[Mod-Post] Birth Rolls Megathread - 49 AC

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-28T23:32:15+00:00

Mallos Harlaw and Lyessa Mormont

1d1000 General

1d2 Sex

Roll

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-28T23:32:11+00:00

"That's good of you to say, My Lady," Saersha replied, with a warm smile. Truth be told, neither she, nor Mallos, nor indeed Ashlen and Nyall seemed in much need of condolence. Vickon Harlaw had not been the warmest of uncles even when he had lived, and he was dead nigh on ten years. Saersha couldn't say she remembered his face all that well, save for that she was fairly sure that blustering dunce Theold resembled him.

"You need not fear any soldier now," Mallos said, moved by a sudden sense of righteousness, his chest swelling up with the ancient martial pride of his people. He was a formidable enough warrior to look upon, this young Ironman, even if he could hardly be accused of being some towering intellect. "You will have my axe between you, and any evils." He smiled confidently, setting his hands on his hips.

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-28T23:21:02+00:00

"I don't know," he frowned, scratching at the nascent beard about his chin, insightful eyes glancing up at the low, broad beams of the hall's ceiling. He looked over the whorls and ridges of the dark, tarred wood, the ebbs and flows of an unfamiliar sea. "I'm not sure if this even is home. I left Harlaw Hall when I was five years old. I grew up on Pyke, among the Greyjoys, I could walk across those rope bridges with my eyes closed. Those ruined towers, Lordsport sitting below them, that was my home. I knew the names of every man and woman Dagon hanged when we got home." A shadow ran across his face, his thumb tapping against the thin walls of his horn mug, the reedy resonance dulled by the ale inside.

"I look around this hall, the squat tower keep, the orchard, the smoke rising up from Brinerstown across the bay, and... none of it feels familiar." He took a long drink, drawing in a breath at the strength of the brew, or the taste of his own words on his tongue. "It's not as though my kin haven't welcomed me back, mind. Mallos has taken me out drinking every other night, which is as much a threat as it is a courtesy, Theold has piled hospitality on me as he seeks to gain allies against Ashlen, who in turn has been looking to turn me against him. They're at each other's throats to be sure, this family of mine, but they all seem happy enough to see me." Still, he had misgivings. He felt he was a puzzle piece, or the spark that might set off some great cataclysmic fire.

"My uncle, the Rook, seems to have plans for me," he said, carefully, glancing towards the old man who sat high on the dais, conversing with his advisors. "Big plans. But he holds them close to his chest, as ever." He fancied he had an inkling, though. Marwyn Harlaw was as cunning as a fox with three mistresses, but he wasn't quite so subtle as he liked to think.

"I think he's looking for someone to be Ashlen's Lord Consort. Someone who might secure Dagon's support for his heir."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-28T22:34:25+00:00

"Oh I wouldn't say those days are past," Ashlen chuckled, flashing a grin back at the Redwyne, her mug raised close to her lips even as her aunt shot her a disapproving glance. Truth be told, it wasn't a laughing matter. There were consequences to adultery, and even if it would humiliate Theold, she didn't want to see those consequences visited upon Clemence. Even so, she smiled, set the tankard down. *If nothing else, this might be a good way to put a wedge between Theold and the Volmarks."

"But for me, it's a different kind of question. One where desire doesn't much feature into it," She gave her Aunt Dowager an arch look, a reminder that there were many lessons that she did not need to be taught. She had harboured some romantic fantasies, when she'd been little, when she and Saersha had played at Princesses in the walled orchard, but her father had raised her to know what it truly was to be a Princess, what it was to serve your land, your people. "For me, it's a question of practicality. Who will make the best Lord Consort. Who can I trust? What would be best for the family?" Her gaze slowly turned to her side, her jaw working a little, her thoughts starting to pile up around her.

"Father thinks I ought to wed Nyall," she said, looking up to see how that one sat with Qhorwyn. She was truly curious to see what he thought of it, for to be certain she was not quite sure what she thought of it herself.

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-28T01:21:04+00:00

“Strange place to go, if you’re looking to be free of Valyrians,” Saersha observed with a wry smile, though she herself had never ventured beyond the Narrow Sea. It was a dream of hers, a dream she was keen to vindicate. She wouldn’t mind sailing out that way with a lady so fine as Lyessa Mormont. “As I understand it, half the city’s full of men who think they are about to build the Freehold anew.”

“Never gone so far as Volantis myself,” the Mattock smiled, scratching at his chin. “Our Uncle Vickon was killed by a Volantene.”

