sages
Barely a teenager she took the Healer's Vows with the complete support of her family behind her, all of them proud of the young girl's commitment to helping people across Dorne. While she completed a lot of her training within Skyreach, she was allowed the ability to travel with her mentor across Dorne to get hands-on experience
While she was still very young amongst the other Sages, she has always risen within the ranks. Already she has been given her Burgundy Red pleat in her apron, something very rare for a Sage her age.
On October 1st 142 AC Arlo Florent-Redwyne is born after a long labor he is a healthy baby boy and heir to the Arbor, Brightwater, and the islands.
Arlo Florent is born in Brightwater among the Festival of The Fox and/or pearl, a celebration for the first son or daughter of Brightwaters ruling lord. The announcement of a son is made and the feast of the Fox is held. During this time smallfolk provide gifts across the temples and septs.
Day 1: Games held on the large training pitch of Brightwater where locals and visitors take part in jousting and archery competitions.
Day 2: After the birth of the Fox (or pearl) the citizens then travel from sept to temple leaving many gifts for the mother, the maiden, and good fortunes for the Lord, his lady, and their family.
Day 3: The Septons come to Brightwater where they check in on the well being of the babe and mother, blessing both.
Day: A great feast is held, if the mother is able to attend she joins in on the final day of hosting where a great feast is held in honor of the Lady and the strong baby born.
King Cedric Tyrell, cousin to Lord Omer Florent, has been named as the Godfather of Arlo Florent.
Note: These traditions can last longer than 4 days, once the word goes out labor has started and so begins the set up and preparation of the Florent games. If the labor last days long then day one will last until the baby is born and if/when the baby survives the folk continue with their partying, feasting, and praying until the feast day. Alysa Corbray's feast day was, in reality, 10 days after giving birth to Omer Florent.
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celebrating the marriage of lord axell royce and lady yuna upcliff
As the sun dipped below the horizon, it painted the sky in a fiery canvas of crimson, marbled with hues of gold, orange, and hints of cobalt. This celestial spectacle cast an ethereal glow upon the standing stones. The stage was set for the union of Axell Royce and Yuna Upcliff, a sacred bond that would be consecrated amidst the honored stones of Runestone.
While the rugged mountains of the Vale echoed with the clamor of battle, Axell Royce and Yuna Upcliff, both figures marked by others with trepidation, otherworldlyness and notoriety, took a respite from the conflict to embark on this most auspicious journey. The entirety of the Vale's nobility, and even emissaries from realms beyond, had been invited to gather to partake in this momentous occasion.
The air hung heavy with the weight of both celebration and caution, for Axell remained a target of the Mountain Clans, and he was resolute in ensuring the safety of his new bride and the sanctity of their celebration. And while one plan of attempted assassination was discovered a few days before nothing happened at the ceremony itself. Or at least none that the newlywed couple were aware of.
Within the hallowed circle of standing stones, an exquisite fusion of heritage transpired. It was a dance of customs, a harmonious marriage of Runestone's storied traditions, a tribute to the legacy of House Royce, interwoven with the mysterious tapestry of practices brought forth from the Witch Isles, paying homage to the Upcliffs. The very stones that bore witness to centuries of history now stood witness to this union, a bridge between realms and legacies.
As the clock struck midnight and the celebration continued on inside, the newlyweds stole away as part of an ancient tradition in Runestone's lore. It was within the protection and blessing of the standing stones that the newlyweds consummated their marriage and the start of their new life together.
In the weeks following the BURNING OF THE RIVER MARKET, after The Riverlands Court depart Highgarden, THE TROUT'S MOUTH CANAL, also referred to as THE MOUTH, has been completed. The completion of The Mouth marks a historical moment for The Riverlands and Westeros — for the first time, a direct water high-way runs across the entirety of The Realm. The Trident now meets The Sunset Sea at The Blue Fork on the coast between Seagard and Wendish Town. Open-mouthed trout fountains, incredibly monstrous in size, can be found built into the stone structure.
Already a leader in Westerosi trade, The Riverlands will see another significant increase in wealth and revenue:
The canal allows for easier movement of heavy and bulky cargo, such as raw materials, minerals, and agricultural products, without the limitations of roadways.
Reduces shipping costs due to the cut down of travel time and distance.
Encourages increases of business and population along The Trident due to easier access to goods.
Allows easier movement for commercial trades, but also noble and common travelers alike.
Creates a third major tax and toll hub for The Trident, the others being at the Bay of Crabs near Maidenpool and The Isle of Commerce.
Increases job availability for sailors, tradesmen, and naval forces, as well as immigration.
Significant increase in the movement of goods from The Reach and The Westerlands due to the close proximity of The Golden Isles.
Yitish and Northern goods have begun to saturate The River Market, spreading both East and West.
— etc.
With the establishment of a new taxation and toll zone, immediate revenue has been directed to the rebuilding of The River Market, the fortification of ships, payment distributed to tenants and merchants who have lost stock and goods, and other pressing matters pertaining to the trade prosperity of The Riverlands.
The River Market, though damaged, is at full functionality due to the new income. At present, NO SHIPS OWING PATRONAGE TO THE FREE CITY OF LYS ARE ALLOWED WITHIN THE WATERS OF THE TRIDENT.