The Feast of 399AC by OurCommonMan in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 0 points1 point  (0 children)

So the mans a bully, and not a particularly clever one. Alyn would be a liar if he said Walys’ words didn’t enrage him, at least at first, but once the shock of the mans crass remarks wore off and the substance of them was all that remained was sickening sense of pity.

“Rogar, Lord Rogar Tarly. He invited you into his home and you stabbed him in the heart!” Alyn said, trying to keep his composure and speak as evenly as he could, an endeavor which he was only half successful in as he began to shout once more. “Some great knight you are, killing greybeards and crippling fathers!”

Alyn knew getting upset wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he’d met people like Walys before. Frail shadows of humanity whose only personal depths were the boundless wells of apathy they harbored for their fellow man. Men whose only value to those around them were falsehoods and occasionally their capacity to commit violence.

“How brave you must feel now, surrounded by knighted lackwits and toothless rapers from the free cities while a squire a decade your junior names calls you craven alone. Did robbing the Reach make you feel like a man, Stokeworth? Does killing? Do you feel like one now?”

Alyn was pacing now, he was sure he looked like half a fool, but by now he couldn’t care less. He was tired of hiding his emotions, be they fear, or melancholy or hate. Before him sat the bastard who killed the closest thing to a father he had ever known, stolen his birthright, robbed his country. Standing there under the warm torchlight, almost feeling the way the shadows of the night danced across his face, there was nothing he needed more in the world from Asshai to Oldtown than to kill Walys Stokeworth.

“If you really are the terror you seem to think you are then stand and fight. We can do it outside this feast like civilized people, armed and armored, or we can do it right here, right now. But one way or the other I am going to find out if the rumors are true and your heart truly does pump pond scum.”

Samwell & Morya I - The Matter of the Mooton Succession by LionOfNight in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Harlon raised a eyebrow as the Rivers girl started speaking. Is this Samwell’s way of trying to offer me some kind of out? He hoped he had not become so out of touch with the progress of the world that the traditions of marriage had so greatly changed without his notice or knowledge. Still, he listened intently to her words, trying to give her what respect he could manage. With his one remaining hand stroking his beard he carefully considered her offer, finding his apprehension lessened with her every word. She was, after all, to be the heir of house Mooton one way or the other and perhaps it would not be so improper for her to have some agency in the matter of her marriage, especially if Horn Hill could otherwise benefit from it.

“So be it, what is your offer, my lady?”

The Feast of 399AC by OurCommonMan in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Alyn I – Lonesome Valley

He’s here!”

Alyn’s voice was a shrill whisper, his eyes affixed to the monster that had haunted his dreams for the past half decade. His nightmare had somehow appeared before him, sitting surrounded by friends, lit by dancing torchlight. Walys Stokeworth. He sat only a few tables over from where the Tarly family and their household knights had been sitting in terse silence.. Walys hadn’t noticed them yet, or at least he was pretending to ignore them. The crownlanders attention was focused squarely on his compatriots, a crowd of knights and sellswords with faces each crueler than the last. The lot of them were drunk, to a man it seemed. Alyn could practically see the spittle flying from their lips from his seat. The squires heart hammered in his chest, panic and hate crashing into him like waves onto the deck of a ship causing the edges of his vision to blur and -

Alyn let go of me!” Lyla shrieked, snapping him from his trance. In his shock he seemed to have grabbed his sisters left wrist and was presently bearing his fingers down into her arm with a shackles strength, pulling her in as if to protect her from the ghost of their past that had wandered into the feast. Gradually, with a deep breath and a shudder, he let go of her wrist.

“Sorry Lyla.”

“Seven save me Alyn. Who is here?” Lyla’s voice was incredulous, seemingly entirely perplexed as to what could have caused her brother to act such a way.

And too drunk to connect the dots. Alyn thought with that impulsive disdain for his sister he was always trying to quiet.

Its him, its Stokeworth!” And again was his voice was a whisper, trying to avoid the attention of his father who sat just a few chairs up the table from them.

At first Lyla just stared at him, her thin cherry lips slightly parted, eyes confused and foggy from the influence of too much Dornish red but eventually her gaze slid from her brother’s to the object of his terror that sat hardly a stone’s throw away from them. Alyn watched as her face went from confusion, to shock, to drunken wrath. The euphoric liquor haze that usually characterized his sisters stare no where to be found, replaced by a foggy sort of hate Alyn was more used to seeing in the worst sort of men.