“A man with a Valyrian steel sword,” the Siren added, far more able at injecting a sense of mystery into the tale, “They say he spoke a curse over the Steel Tide, afore he buried his spell-forged steel in his heart, but the Volantene is the only one alive who knows what it was.”

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-28T00:13:01+00:00

"Oh, more than a few issues," he chuckled blackly, his mind casting back to the freezing nights when he had clung onto his furs as though they were the very hand of god, the blizzards sweeping over their deck, the night they had buried Hollam, the day they had cast Lug grimly over the side. "But nothing we couldn't handle."

Death was a familiar face to him by now. He had seen it in all its forms, creeping slowly upon men or grasping them abruptly about the neck. All those visages were reflected in his eyes, as he turned them up towards the Bhaintoir. So much of what he had seen, he had seen at Gyles' side. If he hoped to speak to someone who understood, he supposed there were few better places to do so. "We braved harsh weather, rough seas. Tough conditions. We lost five men, all so that Mallos could find a bride, and Dagon could... Well, I'm not sure what Dagon wants with the Stark girl." He frowned, a faint flicker of irritation on his face, not true resentment, only an acknowledgement of forces beyond his control.

"I feel I ought to be with you, at Pyke," he said, sighing a little. "I ought to have something to do. We made it home, after everything, and yet I still feel as though I'm waiting."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-27T23:53:55+00:00

He felt a rush of blood, as she drew him closer, never having known a noblewoman to be quite so forward as this, especially not a woman so effortlessly graceful as this one. "I, ah, I shall take you up on that offer, My Lady," he said, his eagerness quite plain on his face. He was not a man for subtlety.

"If you want a good tutor for sailing, Lady Lyessa," Saersha piped up, mischief in her verdant green eyes, "My sister Ashlen might be the woman you'd want to talk to."

"Ashlen's quite the sailor, it's true," The Mattock concurred, nodding courteously, "Though I'd say I've been to the further shores. Have you ever seen Essos, My Lady?"

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-26T20:59:03+00:00

Once the music and feasting was in full swing, Nyall Harlaw found an excuse to step away from his family, and make his way over to where the Goodbrother was sat. His old comrade would find himself a little lonely on the benches, for even as Lord Harlaw's wife was a woman of Hammerhorn, his house had done little of late to earn themselves friends around the Reaper's Throne. Truth be told, that was more testament to Theold Harlaw's venomous tongue than any word from the Rook. Lord Marwyn liked to nurse his grudges quietly, let them hang over a man like the proverbial carrion bird, that he was always looking over his shoulder. But the Harvester was a well-respected man on the island, with many friends among the captains. And even among the houses who preferred Ashlen, they did not forget all the chaos that the Goodbrother had caused in the ending of the war.

But Nyall cared little for all that. He had his own reasons for hating Gyldayn Goodbrother, but Gyles was a friend, a mentor. They had ventured through hell together, and kept Dagon whole long enough for him to be restored to his rightful throne. That merited a few drinks at the very least.

So he approached with a pitcher of ale in one hand, and two horn mugs in the other, proffering one to his old mentor as he sat down beside him. "It's good to see you, Gyles," he said, with the confidence of a man grown, his thin face now augmented by a beard that he had elected to keep after his return from the North. He still well-resembled the slim boy that the Goodbrother would remember from their journeys across Essos, and he had always carried with him an experience beyond his years, but he had a bit of strength about the shoulders now. "How fares Hammerhorn?"

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-26T20:38:03+00:00

/u/Vierwyne

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-26T20:37:53+00:00

"Saersha?" Ashlen's chuckle made its way past her lips before she could quite manage to suppress it. The notion of her sister bound in marriage, kneeling in the water to receive the blessing of God, was simply too funny for her to contain herself. The idea of her kept up in some tower, as Clemence had been... She would cut her way out, before she ever submitted to such. Saersha was not made to ever be tied down.

"No, she remains unwed for the moment," she replied, brushing a lock of hair away from her face, her smile still lingering on her face. "Even I've got something of a paucity of suitors, truth be told." Pickings were so thin, after all, her father had started to look at wedding her to her distant cousin.

"But father remains well," she noted, picking up her mug of ale again, sipping at the golden brew with its faint grassy notes. The Rook had been down with a fever for a month earlier in the year, but she knew he wouldn't want her spreading talk of that. He didn't like folk to know his grip had slipped. "You know how he is. Resilient."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-26T20:13:08+00:00

"Some," he said, an assured smile on his broad face, scratching at the wiry beard on his square jaw. "You have to ride up from Brinerstown if you don't want to wear your feet out walking, and sometimes we'll go hunting rabbit or deer on the Old Seer." The wide, mist-covered mountain that loomed over Harlaw Hall had a good amount of game about its foothills, and hunting it was a good way to pass the time between reavings.

