The Old Wolf

Maybe “true to the essence”, but their casting is an absolute horror story. It’s massively offensive. Here, in indie rp land, anything goes and I don’t give a single crap about stuff like this, but in a group where it can be controlled, it should be. 

They’ve cast Alexander Siddiq as Doran. Fine, great, cool. He’s Sudanese/white. However, they casted Trystane as Rami Malek, who is Egyptian. Arianne is casted as Aiysha Hart, who is part Saudi Arabian, and Quentyn is casted as Elyes Gabel is part Algerian. THEN, the various Sand Snakes are cast as faceclaims who are Indian and Turkish. The ethnicity casting is an actual disaster and as someone who is half Middle Eastern, I am beyond offended. This group is basically saying that everyone from the Northern half of Africa, the Middle East, and India are all the same ethnicity.

As for nice? One of their players set up a hate blog devoted to basically spreading slander on another Game of Thrones RPG. Which, considering their members liked the posts on there, I can assume the whole group supported this act of harrassment. Why? Because they “erased Arab culture” which is pretty fucking ripe coming from their shitshow of a casting as a group. Yeah, the other group made the Martells Brazilian--but at least they are ALL Brazilian, and not just lumping Northern Africa, the Middle East, and India in all together, like we’re not completely different. Honestly, watching how Game of Thrones rpgs like KOS operate makes me really happy I am independent. 

stark eyes finally drifted upwards to take in the face of the man who he called father. time had aged him and lord rickard looked tired. ned almost wondered if he would look as tired when he was his lord father’s age. as ned aged, he had seen resemblances between himself and his lord father. now that he was standing before him, ned could see it. he could see the resemblance. the eyes, the nose, the mouth. ned found it strange in a sense.

“the vale has treated me well, my lord.” ned replied. if it had not, he would have dared to voice it. he was there to please his father, not express his true feelings ( no one truly cared for them in his minds eye besides lyanna, robert, and lord arryn ). “lord arryn has been kind to robert and i, treating us as if we are his own sons.” in truth, ned viewed lord arryn more of a father than his own. ned felt almost awkward standing before lord rickard, as if he was a stranger. “are you, brandon, or benjen participating in the tourney? i have not seen them yet.”

            The horrible truth was the middle son had slipped between the folds--much as the others had, aside from Brandon, but only barely so that he could learn how to properly take control of a Lordship, and a Warden of North title. Brandon was yet too irresponsible, he too much of the wolfsblood to really become a Lord of Winterfell, in the full sense. Eddard, though, he seemed to have more than good head on his shoulders. He would make a good Lord, a better knight. Rickard stared lightly at his son and wondered if the man had any plans for himself. 

            Lyanna and Brandon had not had choices in their fate. One of which seemed more accepting than the other. Too many kids, Lyarra--our roots are strong, but there are too many of them. Too many for Lord Rickard to handle in his state of perpetual withdrawn and reserved behavior. It was no difference now, though his son had mirrored his own behavior, and Rickard wondered if he had noticed that. “I saw that young Robert had entered the lists in the melee. He should do well.” The Starks had never been ones for Tourneys--Brandon was the first one in generations that actually entered. Their valor was on the battlefield, where it actually mattered.

the tourney at harrenhal was an event that everyone was coming to. while ned was not going to participate, he had received word that all of his siblings and his lord father were going to attend. it seemed like a good place to see them again as he had not seen them for many years, eager to see how lyanna had grown, how the others had grown. part of him was almost nervous to see his lord father for his foster father had become more of a father to him than his own.

now that the day was finally there, ned found himself trying to correct his clothes to ensure that they were perfect. after all, he had not seen his lord father in so long and he wished not to disappoint him. ned had felt as if he had done that enough over the past several years for he was not as bash or loud as brandon but he was smart and quickly picked up on things.

as the tent opened, ned looked up to see lord rickard standing. he looked aged, older than the last time ned had seen him but didn’t ned as well? after all, he was no longer the boy they had sent to the vale. instead, he was a man in the eyes of his gods. 

“my lord.” ned bowed his head in respect to the lord of winterfell. “i am happy to see you again.”

The breeze flapped at the side of the tent. He had been sitting most of the morning, occasionally watching the ranks and events. They were here for another reason, another reason that had been undermined. The King and his son were among those present, and only one of those was truly meant to be here. Bringing his children had been a necessity--something to help the cover be held. Plus, they would have never allowed him to come by himself and nor could be trust them to do the work of the Warden of the North. He had been failing. When it came to his children, he was a FAILURE. Southron ambitions, some said said. The truth was that Rickard wanted a better life for his children. He wanted them to grow into a world where they had many friends, many people to call upon should times get DARK. Darkness--a winterman understood that concept even better than most. Darkness was feared, and the snow made it worse. Dark and cold. 

Rough hands, worn from battle and gripping the hilt of ICE, rand through his shoulder length hair. He should have been gathering his children, but they were wild--wolfchildren. Lyanna and Benjen were birds of the feather, the first often getting the second in trouble. Brandon was old enough to handle himself, and the middle son was away at the Vale. As if summoned by his thoughts, his eyes fell onto the second son, himself.

He had grown taller, broader--a man forged from battle practices and full of the manners that Brandon occasionally lacked. His face was sharp like the rocks of the Vale, eyes downcast in respect. Rickard rose, coming to his full height that towered over the boys still--a height that they would grow into. It came with age. “The sentiment is mutual, my son.” He had nearly slipped and called him pup, or, boy. Words that were no longer to be used. No, a man GROWN--and hopefully all his children would be more like their mother than HIM. “Has the Vale treated you well?”

She loved him, asif it were that simple and she clasped her hands before her as she entered the room and her presence demanded sometjing it hadn’t before. “If I did not tend to him, the chance that he would have died of his wounds would have been great. And unlike my family, I support the King in the war as does my brothers.”

Both of her brothers served Robb faithfully and more importantly, happily. None of them hd the same ideals as their parents or the rest of their family.

"It was not my intention to bed him, my Lord. But I do not regret it. I love him and while I understand the gravity of the situation, I assure you that it was not my intention to lose us this war." While her words seemed steady enough, the young Queen knew his words were true.

“--Intention or not, love will not grant us swords and spears. Yes, you might have saved him there, but now you have prolonged his death. Without Frey forces, we cannot win this war. Tell me, will your love keep his sister warm, who is still in the clutches of the enemies. Summer child, you have cost us much, but I do not think this is all your fault.”

As she wandered upon her favoured balcony and found Lord Rickard already partaking of the view, she made to retreat yet when he invited her closer, she nodded, smiling politely as she joined him. 

Looking from the view to his good-daughter-to-be, he offered a smile. Something that would surprise even his own children, for the Old Wolf rarely smiled. He was a man carved from stone, stoic and cold. He was the embodiment of the Northern climate. Nodding at her words, he replied, “Even in the summer, my lady, Winterfell sees snow. But, you shouldn’t consider it a completely cold place. The castle sits upon hot springs that warm the walls, and we have a glass garden for year round farming. However, the Godswood is the most peaceful place.”

The Godswood. It had a tendency to make Southerners feel out of place among the carved faces of the trees. But, if they swept aside the uncomfort, they would see the beauty. Hot springs bubbled up beside the trees, the white bark offset by the sudden greenery, that stayed lush year around.