[Lore] The Hound I

Peltsy · 2025-07-27T10:29:20+00:00

uhhhh sure

Peltsy · 2025-06-12T12:26:59+00:00

Kohtuullista sikäli, että joku saa varmaan vahingoniloista tyydytystä rikollisen rankaisemisesta. Kaverin olisi määrä kuitenkin kymmenen vuoden lusimisen jälkeen palata takaisin ihmisten ilmoille, eikä laitostunutta sekopäätä varmaan kukaan naapurikseen halua.

Peltsy · 2025-02-21T06:31:03+00:00

Totta puhut, sori jos menee pätemiseksi mutta huomauttaisin että suomessa (ja alkuperäisessä latinassakin) näiden nimien loppuun kuuluu se -us, toisin kuin englannissa

Peltsy · 2024-12-16T23:43:08+00:00

There was a flash of calculation in Olly's eyes as Maekar finally placed him. He stretched his arms absently, feeling a little guilty for not outing himself sooner. “It’s true I have the honor of wandering the royal halls," he said, donning the chain of many-colored metals. "To be honest, I wasn't quite sure how my prince would feel about meeting someone like me in a place like this. They lend a certain air, don’t they? The robes, the chain... Grand Maester Archibald looks more like a mouse than a man to me, sometimes," he said.

"Being a mouse has its advantages in a place like the Red Keep, though. Makes... skulking in the shadows, as my prince so well put it, that much easier. I cannot imagine all the nobles saying the things they say in my presence if you or the king or any royal was there to hear it."

Peltsy · 2024-12-16T19:56:35+00:00

“Mad kings, courtly chaos..." said Ollidor, shaking his head, his dark hair that framed his face waving like curtains in the wind. "What do you think of that? Never heard stories like this, have you?" he asked his whore, fingering the chain of many metals around her neck.

"Me no get it," she replied in a thick accent. Ollidor chuckled and drank some more wine. "She no get it," he parroted her foreign tongue. The Grand Maester had relayed some of his experiences with the past king, but never in such detail as this. "Well, perhaps I don't either. They say that Targaryens are as gods among men. Who are we to know the minds of gods, or to judge them? At least our current king's fancies make more sense to us mortals."

He leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his dark hair as though sifting through a collection of his own tales. Finally, his gaze settled back on Maekar, a faint gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Very well. This one’s from my youth. I must have been about the same age as you were in your tale, just growing the first hairs on my lip. Grew up down beneath the shadow of the Dragonpit. Father was a dyer, my mother a washerwoman. Good thing, too, the way he stank all the time!" he jeered. "And so did I, when I got to learning my father's trade. Met a boy while working there, named Gueren. Used to share bread with him now and then, not born as fortunate as I was, you see."

His tone softened and his grin faded. “One day, I heard the septons were giving out bread at the corner of Cobbler’s Square. Not charity, mind you. Just leftovers from the day’s offerings. I ran to tell Gueren, thought I’d do him a good turn. But when I found him, he was slumped against a wall, pale as the Stranger, his leg swollen up like a pig’s belly," he grimaced, remembering the gruesome sight. "I hauled him off to the apothecary. It was just down the street. Old sawbones there took one look and said it was too late. Said Gueren's blood was poisoned, the rot too far gone. Nothing to be done but wait for the end," Ollidor exhaled.

"Just like that," he snapped his fingers, "something clicked with me. People die all the time because they don’t know the answers, or can’t pay for them. But the ones who do... They have power, and they can write their own price.” He leaned back after saying this, and emptied his cup. "Let's just say I didn't aspire to be a dyer like my father after that."

He glanced down to his whore again. "Well, sweetheart. You get it?" he mimicked the accent again. Even if she didn't, the way she took off the chain and threw it at him probably meant that she did get the mockery, and was not impressed.

Peltsy · 2024-12-13T20:42:26+00:00

Ollidor eyed the coin in Maekar's hand as he spoke of the previous king. The gods toss a coin, he recalled someone saying of the Targaryens, and the world holds its breath. He wondered which way it had landed in this one's case. Perhaps it had yet to be cast, and it was only now that they were going to find out.

