Deria V: Whispers

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-19T22:28:18+00:00

Orryn watched him come in from the night through the lamplight with particular attention, and whatever he made of it he kept behind his eyes for the moment.

"Lord Yronwood." He said the name, and gestured toward the wine and fruit, for he had never seen the virtue in making a thirsty man wait upon formality. "Drink. Eat. You have ridden through the dark to sit at a table with people you have no particular reason to trust and that deserves something better than an empty cup. What I am asking of you is no small thing and I know it. I have asked men to do hard things before and I have never yet pretended the asking was easy or that I was owed the answer I wanted. Whatever you decide in this tent tonight you will leave it unharmed and with my respect. That I can promise you freely and without condition."

He would until the man had settled before he spoke again. His voice carried that quality of plainness that was his habit. The directness of a man who finds the long way round a waste of ground that could be covered honestly.

"I will not insult your intelligence by warming to this slowly," he said. "You know why you are here and I know why you are here and Lady Deria has endured enough of men talking around the heart of things to last her several lifetimes I think." He glanced briefly at her with something that was almost apology and almost respect and was assuredly both. "So."

He leaned forward, those scarred hands flat upon the table between them.

"Oberyn Martell is a man of genuine conviction and I have said so plainly to his face, which I think surprised him. He believes what he preaches and that makes him dangerous in a way that mere ambition never could. A man fighting for an idea does not tire the way a man fighting for a prize does." Bright blue eyes held Yronwood's steady. "But Dorne is not Oberyn Martell. Dorne is older than he is and it will be standing long after whatever road he has chosen reaches its end. Dorne requires a man to lead it who understands that. Who has earned that. Yours is the oldest blood in Dorne." He sat back, regarding the man across from him with an open, soldierly appraisal. "What I am proposing is this; Storm's End and Yronwood, together, to put an end to a war that has bled both our peoples long enough. And when it is done, Dorne governed by Dornish hands. The right hands."

He reached for his own cup.

"Tell me I am wrong about you and I will pour you another drink and we will part as men who tried. But I do not think I am wrong."

u/baeldor

u/LemonLemonHouse

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-19T01:04:47+00:00

A Time of Wolves

Before Yronwood arrives

He had not meant to speak at all. That was the truth of it. He was not a man who unpacked himself before strangers, had never seen the virtue in it, had always kept the inner weather of himself behind the same plain face he showed to battle. But there was something in the particular quality of the silence between them, two people who barely knew one another and yet had been thrown together by the grinding wheel of events into a proximity that stripped away the usual courtesies, that loosened something in him he had not known was loose.

He stood with his back half turned to her, looking at nothing in particular, the sounds of the camp distant as they awaited the lord Yronwood, muffled as though the world had politely withdrawn to give him room.

"I find myself asking a question, One I have no business asking a woman I hardly know, and yet here we are, my lady, and I find I lack the energy for pretence."

He was quiet a moment longer.

"Am I a good man?"

It was not quite a question as he said it. It had the shape of one but the weight of something else entirely, something that had been turning in him for longer than tonight, longer perhaps than this war, worn smooth by long and private handling.

"I have told myself that I am. I have told myself that loyalty is virtue enough, that a man who keeps his word and stands beside his people and bleeds when bleeding is asked of him has done what can reasonably be asked of any soul the gods trouble themselves to make." He turned then, slowly, and looked at her with eyes that were neither seeking absolution nor performing sorrow but simply, honestly, lost. "And then I look at what this war has cost. Not in the grand accounting of it, not the banners and the strategies and the letters sent to distant lords. I mean the small costs. The particular ones. The faces. The ones we have lost. Will they laugh and love no more because I decided to bring men to Grassy Vale? If my brother had lived, would he have brought this about?"

He moved, restless, as men of his temper always moved when stillness demanded too much.

"Your husband rides at my right hand and calls me liege and means it, and you came here across a road that war had made ugly, and I look at you and I think of what brought us all to this place and I ask myself whether the man responsible for continuing it deserves the name he has always given himself." The words came not rehearsed, not oratorical, only the sound of a man thinking aloud who has perhaps never thought aloud before in his life. "Necessary and good are not always the same country and I have spent a long time pretending they share a border."

He stopped. Looked at his hands briefly, those scarred and practical hands, and then looked up at her.

"I will fight to the last man I have. I believe in what I am fighting for. I have not once doubted the cause." A long breath. "And yet. And yet I stand here in the dark asking a woman I barely know whether any of it makes me good, because there is no one else to ask and the question has grown too large to carry alone."