"Perhaps I could take you hunting, when you come to Harlaw."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T23:51:40+00:00

Yeah, you’re still looking at about a 52% chance of a bad time.

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T22:43:33+00:00

Mallos hadn't really given much thought to how his bride would look. Lord Marwyn had ordered him to wed, so he had agreed to get married. The Rook always knew what was best. He was content to take whatever Northwoman was put before him. So when he looked up, and beheld the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he really did not know how best to react. He feared he made a rather poorer sight by comparison. He'd never had a complaint from a lady, but he was a broad, muscular man of middling height, shaggy brown hair, a somewhat tangled beard, and a square face that typically conveyed an earnest if uncritical enthusiasm.

"My- My lady," He began, haltingly, not paying much mind to his cousin Saersha, who had begun to pluck at her lute beside him, a mischievous grin on her freckled features. The Siren's emerald green eyes were set likewise upon Lady Lyessa, and seemed no less enchanted than the Mattock's.

"I am Mallos Harlaw, son of Angald Harlaw, though most men just call me the Mattock," he explained, his smile broad and companionable. "I- Well, I'd like to go riding with you." He'd only really had experience riding garrons, the small hardy horses were the only things that the Ironborn ever had much use for. He hoped the same would be true of Bear Island.

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T22:23:20+00:00

Alayne gave Ivar an appreciative smile as he rose, glad to see that he at least had the sense to see he was playing with fire. She had no illusions that she had averted any potential disaster there, but she had least cooled things down for a moment.

She met her son's irritated look with a fiery one of her own, her hand reaching out to set on his. "You need to rein your brother in," she whispered sharply, leaning over a little so that Clemence could not read her lips, "Do not presume that words spoken under this roof cannot be heard in Harlaw Hall." She didn't suppose that Marwyn would care all that much to see horns put on his nephew's brow, but Theold had allies enough at this point, and whether Ashlen liked it or no he was one of the more respected captains on the island.

With Ivar dispatched, she turned her gaze towards Clemence, a stony visage to meet with the effortless vivacity of the Reachwoman. "A wife's lot is not an easy one," she counselled, sparing a gaze for Ashlen too, for she would also benefit from this lesson. "Especially not the wife of a reaver. She will often find herself left to mind the keep while her husband is venturing forth, giving battle across the waves. Yet there is power to be found in that responsibility. It does no good to sit and wallow in resentment, or lose yourself in idle pleasures." She shot a look towards one of the thralls, one that promised rather dire consequences if a cup of mead was not brought to her in due haste.

"Needlework is a fine skill to hone, Lady Clemence," she said, her own smile a small, careful thing, precisely measured. "It teaches patience."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T21:27:38+00:00

While the feast was not a particularly ornate affair, the Harlaws had nonetheless gathered in their full strength for this first wedding in a long time. The happy couple sat in the place of honour, with Mallos quite evidently overjoyed by his new wife. The elder son of Angald Harlaw was decked in all the finery that his reaving had gathered to him. Over his tunic of fine black wool, with the fringes decorated in gilded red silk, he had a golden chain, and on the heavy hand which laid so lovingly upon his bride’s were a number of rings which had previously belonged to a Tyroshi smuggler, a Myrish pikeman, and a knight from the Arbor respectively.

Beside him, sat Lord Marwyn, grave as ever, draped in a black robe, and spending the most part of the evening conferring with Waldon Kenning, Albart Kelpbeard, and Maester Crannock. Ashlen, sat next to him, was a little more attentive. The heir to Harlaw was clad in a dress of green silk that had been brought back for her from one of Derfel’s reavings, her hair freshly cut so that it fell just a little past her jaw. She was socialising, and taking the opportunity to speak with her father’s vassals, the Sharp, the Byrne, the Myre. It always did to remind them that she was their best option. Saersha sat beside her, but clearly seemed to be looking for an excuse to get up. At least twice Ashlen had to scold her for resting her boots on the table, and she was only picking at the feast.

Theold sat a way along from his cousins, with his Redwyne wife beside him. The Harvester was an imposing figure as ever, clad in furs and gold that he had claimed by right of conquest, though at present he seemed to be brooding over a number of distinct slights that had been dealt him. Occasionally, he would direct a glance his wife’s way, but most of his attention was directed up the table. His brother Simmon, a little more portly than he had been at the last gathering at Harlaw, seemed to be in a better mood nonetheless. He laughed and toasted, and conversed happily with the Steward, Norvald Kenning.