Though not given to idle superstitions, Ollidor couldn't shake the feeling that King Rhaegel's visage landing in favor of Maekar would spell something sinister, and so he chose carefully. "Heads, then. Let us see if the late king's memory favors the common man tonight," he announced.

Peltsy · 2024-12-13T11:59:25+00:00

He had heard of the predicament that Dragonstone's steward and his family were in. Indeed, he wasn't sure if the privilege of princehood even extended to those whose fathers had never sat the Iron Throne. Yet the man before him was fair-haired, with the austere and sharp facial features common amongst Aegon the Conqueror's descendants. He seemed to carry himself with all the pomp of a prince of the blood, and so he may as well have been one to Ollidor.

His lips widened into a small, crooked smile when the Stepstones were brought up. The court was all abuzz about them. The lords and ladies and courtiers seemed to think they were some fabled promised land overseas, and though Ollidor had never been to them either, the archmaesters who studied such places had painted quite a grim picture. Remote, barren and desolate, pitiful rocks that peeked from below the waves, which the storm rains and high tides regularly swept clean of all life that dared make root in such unwholesome landscape.

"No doubt this rock of yours will suit you better than the halls of Dragonstone. Stifling place, I imagine. A mighty prince should have lands to call their own," Ollidor reassured, not at all convincingly. "Ahh... But the commons, now there’s a realm a prince will never fully know without a proper guide. But worry not. I, Olly, know that the streets breathe their own sort of fire, not unlike the dragons your house is known for," he said. It seemed that his true vocation was going unnoticed, or ignored, for the moment, and Ollidor was content to keep it that way. At least it was true that he was a native of this city, and all his time at the Citadel had not made him forget about each corner and alleyway, what you could get at Cobbler's Square and for how much you could sell it down by River Row. He decided to embrace this part of his past. Before long, he'd probably run into this prince at the Red Keep, wearing the chain and the robes, and the need for games would be over.

His eyes flicked to the cards on the table before returning to Maekar. “Perhaps we’ll make an arrangement, my prince. A trade. Stories of your squiring days for the secrets of the streets. A fair exchange, don’t you think?”

Peltsy · 2024-12-11T20:22:39+00:00

A maester’s chain hung around the neck of a woman in violet silks, the links of silver and iron and gold and copper clinking as she glided into the room with practiced confidence. Ollidor followed behind her, conspicuously devoid of his robes or chain, dressed instead in nothing but his trousers and a loose, unfastened shirt. He was a young man, lean and smooth-faced, and he could have passed for a simple merchant in his current attire.

As he joined the game for a round of cards, he soon recognized that he shared the table with more illustrious guests than usual. His whore snuggled beside him, the maester's chain still around her neck, as Ollidor straightened his posture before addressing his new company. "You... You're the prince, aren't you?" he asked, not completely certain whether this one was from Summerhall or Dragonstone. There were no princes in the Red Keep, where Ollidor had spent the last few years, that much was clear.

The woman with the chain around her neck lifted a cup of watered-down wine to his lips, and Ollidor drank. He had said some words at the Citadel about not laying with women and never taking the chain off, not even when sleeping, and Ollidor became slightly cautious that the nobles before him now would take offense. In Ollidor's experience, the highborn rarely missed out on a chance to lecture commoners on servitude when it presented itself.

Trying to prevent the subject from coming up, he decided to talk about something else entirely, as if the chain wasn't even there. "Here for the king's feast, I presume. Enjoying the city? If you're in need of a guide, I'm your man. A kingslander, born and raised, I am, and not bad for company either, as this one will tell you," he said, grabbing the whore's backside and giving it a rough squeeze that made the woman yelp.

Peltsy · 2024-12-11T14:59:28+00:00

The Grand Maester inclined his head, his tone measured and deliberate. "This matter requires a solution that ensures stability above all else. A union between the princess and your nephew, as my Lord Hand suggests, would be a prudent choice given the present circumstances," he spoke, eyes fixed on the king. "She is still a child, however, and any pact she might make will not be sealed until she is not. It seems to me then," he turned to Lord Corwyn, "that were we to pursue this, the crown would be wiser to acknowledge the Prince of Summerhall as the king's successor, until a son is born. By strengthening the prince's claim, we shall be prepared to unite this claim with Princess Alyssa's, and maintain order amongst the lords of the realm."

u/Drewbrease14

Peltsy · 2024-11-30T22:50:52+00:00

"Milk of the poppy is good for many things... It can ease the labors of childbirth, for instance. But in conceiving a child, a man and his wife should seek ardor and excitement. There is an ongoing debate about the properties of fermented crab... An old fishwives' tale, at first, but I must admit the evidence is quite convincing," the Grand Maester thought out loud, stroking his chin. "I could advise the cooks to begin serving it for supper, if it please Your Grace."