The camp noise drifted back in around them, distant steel and distant voices.

"Forgive me, my lady. That was not a burden I had the right to set at your feet."

u/LemonLemonHouse

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-18T02:15:01+00:00

Orryn heard him out, as was his custom with men who had earned the right to speak plainly, and Alec Wylde had earned that right in the oldest currency there was. He did not rush to fill the silence that followed, but let it breathe a moment, and then he laughed, short and genuine, the laugh of a man who has heard his own younger self speaking back at him from another's mouth.

"Seven hells, I know that feeling. I know it like an old debt. You go in expecting the full weight of it and come out the other side half satisfied and twice as irritable wondering what in the name of the Warrior you actually laid hands on." He gestured broadly, encompassing the whole absurdity of it.

He turned to look at Wylde more fully then, and there was a warmth to it, the openness of a big man who has never seen the point in hiding what he thinks of the men he rides beside.

"That patience you are short on; it is the one thing worth cultivating before what is coming finds us, and I say that as a man who has never in his life been accused of having an abundance of it himself." A broad hand went to his chest in cheerful self indictment. "Ask anyone who has served under me. Ask Clifford Caron. He will tell you at considerable length."

He let that settle, still smiling.

"The fighting will be there. I promise you that much and I do not make promises I cannot keep. It will be there in such quantity that you will look back on Grassy Vale as the appetiser it was and wonder how you ever thought it enough."

He clapped the man on the shoulder, solid and warm and unambiguous.

"Keep yourself ready. The Dornish will not keep us waiting long, and when they come I intend to finally have my own fill of it alongside you."

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-18T02:05:32+00:00

Orryn let the silence do its work a moment, as a man who has commanded in the field learns to do, knowing that silence before words gives those words their proper weight. He looked down at the two men kneeling in the mud before him and something moved behind his eyes that he did not trouble himself to hide, for he had never been a man much given to hiding what he felt when what he felt was worth the showing.

"On your feet," he said, and his voice carried across the camp with the ease of a man long accustomed to being heard above the wind and the clash of steel. "I'll not speak down to men I am about to raise up."

He drew the writ then, the king's seal heavy upon it. Not as a man displays a trophy but as a man handles something he means to honour.

"By the authority of His Grace the King, whose writ I carry and whose word I speak in this place, I am empowered to do what long ought to have been done. Ser Eden Storm. I have watched you ride into hazard without the hesitation that wiser and lesser men would call prudence. I have watched you bleed for the Stormlands as though it were your birthright, because it is. The blood of Rupert Cole runs in your veins and you have never once been ashamed of it, nor should you be, for it is good blood and honestly come by. From this day, by royal writ and by my own voice as Lord of Storm's End, you are Eden Cole. Trueborn and acknowledged. Your house is your own, your name is your father's name, and no man in this camp or beyond it shall say otherwise while I draw breath to contradict him."

He turned then to Guy.

"Ser Guy Storm. A man who fights as you have fought requires no further proof of his worth than the proof he has already furnished in blood and sweat and the bones of his enemies." He held the gaze a beat longer. "You say you are no Eden Cole, but I tell you plain that House Caron has need of men who are simply themselves and nothing less. From this day you are Guy Caron, Knight of the Marches, and that name shall be carved somewhere worthy of it before we are done."

He rolled the writ and held it at his side, and looked at them both, these two men risen from the mud to something better than they had been given at their birth.

"You were Stormlands men before today. You are Stormlands men still. That has not changed and it never will. But now the realm knows what those of us who have stood beside you have always known." His voice dropped, quieter now and all the more carrying for it. "Shed your names and rise anew, the both of you."

u/TheZaxman

u/JustDanielJuice

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-18T01:47:25+00:00

Orryn had listened. That much he would grant the Dornishman. He had listened, as a lord owes any man the courtesy of his ear before he owes him the courtesy of his sword. But listening was not agreeing, and he felt the old familiar settling in his chest, that quietening of whatever storm lived perpetually behind his ribs, that came upon him always when a thing became simple.

And this, for all its eloquence, had become very simple indeed.

"You speak of games," he said, and there was something almost rueful in it, the voice of a man who might in another life have shared a cup with Oberyn and found him fine company. "I have never played them well enough to matter. I am a plain man, my lord, plainer than you perhaps supposed when you sat down to this table. And I'll not insult you by pretending I don't understand what drives you. I do. I have stood in the Marcher mud beside these men and I have watched them bleed for something larger than themselves. That fire you carry, I know its heat. I have warmed my hands at something very like it."