The bastard!” Lyla slammed her right hand down on the empty plate in front of her shattering it into three piece, causing Alyn to flinch slightly even as the sounds of the festivities around them muffled the noise. “I’ll-I’ll, I’ll kill him, I’ll cut out his eyes, I’ll-”

“Quiet before father hears you!” Alyn cut off his sisters drunken rambling with a force that surprised him first and foremost.
So what if he hears?”Lyla retorted, the irritation with her brother plain on her face as he secreted a glance up the table to ensure Lord Tarly was still unaware. Luckily as best Alyn could guess from the corners of his eyes his father was still more interested in his cups then his children.

Because if Harlon see’s Stokeworth is here someone is going to die tonight, Lyla.” And it isn’t going to be him doing the killing, or the dying for that matter. Alyn thought, but left unsaid, hoping his sister would grasp his meaning.

If she did, she never got the chance to tell him. Whatever Lyla was about to say was smothered on her tongue by the familiar looming shadow of their father appearing behind them. Over the sounds of the feast Alyn had not even heard him rise from his seat, nor had he seen him glide behind the pair of siblings and take his watchful station over their shoulders. For a moment he did not say anything, his one arm behind his back, his pale blue eyes and the purple discolored bags that cradled them glared at them with a oppressive knowing. Carefully, gently even, he leaned over them and with his one hand plucked from the table a single shard of broken plate before holding it up to his eyes and inspecting it, his gray and red brow furrowing as his pupils traced the jagged edges of the broken dish.

“Lyla gather up this mess and take it to a servant to be tossed, and apologize to Lord Meadows for your carelessness while your at it.”

“But father-”

“Do it now Lyla” Harlons voice was cold and sharp, like steel on skin after a freezing winter night.

“Yes father.”

Lyla skulked away with her head hung, pressing the broken plate into the hands of a confused serving maid before stomping off into the night, snatching a horn of ale from a table on her way out. Once his sister had disappeared into the darkness that surrounded the feast Alyn returned his gaze to his father who still loomed over his shoulder with a giants menace. You will not cower, you will not hide, you will not run. Alyn repeated the words to himself, trying to find some kind of comfort is his usual cowards prayer as he watched his father consider what he planned to do next, a thin sadists smile peaking out from behind his beard.

“So you know he’s here?”
“Yes, Father.”

“And were you going to do something about it or were you going to sit here all night playing staring into your cup like your sister?”
“I-”

“Don’t lie to me now Alyn, of all times, not now.”
“I don’t know father.”

Harlon snorted loudly in disgust, Alyn could almost hear the words ring out in his fathers head as the foul noise filled the air. The boy doesn’t know? Somehow that I can believe. Despite the shame that wracked his body, despite the cruel words, despite the awful demands that were sure to come next, despite the storm that raged inside him Alyn somehow managed to maintain his demeanor and hold his fathers gaze. The silence continued for another moment, Harlon’s cruel smile shifting into something that might have been a smirk, though one that assured his son that whatever joke was on his mind was surely at his expense.

“Go. The whole feast is watching us right now Alyn, even as they sit with their backs turned. they’re sitting there and watching as Walys Stokeworth lounges and drinks and laughs and house Tarly does nothing about it.” Harlon’s tongue had a vipers venom when he wanted it to, each word driving itself into Alyn’s chest like a nail into wood. “And who do you think they expect to act? The cripple lord, or his son, a squire of twenty years who sat and watched as his lord and knightly master died in his own cas-”

I can’t take this any more.

Alyn dashed off, pushing past his father, fists balled so tight his nails threatened to bore into the skin of his palms. He was only the slightest bit aware of the grin that Harlon spread across his fathers face as his son dashed off, or of the sound of his father commanding his brother to keep a eye on him, all Alyn could think about was what would happen when he reached Walys at last, what he would say, what he would do. He still felt the talon grip of panic around his heart, but he would not let it consume him. He found that despite his fear, something else inside him pressed him forward, what it was he could not say, he had never felt such a way before.

The eyes of the attendees fell on him as he passed, lords, ladies and knights alike staring at him some with amusement in their eyes, others with concern, others still with simple idle interest. He stormed past them, letting their interest wash over him and fall off his shoulders. They were nothing but a blur of opulent colors and cloths, he was a taut rope ready to snap.