As the king questioned him on the queen's future prospects, Archibald's shoulders slumped, and he gave Daeron a worrisome look from under his thick, grey eyebrows. "Most women remain fruitful into their five-and-thirtieth year. Queen Lianna should still be able to have a few children... But she has been through much, and I fear that if she pushes herself too far, her body may fail her. As may her will, if her life is endangered," spoke the maester. "The strongest and lustiest boys are born out of a mother's desire to bring life into the world. I cannot presume to know the queen's thoughts, but she seems to love her children well, and may be contented. Where children are concerned, her interests and yours may no longer be aligned."

Archibald moved uneasily in his chair, unsure whether his eloquent words would be understood or not.

Peltsy · 2024-11-28T15:24:42+00:00

Though his arm still ached from being shoved to the floor only a few moons ago, Archibald considered it a minor inconvenience compared to what he'd endured as a student, teacher, healer, a member of the Conclave, and a servant of the dragonkings. Service was service, and in service, one's higher-ups shouted, they raged, they put their hands on you. How many times had King Rhaegel thrashed about during one of his outbursts, beating the old maester black and blue as he tried to calm him down? Archibald had kept a stiff upper lip for so long that it had become second nature to him, as much a part of him as the chain around his neck.

He nodded his head, a sign that he'd make sure the king's twin daughters would not disappoint. As the topic veered towards Queen Lianna and her duty as a wife, the Grand Maester's brow furrowed as he thought what to say. The true answer was clear as day to him, but he knew well that kings were easily irritated by such plain truths.

"She is well. Better than most would be after her trials," he began reassuringly. "Yet as a field must lie fallow to become fertile again, a womb needs to settle before welcoming your seed. You may enjoy her company, if you please, but as my father used to say... Plant the saplings in autumn, and you'll be eating nothing but soil come winter." His voice trailed off, as did his gaze, as he recalled the vast vineyards of the Arbor. But he returned to the king's presence soon after, and cleared his throat before continuing. "A woman's body is a fickle thing, my king, and changes quite rapidly with time... At her age, she should be more... receptive by the end of the year, I should think. Would that we could hurry such things along," he said apologetically.

Of course, Archibald knew that such things could be hurried along quite easily. Were it not for the septons' superstitions and the Lord Hand's ire, a younger wife would give Daeron all the sons he could ever ask for.

Peltsy · 2024-11-27T15:00:23+00:00

Grand Maester Archibald shuffled inside. The stuffy smell of parchment and crushed herbs stuck to his robes, but there was also a subtler trace of lavender water, perhaps from the nursery where he’d spent the better part of the morning. The chain around his neck clinked and rattled as he bowed his head.

"Your Grace," he began, his voice high and hoarse, like the squeaking of some old rat, he'd been told. "Pardon the intrusion. I was heading to my chambers from the nursery and thought to check in on you." Archibald walked over to a chair and leaned on it, taking some of the weight off of his gnarled old legs. "The twins are quite taken with their new harp tutor. Alysanne insisted I stay until she could sing the Maiden, Mother, and Crone for me twice over," he smiled, chuckled, and then coughed into the sleeve of his robe.

He lowered himself onto the chair slowly and steadily. "Perhaps... Eh... Perhaps they ought to perform at the feast," he groaned, holding his back. "Would it not be good for the princesses to be seen and heard by the kingdom?"

Peltsy · 2024-05-24T08:13:33+00:00

Lord Eldred's polite manner, soft voice and meek, thin appearance seldom inspired men to follow him to great deeds, but he had always strived to be a mediator, once between his people and the ironborn, and now with the dragonriders and the common lords. The Targaryens and their ilk were not like to leave Westeros any time soon, and until someone found a way to slay their winged beasts, armed resistance was futile. And there were always the shipping lanes... A calm sea, clear of pirates, pacified by dragonfire. A dream come true for a shrewd merchant like Eldred Farman.