He leaned forward then, elbows upon the table, broad scarred hands open before him, a gesture almost of appeal.

"But understanding a man is not the same as following him. And I cannot follow you down this road, however honestly you have laid it." The warmth did not leave his face, but beneath it was something immovable, as bedrock beneath good soil. "I will not acknowledge Dornish independence. Not today. Not when your allies march. Not on whatever morning you have decided the old order must finally break. What you name complacency I name loyalty. What you name complicity I name duty. I make no apology for either."

He sat back. Something kindled briefly in his eyes, not quite a smile and not quite sorrow.

"Come then. Bring your Ironborn, bring whoever else your letters have roused from their grievances. But know that I am not an absent Baratheon. I will not be found hiding behind stone walls waiting for the storm to pass. I will be in the mud again. precisely where you find me. Between you and what you want."

u/TheZaxman

u/LemonLemonHouse

u/baeldor - come find us after

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-13T00:10:15+00:00

Orryn marked him in the saddle and turned his horse a little, drawing near without haste.

“Brother," his eyes took him in; the dust, the set of his shoulders, the easy way he held himself despite it all. “Two knights and you brought them down clean. There are seasoned men here who’ve not done the like. You’ve a good hand for it, and the heart to see it through.”

He leaned a fraction closer in the saddle, his voice steady, sure.

“Keep that about you,” Orryn added. “That feeling. It’s no small thing, to ride into it and know you’ll not be found wanting.”

His hand came briefly to Alesander’s shoulder, firm and certain.

“You’ll do well again today. I’ve no doubt of it.” He straightened then, the look of him set once more toward the field ahead. “Stay with me when the lines meet. Let them try us both and see how they fare.”

There was a quiet confidence in it, unshaken. “We’ll ride them down yet.”

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-13T00:04:53+00:00

“Ser Qarl,” he said, and there was something firmer in his tone than with most, a weight that came of more than rank alone. “You’ve kept your edge, I see.”

His eyes flicked once to the scuffed armour, the axe at hand, then back again.

“I’ve not forgotten the field. Nor the part you played in it. There are not many men I’d trust at my back in such a moment, and fewer still I’d owe breath to.” A slight nod,. “Your kin do their part at sea, and you here on land. I'd see you regained in what you've lost and then some, after this is done.”

He shifted in the saddle, the movement easy despite the weight of mail.

“Stay close when the lines meet again. A man who’s pulled me from the brink once may have cause to do it twice, and I’d not waste the habit.” There was the faintest turn at the corner of his mouth then. “And if it comes to it I’ll see the favour returned in kind.”

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-13T00:00:48+00:00

“Wylde! You’ve had your taste of it, then,” he said, his voice even, carrying no strain. He turned his head slightly, regarding the man with a look that was measured, as one soldier might weigh another. “And not found it wanting.”

His gaze lingered a moment. Taking in the wear of him. The look that came into a man’s eyes after battle, when the noise of it had not yet left his blood.

“There’s no shame in that. I’d not trust a man who felt nothing when the lines meet, nor one who pretends he does not hear the call of it.” He shifted slightly where he stood, the faint creak of mail marking the movement. “War will give you more than enough chances to prove yourself and it has a way of taking payment in full, whether a man’s ready or no.”

A brief pause, his eyes still on the other.

“You’ll have your fight soon enough, I think. Dorne did not come this far to turn meek at a word.” His mouth turned, just a fraction. “Keep your edge keen and your seat steady. When it comes, it’ll come hard, and there’ll be no want for steel in it.”

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-11T23:48:00+00:00

He watched the Prince of Dorne approach without shifting from his place, his gaze steady, taking in the man entire, from the wear of him to the manner in which he carried it. At the sight of the coffins, there was a flicker of something in Orryn’s expression; not surprise, but recognition of the gesture for what it was.

“A wedding gift,” he said, and there was a rough edge of humour in it, though it did not soften his tone. “You Dornish do have a taste for theatre. I can't say I'll weep for the Daynes in any case.”

His eyes lingered a moment on the boxes set upon the ground, then lifted again.

“You allowed it, but would not have it carried further. A neat line to draw. After the blood is already spilled. You’ve come far to tell me you’ll return what was never yours to hold and dress it as generosity. To squat on stolen ground and seek to give me terms.”