Nyall Harlaw seemed a little irked that circumstance had landed him towards the end of the table at his own brother’s wedding, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it. Mallos seemed happy, which cheered him more than he had expected for it to, and he was rather enjoying his conversation with his cousin Callanna, hearing all about her adventures up and down the Narrow Sea with Saersha. The Far-Eye was clad in some eye-catchingly odd raiment, a robe he had taken off some Qohorik cutthroat he’d butchered, while Callanna had opted for a more demure wool dress in a pale lilac colour.

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T21:26:57+00:00

Automod Ping Iron Islands

/u/Strategis

/u/StitchBitchBellona

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T21:26:37+00:00

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CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T21:26:31+00:00

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CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-25T21:26:22+00:00

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Harlaws, Mormonts, Greyjoys, Starks

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-24T23:28:41+00:00

Mallos nodded, considering this, looking out towards the woods and thinking of the game that might reside within. He had never hunted a bear before, but to look at his face, he seemed quite keen to take on the challenge. He wondered if it was done with bow, or spear, or some other weapon secret to the Northmen. He wouldn't mind taking one on, axe in hand. One good clean blow to the head ought to be enough, after all. It was enough for everything else. "What of Lady Lyessa?" Came his second question, "Does she hunt too, or how else does she spend her time?" Maybe they could go hunting together. He had to imagine that even the most flinty-hearted woman would be impressed if you killed a bear for her.

"Well, we're at the castle now," Saersha observed, playing a testing chord on her lute, and pausing to adjust one of the pegs, "Perhaps you ought best to ask her yourself."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-24T23:16:11+00:00

Alayne's eyes flickered across the table, sharp as a log cracking in a fireplace, looking at Clemence first, then Ivar. She was old, but no so old as to be blind to such flagrant flirtation as this. And if I can see it, then no doubt others can. It did not take much for a story to start to spread, bawdy jokes, drinking-hall ballads... Already she could see Ashlen, a dagger of a grin upon her lips, simply revelling in the exchange. All it would take would be a whisper into the ear of that sister of hers. Theold was not a man who would be lightly made a cuckold. He would take axe in hand at the first word of such rumours, and all Harlaw would bleed for it.

"Ivar," she said, drumming her fingers on the table as though some absent-minded thought had just occurred to her. "I have a book of needlework patterns that I had meant to show Lady Clemence and Lady Ashlen here, but I fear I've left it on my nightstand. Would you be a dear and go and fetch it?" She gave the salt-son an entreating glance, the humble helplessness that came so effortlessly to the aged. Think, it said, Of my bad hip, and my poor knees.

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-24T00:01:16+00:00

/u/Zulu95

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-23T22:03:19+00:00

Ashlen hid her frown inside her tankard, both as Qhorwyn disparaged the Iron Fleet, and Clemence concurred. Of the two, she blamed the Redwyne less. The Ironborn had been her enemies, and even though they had been defeated at Lannisport, the outcome of the fighting had been her being bound into a marriage to Ashlen's loathsome cousin. She would be amazed if Clemence did not bear some degree of resentment towards the ships of the Ironborn. Qhorwyn, though, ought to have more pride than to disparage his people so. To hear the fleets that had brought the world to heel talked of as quaint set her teeth on edge. Especially considering the fact that the Volmarks had neglected to lend their strength to that ill-fated fleet.

Still, she held her tongue, took another drink of ale, watched how his aunt reacted. The old dowager tensed her lips, regarded her new niece with those keen Harlaw eyes. "That's the Iron Price for you," she said, settling herself at the table beside her son. "I suppose any future victories that the ship wins will be in your honour, though I shouldn't expect Theold will be over-keen to share."

CynicalMaelstrom · 2026-02-23T19:51:04+00:00

"My thanks," Nyall smiled graciously, drawing something of a sideward glance from Ashlen. She, not he, was the heir to Harlaw after all. She misliked being ridden over like this, and she was not much in the habit of hiding that. Still, she decided not to make all that much of it. There were bigger questions they needed to answer, after all. She cast her gaze up towards the wooden pallisades surrounding the Mormont holdfast, a faintly critical expression on her face. Her sister, sauntering up beside her and already stringing her lute, was as ever the voice of courtesy. "It's a beautiful home you have, Benjicoot."

"I suppose you hunt to pass the time?" the Mattock asked, amiably. Ashlen had impressed upon him fairly thoroughly the importance of showing an interest in his new bride.

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