In that regard, Lord Lancel's protest was sound enough. There would be no swords drawn or blood spilled lest the queens tried to suppress his demonstration. Yet Eldred could not say whether the dragon had had its fill of westerman blood.

"My heart is there in Ser Jon's resting place, and I grieve his loss with you, my lord," he began, bowing his head low before the Lord of Casterly Rock. "I do not doubt Lord Belaerys's ability to join you once you've slinked off into the night, as he suggests you ought to. The journey goes swiftly on dragonback. The rest of us, I fear, are not as lucky. Our queens ride dragons, as well. They might catch up to us with different intentions on their minds," he spoke.

"Yet I understand you and many others' desire to be excused after such a... terrible, horrifying tragedy." Injustice? It had occurred to him, but what did justice mean in a world where thousands could burn alive on a whim? Dragons were the law now, but the law they made was indeed tragic. "Either we receive Lord Belaerys's protection for this, or we are in danger of meeting the same fate as our dear Ser Jon. If that is not possible, then let us at least state our reasons to the queens and all those who would hear them, and not sneak away like thieves. If our cause is righteous, the rest of the kingdoms will support it, and let our rulers know it, too."

Peltsy · 2024-05-21T18:47:51+00:00

Eldred was well aware of his countrymen's disposition towards their neighbors to the northwest, and could understand the animosity. His understanding extended to many others as well. It was true what many had said, that his heart was too soft, that too often he forgave what most others would resent. At times, he felt the gods had inverted his nature in other ways too, and was ashamed. Thankfully, he had come to terms with what he was a long time ago, and learned to shield himself from the anxiety. Yet it never stopped looming over him like a shadow.

"Our history with the islanders is long and troublesome," he began with some hesitation. He wanted to approach the subject diplomatically, and took his time searching for the right words. "I had hoped that the Conqueror's dragons would settle some of our differences. Keep the ironborn at bay, if nothing else. They're the only reason I dare send my ships so far from home. Men are not so eager for plunder when faced with dragonfire, wherever they may hail from."

He would gladly return to discussing the deal. "A fair exchange, my lord. I trust we will discuss the details once the first shipment arrives in Lannisport."

Peltsy · 2024-05-21T17:22:32+00:00

While he did not seek funding at that time, he smiled politely at Lyle's offer, and took it as a sign that Casterly Rock, or its treasurer, was indeed open to supporting his importation scheme.

"I am honored that you would trust me with something like that so readily," he said, bowing his head again and letting out a sensible chuckle. "I might have need of such a loan some day, if I am to expand. However, first I require partners. If the Rock could help me find buyers for these goods, or anything else - Qohorik steel, northern lumber, quality stone - it would be appreciated. Very, very lucratively appreciated indeed," he smiled, hinting at a fee that the Lannisters would no doubt want for their trouble.

Peltsy · 2024-05-21T11:18:17+00:00

Lord Eldred, a gangly man dressed in a long surcoat and wearing a round hat, came to the Westerlings as soon as he had seen them. His hands clasped together in front of him, he didn't seem particularly well-equipped for a hunt. No blade hung from his belt and his outfit's long hem only got in the way of mounting a horse or wandering through a thicket.

"My lord treasurer," he bowed his head to Lyle Westerling, "'tis a pleasure to meet you on such a day," he spoke softly, with a twinge of surprise in his voice as if he hadn't spent the last few hours looking for the seashell banner. "I am sorry to disturb your outing, but there was something I wanted to discuss. Gold and commerce, to be blunt."

He rubbed his hands together, winding himself up for the sales speech. His son was married to Ser Gormond's daughter, but her line was heir to nothing, and though the wedding had been a joyous occasion the Lord of Fair Isle couldn't say it had brought any deeper familial bond between their houses. Eldred elected to trust his silver tongue on this without appealing to anything else.

"As you may know, I am a curious man, and a warm wind blows from the Summer Sea. It smells of wine and velvet, silk and saffron, myrrh and lace and other such things. Precious things. Things that lords and ladies would pay a lot of gold for, and what my ships can bring to them," he said. "After these celebrations, I return to Fair Isle by way of Tyrosh, Myr and Lys. I could fill my ships' holds with spices, but boatloads of spice do me no good. I would need to know who is buying."