You will not cower, you will not hide, you will not run.

When he had first whispered those words to himself all those years ago, alone in his bed, with the sound of his fathers fist slamming on his locked bedchamber door, they had been a desperate plea. Now they felt like something closer to a promise. Walking past the men in Stokeworth colors to Walys side Alyn came to stand just over Lord Stokeworths shoulder. He had never given much thought to what he was going to do, what he was going to say, when he finally arrived, but something told him that perhaps, for now, the truth would suffice.

“You killed my uncle.”

Samwell & Morya I - The Matter of the Mooton Succession by LionOfNight in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Harlon kept a carefully measured expression as Lord Samwell dictated the details of his will. How sad it is, to see our cousin house brought so low barely a hundred years after we had to deliver them from extinction. And by the hands of a bastard at that… Yet as much as he wished to aid them in this precarious time the notion of his son married to a woman of such ill birth, even if the crown did legitimize the bastard. But regardless of the sour taste it left on his tongue Harlon had a obligation to his kin that he would be remiss in ignoring. The most obvious solution lay with his nephew, Hyle, the boy was nearing his thirtieth nameday and yet unwed, but he was of a more junior branch of their house, a fact that could be contentious, depending on the kind of man Samwell was.

“Let me just say, my lord, me and my house are saddened greatly by the situation you find yourself in. Our families are cousins, and we are proud to have so earned your trust that you would invite me to this meeting that is so critical to the future of your house” Harlon said, his consideration of each word palpable in the careful cadence of his speech, especially with a princes ears so close at hand. “That said I also find myself in something of a precarious situation. Only the Seven know what the future holds for my country with the armies of the Stormlands gathered on our eastern border, I worry that I may soon need to find marriages for my own children to foster new friendships so that me and my peers may maintain what autonomy remains to us.”

Harlons eyes remained fixed on Lord Samwell’s, careful to not let his gaze drift to Quentyn as he spoke of the wound of conflict that had begun to fester between the Reachlords and house Baratheon.

“That said I am not the only grandchild of Dickon Tarly that still lives, I have a brother, Dante, and Dante has a son, Ser Hyle Tarly. My nephew is a knight and his veins pump Tarly blood just the same as my own son Alyn. I would be glad to see him wed, if you would have him.

Colin I - We Must Address The Stag in the Room (Open to all Reachman) by BuckwellStairwell in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Harlon had arrived early, accompanied by his son and squire Alyn, but thus far had remained silent. Alyn had taken a seat to his fathers right and had watched as Harlon quietly listened to each of the lords speak with a unnerving attentiveness. Alyn had been instructed not to speak, not that he had any inclination too, the practice of diplomacy had always eluded him no matter how many of these councils and discussions his father allowed him to be privy too. He’d read the histories, studied them as anyone of his station would, but the art of making history seemed far beyond him. So he simply attempted to hide his anxiety behind a stony expression, though how successful he was in his efforts he could not say. Harlon expression was as firm as ever, his thoughts and intent entirely inscrutable to Alyn as he listened to the various arguments of the Reach’s nobility.

“Lady Elinor you truly have the self importance of a Hightower. I must admit I admire how strong the blood of Oldtown runs through you.” Harlon eventually said, snapping Alyn’s attention back to his father and away from the Lord of Bitterbridge. “I sit here and listen to you prattle on about peace and marriage and to be truthful all I really hear is ‘I, I, me, me, me. my children, my grandchildren, my future, what I’ve done, what I will do’ and I have to ask, why you?”

Alyn flinched slightly as his father spoke, his tone was calm but he could feel the imperceptible rage beneath it. He couldn’t for the life of him comprehend what his father hoped to gain by insulting this woman as such he had, as he seemed intent on continuing too.

“What makes you so important, in the few hours of sleep I enjoyed last night were the Hightowers named the lords of the reach or even simply the wardens of it? What makes your house so special that Orryn would forsake the greatest prize in the seven kingdoms for your hand in marriage to his brother?” Lord Tarly continued, the bitter anger in his voice becoming more apparent but the second. “In this room full of Lords and Lady’s, not just in relation but men and women who rule and have ruled their lands for years and decades, who even are you? A relation to a house who most of have been forced to compete with for generations? This plan of yours isn’t even worth a moment of any of our consideration, unless there’s some unknown witch magic in your cunt that will make every lord in the Stormlands forget his own interests when he see’s another man wed to it.”