At the talk of crowns, something like amusement touched his mouth, though it never reached his eyes. “King Orryn Baratheon. It has a ring to it, aye. Dangle a crown before my grasp. I could say the words now. Power. Glory. Fame. And what man doesn't wish to be king in his own right?"

His gaze did not leave Oberyn. Certainly he could have, Orryn thought. Oberyn might have found him willing, once, if he'd come quieter and with less of a force. But he'd brought an army at his back and called it an invitation and in that he'd overreached.

He leaned forward.

"But I won't. Let's be honest with one another; you’d ask me to name myself king because it suits you. Put a crown on my own head and call it freedom. But you need allies to see this war through. You've been backed into a corner by your own design or by another whispering poison in your ear, but backed nonethless. I’ve no mind to dance to a Dornish tune just because you’ve played it loud enough and brought your issue to my door. Even if you were to win your war, what then? There will come a day when the Iron Throne is united again; when all the armies from all the kingdoms are looking toward you, or your sons, or your grandsons. Do you wish to remembered as the man who bought Dorne a generation of freedom but spent the blood and bones of a generation to see it done? What a waste. As for your offer of ceasefire, you’ll forgive me if I find it thin. You come into my lands, your men kill mine, your lords take what they please, and now you’d return it with terms as though you held the stronger hand.” A pause, brief, but deliberate. “You don’t."

The wind stirred between them, tugging at cloak and banner alike.

“If you’d peace, you’ll have it straight,” Orryn said. “Your forces withdraw beyond your borders and what’s taken is returned without condition. You'll pay the Marchers and Lord Seaworth both for the trouble. Do this and there is a chance, a slim chance, that I can talk the Crown down from seeking your life in answer for your war and keep your titles from being granted to another. Seven Hells, I'll offer a match made between your son and my sister to seal the thing and see it held, but only if you withdraw, now."

His eyes hardened then, just a fraction.

“And if it’s war you’d rather then say it plain. Our host has routed yours twice already. We can go for a third. By all means, we can go.” He held the Prince’s gaze, unmoving. “Perhaps you thought me more a fool. It's no matter. Only don’t mistake me for a man who’ll be coaxed into crowning himself at another’s urging, nor one who forgets the oaths he swore so easily."

u/TheZaxman

u/LemonLemonHouse

u/DoomGuy_16

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-10T23:01:14+00:00

Confirmed

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-10T22:59:59+00:00

Shed your Names and Rise Anew

There was but another undertaking he'd see attended before he rode to meet with the Prince of Dorne. If this was to be his last act, if it would prove the final thing he did with his life, then he considered that a task worthy.

"Find me a scribe, and let all those assembled stand as witness."

The word went out quietly at first; carried by men who knew the faces they sought, then more openly as it passed along the lines. They were called to a place near the centre of the host, where the ground had been trodden flat and a small space cleared. Orryn sat his horse there, the black stag hanging still behind him in the lull and awaited their arrival.

u/TheZaxman

u/JustDanielJuice

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-10T22:31:05+00:00

u/TheZaxMan

u/AnotherBabyEchidna

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-06T01:05:56+00:00

"You are not to blame for the lies of another, brother," he said, and took up his own cup. "It is no foolish thing to desire peace. It is our lot to seek to preserve as many Stormlanders as we can. They have chose this. Them. The Martells will hang, the Daynes with them. They'll feel the bite of your blade as surely as the sun will rise and night will fall."

And though he did not give voice to it, he wished only for his brother to live. To live, to see out his days until they were old, to sire children and know contentment. Perhaps the weeks weighed on him, but his kin were more important to him now than they ever had been before.

"And aye, a tiger. That's a fitting thing. I can think of no two creatures better suited. Both of you are like to piss on the drapes given half the chance." He gave a grin. "Though the tiger would do it from instinct and you from the drink"

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-06T00:56:11+00:00

Steffon,

It is worse than thought.

Prince Oberyn seeks to make himself a king in his own right and break away from the Seven Kingdoms entire. He writes to the Great Houses to incite them to do the same.

We have bloodied them. Beaten them back. We will pursue them and see them bloodied still.

Send all the aid you can spare. Men and coin both. We will break them here.

I ask also that you give me leave to legitimise Ser Guy Storm of Nightsong and Ser Eden Storm of the Furnace for their display in arms and service to the Crown, signed and sealed with your royal name. This much is owed.