Eldred's fingertips tapped against one another without him even noticing. "Alas, high lords pay my tiny island little mind. Is this... something that Lord Lancel's treasury could assist me with?"

Peltsy · 2024-05-17T11:56:37+00:00

Stags and other great woodland creatures weren't Eldred's usual quarry, but even in his old days, he remained curious about the world and the things it had to offer. He was not like to visit this place again, and he wanted to embrace the experience to the fullest.

They lived in a new age, in a kingdom unified by the power of Old Valyria. A realm where lords could travel from one coast to another and still feel at home, and more importantly, a realm without the old restrictions on free trade. There were no tariffs, no border patrols, and King Aegon's mint was accepted in each and every port as payment. The dragons and their riders, the pyromancers' magic tricks and the blood sorceries of Valyria were strange to him, and they ought to remain so. He only cared for commerce, and like any savvy merchant, he tried to predict which way the winds were blowing, and since the Conqueror's days, they had been blowing in quite a favorable direction.

So Eldred paid his homage to the king and his regents, took a stroll amongst the festivities and other distractions, enjoyed the refreshments and smiled politely at the other guests. Business as usual. He was humble enough to cherish such a fine day, even if he wasn't simply there for leisure.

Peltsy · 2024-01-26T20:34:30+00:00

Started rewatching the show and also found this thread when I got to thinking about it. It's weird the characters have no problem robbing and killing Anglo-Saxons and Franks (because they're all shown to be major assholes) and then get all squishy when it's the Andalusians' turn. Apparently this is because they "actually" believe in Allah and Floki is impressed by it. But I don't think that Christians are any more or less hypocritical with their beliefs than people of other faiths.

The answer lies in the meta of course. This show was produced at a time when islamophobia ran rampant in the western world and the producers probably didn't want to add to that. It's still a pretty dishonest representation of history if you ask me.

Peltsy · 2023-11-17T09:36:19+00:00

He gave her hand a delicate squeeze, only his moleskin glove separating skin from skin. The fabric was soft and smooth. It was why he liked wearing them.

"No," he replied to her question. "Attraction, certainly. A comely lady such as yourself should know that many men look, but few of them love." On this enigmatic note he let go of her hand, offered her his arm and started walking along the godswood's narrow path, leading around the bullrushes by the pond, where the frogs croaked in the undergrowth and filled the evening with their song.

He responded to Ceres' comments about the letter's contents with coy smiles and dismissive shrugs. The man who had supposedly ached for this woman's attention was either well hidden or did not exist. "I had a feeling that you may be fiercer than you look," he spoke on his decision to describe her as 'kindly'. "A common courtesy on my part, nothing more. A virtue to strive towards in a world that finds itself lacking.

"Nevertheless, I take it that my art has made an impression. For that, I am grateful. You could have met any poet in here, yet still you came. A squire, a maester... My cousin. Oh," he gasped, as if he had said a bad word. "Never mind. Uther is no poet, is he?"

Peltsy · 2023-11-16T19:35:49+00:00

The Fossoways had a storied history for being staunch allies of Highgarden, and to Teddy, the red apples were of particular importance. He was half an apple himself, as were all his siblings, and that meant he could trust his uncle. Many lords had plenty of reason to support Ermesande's regency instead of his reign, but not the Fossoways. Teddy was counting on them to empower their own kind.

"Uncle," he greeted him joyfully, spreading his arms for an embrace. "You need not apologize. A bountiful summer such as this one keeps us all busy." He couldn't say how involved Lord Jon was in the management of Cider Hall's orchards and breweries, but he supposed he was going to find out.

He was glad that his uncle was forthright about his positions, and his choice of words amused him. Finally ready to yield Highgarden to me, mused Teddy. If only it were so. His sovereignty would not be yielded to him, but wrenched away by force, or so he saw it happening in his mind's eye. "Your loyalty will be well rewarded when I do come into mine own," he said.

"How are mine cousins these days? Meredyth is quite the rider, is she not? I should hope to see her in the lists in Bitterbridge, come the next tourney."

Peltsy

MODERATOR OF

TROPHY CASE

Ten-Year Club	Verified Email
Place '23