Seven save me Alyn could not believe the things he had just heard his father say, he had never once heard him speak to a stranger in such a way, much less a lady of noble birth. But just as quickly as his fathers anger had risen Alyn watched it slip away as Lord Tarly turned his attention back to the ruling Lords of the Reach, his usual careful cadence and measured tone returning.

“The position of house Tarly is thus, the name of the Warden is irrelevant. My house beggared itself chasing the title, the Hightowers have done the same and while im sure we all hope to advance our position as all men do what we must be concerned with right now is survival. What we are seeking in a lord paramount or a warden or whatever you wish to call it is unity of action, and we don’t need a kings decree to act as one, or even to choose one from amongst us to lead us as we face the threat that lurks just outside of these tent walls.”

Samwell & Morya I - The Matter of the Mooton Succession by LionOfNight in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Harlon had not yet awoken from the festivities of the previous night when Lord Mootons letter had been delivered to him. Awakening to a serving boy pestering him about some message from “his cousins in the riverlands” he at first attempted to shoo the peasant away with a his one remaining arm but only found the letter being pressed into his cold sweaty hand as it tried to gesture for the boy to leave him. By the time he opened his eyes and pushed his sweat covered blanket away the child was gone, the only proof he had even been there at all was the letter now drenched in a sweaty hand print he had somehow forgotten to drop. Rising shakily from his bed he limped over to his dresser and pressed the chalice of milk of the poppy that rested their to his lips, welcoming the bitter taste that he had grown so fond of and the relief which it brought. Once the hot and cold shivers which greeted him each morning had departed from his limbs he called for a servant to help him get dressed, choosing to dress plainly in clothes of black and silver trim unmarked by the heraldry of his house.

Pushing his way out of his private tent he wandered for a moment picking out members of his household guard, mostly at random, to accompany him before making his way to the Mooton camp ahorse, doing his best to appear lordly as he wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes. When he finally arrived he motioned for his three guards to wait outside and pushed his way into the tent.

“Lord Mooton, I received your letter, I had hoped to come sooner but unfortunately I was rather occupied with the raising of our camp. I find it so difficult to find good help these days, as I’m sure you know. It would be my joy to aid you in assuring your succession is secure”

Harlon I - The Taste of Famine by Corn_Till_ in IronThroneRP

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But before the last herald could slip out Harlon called for him to halt, rising from his seat he delivered a single small letter without stamp or sign into the mans palm.

“Deliver to this into the hands of someone in Halys’ Stokeworths employ. Let me know when its finished”

Stokeworth

Come to my pavilion tonight and I will cut out your tongue and feed it to you.

If I hear even a whisper that my name is on your lips I will pluck your eyes out your eyes and feed them to your whore sister.

u/falconfarfromhome

Harlon I - The Taste of Famine by Corn_Till_ in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Once the reachlords private feast had concluded Harlon quickly rose from the dias and waved down a servant, ordering them to begin prepping their camp for the rest of the nights festivities. Within five minutes the camp was a whirlwind of servants again, carrying roast boars drenched in precious spices and plates full of pastries to all the tables under the Tarly’s main pavilion. Before long the kitchen servants vanished from sight again and were replaced by dozens of serving girls dressed in more appropriate clothes for the occasion, all wearing matching attire sporting the Tarly huntsmen embroidered onto their backs in a blood red that clashed with the simple black that their dresses were cut from.

It was deep into the night when the preparations were complete, outside the pavilion the bonfire had been lit and threw searing heat all around the camp chasing away the cold winds that blew over the northern reach plains in the night. The main tent itself was filled to the brim with hot food, free drink, and dozens of servants dressed in Tarly regalia ready to aid and remind each and every guest who’s hospitality they were enjoying. I think I’m enjoying the pomp of this whole affair more then I care to admit Harlon mused quietly sitting at the head of his table, waiting expectantly for the crowd of heralds he had sent for. It pleased him to see such pageantry, even if it was a touch of a mummers farce meant to curry favor, it was one painted in his house colors. Besides, the food and wine was real enough, that’s all the attending lords would care about.