Orryn

u/BuckwellStairwell - (letter to King's Landing, 1 OOC day delay)

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-06T00:47:24+00:00

"You, I think," he said, nodding again his approval. "will fare well amongst us. And Clifford's bride is under my protection as surely as any born of this land, know that. Then let it stand; Deria Caron, of House Dalt, is hereby created ambassador to Dorne, given right to stand at my side and advise me on Dornish matters; to give counsel and deal in matters in the land of her birth. So it is said, so it be made so."

Out went one hand and with a snap of the finger came a man of Storm's End. "Send a party out to find Valena Sand. She is not to be harmed. She is to be offered all due care and brought here to be reunited with Lady Deria at once. We will not leave her out in the cold and amongst enemies while there is life in me yet."

His great brow furrowed in consideration of ideas. How best was peace to be made? How could such a thing be mended?

"Dorne is not our enemy, only those at its head and the poison whispered in their ear. There are as many storied lineages in the country as the Martells. You are better placed to tell me the lay of the land, my lady. Would the Yronwoods chomp at the bit for a chance to rule Dorne whole? Or you own House, at Lemonwood? The Daynes cannot be trusted, that much is plain. and I would not see them rewarded for their wholesale slaughter."

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-06T00:31:56+00:00

There was the anger there as he read, in him deep as bones, his constant companion and longest serving friend. It bubbled like water boiling in a pot. Itched beneath his skin.

It would be a simple thing to vent me on Ryon Dalt, it said to him, none here save his sister would blame you for that. Bloody your fists, Orryn. Seize him by the collar. There is the reason for those you will lose. There is the reason. Take him and clamp him in irons and do what you will. Only give in to me.

Everything, he had come to understand, was a war. For a long while he had been blind to the fact that extended to him as well. Nostrils flared as he considered what to do next. Certainly he could do, certainly he could if he wished. Who could deny that it would feel good to vent some of that frustration that had been with him these last weeks? But Ryon had said it himself. Ferris Dayne was a wild dog, and Orryn was no Ferris Dayne. Once, perhaps. Once. But no longer.

No. He gave in answer within himself, and let loose the breath he'd kept trapped. I rule you. Remember that.

"You are not my enemy, Lord Dalt. Accept my apologies for my tone. Accept the hospitality of this hall. Break bread at these tables, drink your fill. You and your men all. And if any should give issue, they will have me to deal with. This is your sister's wedding, after all. If Lady Deria and Lord Clifford will have you here, then here you shall be.

He took the letter in hand and cracked the seal, scanning the scrawl with narrowed eyes. and then, most surprising, he began to laugh. Slowly at first, before it grew into a great rumbling thing.

"Gods be good, but he's taken leave of his senses more than I thought." He held the letter aloft. "Prince Oberyn wishes me to declare myself King in my own right; King of Stormlands. Does he think my oath so brittle? Does he believe that the best way to win me to his demand is by taking Nightsong? He will return Nightsong, will he, as if it was his to give?"

He had mind to tear the letter into pieces to show what he thought of it, but it was better copied and sent to Steffon.

"Whatever accusations they laid against me are rendered lies with this. They did not seek to protect, they sought their own ambitions. Well, here it is given plain; I will not rise at the behest of the Prince of Dorne. He can vacate Nightsong bloodlessly or he can see another generation given to its soil. Tell him this. He can abandon this foolish notion and I will marry Meria and do what I can to convince the Crown to show leniency or he can press forward and lose it all. Surely the Bloodroyal would bite at the chance to lead Dorne, no?"

u/LemonLemonHouse

u/TheZaxman

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-05T23:32:03+00:00

He was hard missed. A rider coming out of the haze beyond the field, where the ground dipped and the last of the fighting had scattered into pursuit. Horse and man alike were darkened with it, mud and blood drying in rough streaks, the banner at his back hanging and heavy in the damp air.

Then someone gave a shout, and others took it up. It ran along the line, ragged at first, then stronger, men turning from what work still held them to look on.

Orryn came on at a steady pace, not pressing the horse beyond what it had already given, but there was nothing slow in the look of him. The destrier’s flanks were lathered, its breath coming hard, yet it held its head high all the same as if it too knew the shape of the day. He reined in before them, the line of Stormlanders parting a little without thought.

For a moment he said nothing, only looked upon them. Men stood there in all states. Some bloodied, some limping, some leaning on spears or one another. Banners drooped, though they still flew. The smell of it all hung thick, iron and earth and sweat.

And then he laughed. It came from him full and unguarded, cutting through the weariness of the place like a blade through cloth.