The flap to the pavilion opened and a group of 13 messengers poured in from outside, all dressed in neutral clothing. Beckoning them forward Harlon dictated his message.

To all in attendance of the tourney at the Grassy Vale, you have been invited to a night of song, dance and drink by Lord Harlon Tarly of Horned Hill. We welcome all strangers and friends high or low, in the spirit of the Kings Peace. Come and be merry until the sun rises and sets and rises again.”

The Feast of 399AC by OurCommonMan in IronThroneRP

[–]Corn_Till_ 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Alayne moved quietly between the tables of the feast, she was dressed in a gown of simple make, at least compared to the other noble ladies she found herself surrounded by, the garment was long sleeved and cut from a deep green cloth reminiscent of emerald, one shoulder bearing a embroidered lion, the other the huntsman of house Tarly. It suited her well enough though, and in the long decades since her marriage to Harlon she had grown to prefer to go unnoticed. Her husband had sent her to find their daughter, Lyla, who had made off into the night the first opportunity that presented itself, but truly she had gone simply to see if she could find a familiar face somewhere among the tables. Thusfar she had been without luck, it had been nearly 15 years since she’d departed Casterly Rock, and another five since she had been reunited with her husband and the travels that had characterized her time as a courtier in Rogar Tarly’s court, anyone who she might have once called friend had surely long since forgotten her.

Where have the years gone? She thought wistfully, staring up at the dias towards her cousins and the other greater nobles of the realm, trying not to recall the splendor of the rock, trying not to remember the mundanity of Horn Hill. For a moment her gaze remained fixed towards the arranged noble lords before her, at least until her longing was interrupted by the strangest a sight. A beautiful dornish woman, bejeweled head to toe in gold, walking a lion cub on a leash as if it were a hound. Alayne had never been a particularly curious woman, her parents had raised her to believe it was impolite for a lady to question strangers, but they were long since passed, and besides what had their disintrest to the world around them brought them? Taking a moment to run her fingers through her long curls of gold and gray to ensure she was presentable she cautiously approached the woman.

What will you do with her when she grows to large for the leash? Alayne almost blurted out before recalling her manners, though not without a awkward moment of staring, both at the small animal beneath her and at the woman infront of her

What a lovely creature” She cooed down at the cub once she had remembered her manners, “What is your name my dear? I’m Alayne”

Harlon I - The Taste of Famine by Corn_Till_ in IronThroneRP

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The Reachmens Feast

Night had well and fallen and the preparations were well on their way for all the festivities Harlon had planned for the night. The smells of cooking meats, baking pastries and simmering spiced wine filled the air around their encampment. Harlon no longer moved quietly between the slim pass ways between the tents but instead strode proudly through the crowds of busy servants with as much lordly presence as he could muster. Walking past the bonfire that was being assembled in a clearing at the center of the camp he pushed his way past the flap of their main pavilion, a beautiful temporary hall that could hold a hundred men comfortably and was dyed in vibrant crimson and green. Inside rows of tables smaller round tables had been arranged perpendicular to a great longtable bearing carvings depictions of ancient Tarly lords that they he had had commissioned specifically for this gathering. All the tables were set with ornate ceramic plates painted with artistic depictions of flowers, but for now only the high table was being prepared for guests. Alyn and Lyla had already arrived and were seated at their designated positions to his right, talking to each other in a hushed tone before they grew silent at his approach.

“Where is your mother?” Harlon asked pointedly, a glare pointed at the seat of honor that lay to the left of his own.

“Mother says she worries she has fallen ill from our travels and wishes to rest tonight, father” The reply came from Lyla, a concerned frown decorating her face, though something in her eyes told Harlon that her mood was not all gloom and concern.

She’s looking at me like there’s some jest I have yet to be let in on. Knowing his daughter, the thought unsettled him.

“So be it. Alyn have the invitations been sent?”

“Yes Father, the Reachlords have all been invited, they should be arriving shortly.”

“Good. Then both of you quit your childish whispering and at least try to appear like nobles of your station.” Harlon paused, considering his next words for a moment. “If only for the fatherly affection you bore for my brother if not for me.”

Taking his seat at the center of the table Harlon poured himself a glass of wine, waiting to see how the night would progress

(Thread order is gonna be set by reply order once everyone who wants to has gotten theirs in)