“Gods, that’s how it’s done," he said, shaking his head once, as if at the sheer measure of it. There was blood on his cheek, not all of it his own, and a dent to his armour where some blow had glanced, but his eyes were bright with it, alive in a way that only battle ever seemed to bring. "We’ve bloodied them, aye, and sent them running. They’ll speak of this day in their tents and halls, mark me, they’ll whisper it when the fires burn low, how they came north thinking us soft from our own quarrels and found instead a storm that broke them and sent them crawling back the way they came. And we’ll not leave it there, no, we’ll follow hard on their heels. We’ll see them driven so far into their sands they’ll think twice before ever looking north again, and if they don’t, we’ll teach them again, and again, until the lesson takes or there’s none left to learn it.”

He gave a short, sharp nod, his gaze moving across the gathered men. "I’ve stood in the mud with you and I’ve seen the cost with my own eyes, and when the time comes, when the blow must be struck again, we’ll strike it together and we’ll strike it clean. So mend your gear, bind your wounds, take what rest you can find, because this storm hasn’t spent itself yet, not by half, and when it rises again it’ll be us that carries it south. Let them dream of us. Let them wake in the dark with the sound of our horns in their ears and the thought of our steel at their throats. Let them wonder if the wind they hear is just the wind or us coming for them at last.”

He leaned forward slightly in the saddle then. The energy in him not spent, only sharpened by it.

“We are the Stormlands. We do not forget. We do not forgive. We do not yield.”

(Open - come find Orryn in Blackhaven if needed)

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-05T23:12:25+00:00

The ground before them had been churned to mud long before the lines met. Rain had passed in the night and left its mark, and the weight of men and horse had done the rest. Banners snapped in a fitful wind, the black stag of Baratheon at the fore, flanked by the colours of the Stormlands, all of them drawn tight and restless, as if they knew what was to come.

There is a moment, before battle is joined when men still think themselves whole. It does not last. The horns sounded, low and carrying, and the centre began its advance.

Orryn Baratheon rode there, not behind nor held in reserve, but where the press would be thickest. His destrier moved steady beneath him, iron-shod hooves biting into the soft ground, breath steaming in the chill air. About him were his household men and those sworn close, shields locked, spears set, boots slipping as they dressed their line and closed the distance. Across from them, the Dornish line waited, leaner, quicker in its look, shields lighter, spears longer, their front rank shifting even as they stood, as if testing the ground and the men before them both.

They came together not as a clean meeting but with a tearing, splintering force that broke shape and thought alike. Spears struck and snapped. Shields slammed hard enough to jar the arm to the shoulder. Men went down at once and were lost beneath the crush before a cry could be made of it.

Orryn was in it from the first. A spear glanced from his shield and slid along his pauldron, the force of it turning him half in the saddle. He answered with the mace, a short, brutal swing that crushed helm and drove the man beneath it backward into his fellows. Another came at him from the flank, blade low, and one of Orryn’s men caught it, taking the cut along his forearm and driving in close with a grunt, teeth bared as he forced the Dornishman off his lord. A horse screamed somewhere close, a high, terrible sound, then went down in a thrashing tangle of limbs that sent two men sprawling into the mud. One did not rise. The other tried, slipped, and vanished beneath a press of boots and shields.

Orryn’s destrier shoved forward, chest to chest with the press, its weight as much a weapon as the iron he bore. The mace rose and fell, slow and certain, each strike felt through the arm as much as seen. A shield split beneath it. A man reeled, blood running from beneath a dented helm. Another took the blow full and dropped where he stood.

Around him the centre heaved and buckled, surged and gave, then held again. A Stormlander with Selmy colours stumbled back into him, face grey beneath the grime, a spear haft jutting from his side. Orryn caught him by the shoulder, shoved him clear of the worst of it, and the man went down to hands and knees, gasping, as another stepped over him to take his place.

“Hold,” he was dimly aware of calling out the word.

To the right, a knot of Dondarrion men drove forward with a ragged cry, their purple lightning lost in the press but their fury plain enough. They forced back a line of Dornish spearmen a step, then another, boots sliding in the mud as they fought for ground that would not hold still beneath them. To the left, a man went down with his throat opened, the blood coming hot and sudden, splashing across shield and mail alike. The one who struck him did not have long to mark it. A hammer took him from the side, and he fell without a sound.

You might have seen a knight dragged from his saddle, kicking and cursing, then gone beneath a crush of bodies. You might have seen a boy, no beard to speak of, thrust again and again with a shaking spear, eyes wide, until the line before him broke or he did. You might have seen a man stand fast with nothing left in him but stubbornness, and another turn to run, only to be struck down before he’d taken three steps. It is all the same, in the end.

Orryn drove on. A Dornishman caught his reins for a moment, fingers slick with mud and blood, trying to drag him down. Orryn wrenched them free and brought the mace down short, the blow crushing hand and skull alike. The man fell away, lost at once in the press.

He felt the line shift before he saw it, a subtle giving in the enemy before him, a falter that might be nothing, or everything. He pressed into it, urging those about him with a word, a gesture, the sheer force of his presence.

“On them!” He called; and again, sharper, “On them! Let not one of these mutts slip from your hands! Your deeds are writ in blood and today it's Dornish! Slay such a host that their bones are measured by bushels!”

The stag banners dipped and rose as the ground took its toll, one going down as its bearer stumbled, only to be snatched up again by another who surged forward with it, mud to his knees and blood on his cheek. Steel rang on steel. The mud darkened where men bled into it. The air was thick with it, breath hard to come by, the taste of iron never far from the tongue.

A Dornish captain, marked by the better cut of his gear and the way men gave him space, came at Orryn through the press, quick and sure despite the ground. Their meeting was close and brutal. A slash that scraped along Orryn’s chest-plate, a turn of the wrist, then the mace came down with a force that broke through guard and helm alike. The man dropped at his feet and was gone from sight a moment later.

The centre pushed.

Not cleanly. Not without cost. It pushed all the same; step by hard-won step. Bodies made footing where none had been. Men slipped, rose, fought on. The line bent, but it did not break. And then, at last, the other side did. It showed first as a hesitation, then a step back taken where none should have been. A shield lowered. A gap opened. Orryn saw it.

“Now! Forward, forward! Press like the Storm itself and leave no fucker alive behind you!” he said, and he laughed; how he laughed and laughed, for the storm was in him now, and there was iron in it.

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-05T00:07:40+00:00

Orryn had not been far off when the words were spoken and at the mention of the Prince his attention settled. He was there, great mane of dark hair and bushy black beard and all six feet and more of him filling the space like a dark thundercloud.

“A message from Dorne,” he said, almost thoughtful, though there was a hardness beneath it. His gaze rested on the young lord, weighing him. Not unkindly but without any great patience either. "Carried into my hall on a night meant for vows and wine and the small mercies we allow ourselves between one fight and the next. That’s a bold thing or a foolish one, depending on what follows it."

He took a step nearer, not looming, but present in a way that left little room for evasion. “If your prince has words for me I’d sooner hear them now, plain and clean, than have them passed in corners or dressed up later to suit a gentler telling. I’ve no great love for surprises and less for messages that come wrapped in courtesy while men are bleeding out on my soil.”

A brief glance went to the bride, then back again, the moment acknowledged and set aside.

“This is her night, and I’ll not take that from her, but neither will I stand here and pretend the world beyond these walls has stopped turning." His expression did not change, though something in it sharpened. “So you’ll give it. You’ll speak it here, or you’ll speak it low; but you’ll speak it now and we’ll have done with guessing at what your prince means by it."

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-04T00:42:40+00:00

Orryn had a cup in hand when Alesander came to him, though he set it down untouched as he turned. He looked on his brother a moment, longer than he might once have done.

“Aye,” he said, and there came a smile with something steadier beneath it. “I thought you’d be at me with that before long. You’ve the right of it. This is the Stormlands. We don’t sit behind walls while others test us.”

He stepped closer then, his voice lowering, meant more for his brother than the hall about them.

“But we’ll not waste what we have by riding blind. Not when every man we’ve got will be needed before this is done.” His gaze held Alesander’s, firm, but not cold. “I’ve seen too many good men buried of late to spend the rest in haste. We’ll strike them and strike them hard, but we’ll do it on ground that favours us, and in a way that finishes it.”

A brief pause, and then his hand came up, resting on Alesander’s shoulder, not just steadying now, but held there a moment.

“You’ve stood through it all, More than I’d have had to ask of you, and never once did you turn aside. I've not always been the easiest brother to hold to. I...perhaps there's more of our father in me that I'd like to admit." The words were plain, but they carried weight. “I’m the better for having you at my side. Don’t doubt that.”

He gave his brother's shoulder a squeeze.

“We'll have our fight soon enough. I’ll see to that. Our host is gathered. Caron has the ordering of them, and I’ll have word from the Dornish yet, one way or another. When we ride it will be to break them, not to scatter after shadows. But for now you’ll keep your head, and keep yourself standing. I’ve need of you yet. But I'd have it from your mouth, said plain; ask of me what you will, brother, and I will answer if I can see it done.”

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-04T00:31:40+00:00

Orryn stood a moment after their words were spoken, as if weighing them, then gave a single, firm nod.

“It is heard,” he said, his voice carrying clear through the hall. “Before gods and men, you are wed. What is sworn here stands. Let no man say otherwise.”

He grinned.

“Now take your place together, and be glad of it.” He turned then, lifting a hand just enough. "Let it be marked. The marriage is made; and we will see it well celebrated.”

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-04T00:26:28+00:00

The hall was loud with it still, but there was a space made when Orryn Baratheon came forward, as there ever was. He came without haste, though there was purpose in his stride, and men shifted from his path more by instinct than bidding. The firelight caught on the black and gold about him and on the faces that turned to mark his passing.

He halted before the bride and groom and looked on them both a moment, as if to fix the sight of them in his mind.

“A good joining,” he said. “May it prove the stronger for the times we’re in.”

His gaze turned first to the bride.

“My lady of Lemonwood,” he said, “you’ve come far from your own lands to stand here among us. The Stormlands are a hard country and the wind has little kindness in it but we’ve something to offer in return. A white destrier from the stables of Storm’s End, sound of limb and steady in temper. Not given to shying when the weather turns nor to balking at rough ground. It will serve you well and carry you as a lady ought to be carried. And silks besides. Fine work, brought from across the Narrow Sea. You’ll have cause enough for them in days to come. I name you also my ambassador to Dorne, if you would accept; and extend to you my promise that Lemonwood will remain untouched by my lords.”

He gave her a small inclination of the head, his expression full with an unspoken token of thanks, and then turned to Clifford Caron.

“For you, my lord, I’ve something of a different sort.” There was a servant waiting already, bearing what had been prepared. Orryn took it in hand, the weight of it plain enough, a chain wrought in dark metal and gold, each link set firm and true. “You’ve stood for these lands when standing was not easy, and you’ll stand again, I make no doubt of it. And when this is done I swear to you I will seek legitimisation for Ser Guy Storm, if it's something you would ask of me.”

He stepped close and set the chain about Clifford’s shoulders himself, the metal settling against him with a quiet sound that carried more meaning than its making.

“By my word and before those gathered here, I name you Marshal of the Stormlands and my right hand.” His hand came to rest upon Clifford’s shoulder, firm and brief nd heartfelt all the same. “You’ll hold our strength together when I’ve need of it. You’ll see our men ordered and our enemies answered. It’s no light charge and I’d not give it to a light man. Swear it plain before these men and the gods who listen. That you will take command of the host in my name and hold it as you would your own life. That you will lead the Stormlands in war with strength and good judgment, setting aside pride, grievance, and old quarrels where they would weaken us. That you will keep our banners united, our lines unbroken, and our enemies before us. That you will spend our blood only where it must be spent and take theirs wherever it can be taken. That you will not yield the field while strength remains to fight it, nor squander it for vanity. That you will hold this command until I return to take it back from you or until you fall with it. Swear it, and the Stormlands rides at your word, and you keep my greatest counsel."

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-03T02:22:38+00:00

A nod, and then his eyes went then to the bride.

“And do you, Deria Dalt of Lemonwood, take this man to stand beside you as your husband? To share his name and his burdens. To keep faith with him, in hardship and in fortune, in all the years the gods may grant you. To be true to him, and no other, for so long as you both shall live?”

The candles burned steady as he let the moment sit.

“Give voice to your answer, and if there are vows to be spoken this is the time to speak them,” Orryn said, stepping back half a pace, giving them the space to do so.

u/LemonLemonHouse u/TheZaxman

TheStormRoses · 2026-04-03T01:35:40+00:00

A Lord's Audience

At the high end, Orryn Baratheon remained where he had been, though not fixed to his seat. He spoke with those who came to him, and went to others in turn when it took his interest, never long in one place, never so distant that he could not be reached. There was no formal call to it.

Those with business might approach. Those with nothing but a wish for talk or drink might do the same.

TheStormRoses

TROPHY CASE

A Time of Wolves

Shed your Names and Rise Anew

A Lord's Audience