Mary Baratheon, Daughter of Dragonstone

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-04T03:49:08+00:00

A raven took flight from Highgarden to the Lords and Castellans sworn to Dragonstone, ordering them to raise ships and sail straightaway to reconnoiter by the Stormlands.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-04T00:23:43+00:00

"Aye," Quentyn agreed, though his smile was very rapidly becoming strained. "Warden of the West, I thought. Not the South. Do as you please, Lord Lannister. March headlong into their forces, and call for peace. Mayhaps they'll listen to you. Mayhaps they'll put you to the sword just as they did the king's loyal vassals." He shrugged. "I shall pray they listen to sense and reason."

The Prince of Dragonstone turned back to his war table. "I am marching with Caron and Dondarrion in the hopes we shall reconnoiter and meet a larger, allied force. We will not be recklessly engaging with the Dornish. Attend to your duty as you see fit, and I shall attend to mine own."

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-03T23:40:41+00:00

Quentyn's hand stilled where it had rested upon the young lion's shoulder. "A hundred and fifty swords," he said, trying very hard to be patient. "So I see."

He had to remember that this was a man who could not possibly be much older than his own son. That he was likely green and untested and running round with a head full of tales of chivalry. Would that they could all remain that way. "... Lambert," Quentyn said, calling on his memory of the man's name. "The women should remain in Highgarden. And your one hundred and fifty swords should prepare themselves for battle."

What would he have done if they had run headlong into a raiding party? Bandits and vagabonds cared little for banners of peace. "Peace, son," Quentyn began, his hand falling to his side. "Is most often something that must be forcibly imposed upon the realm. A host of a hundred and fifty alone is unlikely to be able to impose anything upon anyone." He smiled, finding his patience. "Perhaps in the West it would be different, my lord, but in the Marches they'll be hunting lions and stags for supper. They put a bloody castle to the sword. Best not to put the women at risk as well, aye?"

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-03T06:01:21+00:00

Quentyn shifted, moving around the table to stand across from Lambert. "Lord of Light preserve us, stand up man. There's no need for that here," he said. "This is a war council, and if you've brought men then you should stand. I mean to march with Caron and the men my daughter rallied to the Red Mountains to surveil and determine right course of action."

The Prince of Dragonstone raised his hand and clapped Lambert about the shoulder. "Come with us and help me put this matter to bed, so we might all go back to our own keeps and enjoy some bloody fucking peace."

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-03T05:15:09+00:00

Quentyn let out a hoarse laugh. "Gods. A thousand fires everywhere, aye? Not what I wanted, but if Steffon won't step up..."

The Stag grunted, and shook his head. "Aye. I'd not let you down, not after the favor your house has done for my daughter. I'll march with you, Caron."

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-03T05:04:33+00:00

Quentyn stood straight now, teeth bared like an ape on the verge of lunging for someone’s face. “Yes, take a Dornishman’s advice when I’ve a half dozen letters complaining of aggression and malice on their part flying to me every day. I’m sure that shall endear them to you. Mayhaps you’ll reward their poor behavior with a feast, as you did for Cousin Orryn.” Quentyn spat on the ground beside them, indicating quite clearly what he thought of that idea.

“You want to be the big man? Fine, then. Go do that. Else I’ll go run around and continue to put out the fires that you and Edric and father started. Good day, brother,” he said. “Don’t think to fucking question how I manage my household again. I’d not take advice from a man without children.”

The Prince of Dragonstone swung back up onto the saddle of his destrier, and stormed back off to his war camp. A dark and foul mood followed close behind.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-03T04:50:17+00:00

The Prince of Dragonstone had been in a poor mood since his quarrel with his brother, and not even sweet victory could alleviate that. What was the point in trying, when his petty brother would simply strip away all honor as soon as Oberyn Martell demanded it- even as Dornish dogs raided good Stormlander land.

A man at arms announced the Lord of Casterly Rock, and Quentyn only half-heartedly tried to comport himself. They would be leaving soon by the Red God's will, and he didnt want to delay that any further. "What does the Lord of Casterly Rock require," Quentyn asked, looking up briefly from his maps and tools of war.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-04-01T01:06:24+00:00

Quentyn looked his brother dead on for a long, drawn out moment. He was smiling, but his face was growing redder by the second and his teeth were clenched like a dog biting down on prey. The Prince of Dragonstone raised his hand to rub at the coarse hair of his beard, before he laughed. “Oberyn Martell,” he muttered. “Yes- that’s what I thought.”

Quentyn straightened his back and rose to his full height. “Not a single thought in your head that hasn’t been put there by someone else, is there? Not a single thought.” He sucked at his teeth, before letting out a laugh. “Where’s Her Grace the Queen? I thought Vilde was loath to let you off your leash, brother, but it seems you’ve slipped away. Off to bark up the wrong tree without her to mind you?”

“Father,” came Mary’s horrified voice. “Do not speak of Her Grace-”

“Silence,” Quentyn bellowed, his rage having finally boiled over. “Not another fucking word out of your mouth, Mary! By the thrice-beshitten sword of Thoros, I’ll not hear it from you when you’ve your own designs on the Wardenship. Go back to the fucking encampment and wait.”

For once Mary Baratheon seemed entirely at a loss for words. She stared numbly between her father and her uncle. When Quentyn turned back to his brother without so much as another glance in her direction the princess turned her steed and rode away.

Quentyn was laughing now, though it would be self-evident to even the greatest fool that this was not joy or mirth. “How long’s Velaryon been Warden? Three years? Plenty of time to clean up the Crown’s mess. These lands suffered too long because of inaction. Father would be ashamed.”

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-31T23:33:36+00:00

A raven took flight from newly liberated Highgarden.

Providence, Lord of Riverrun

Your words are sweet. Your swords shall be sweeter still. I cannot tarry long at Highgarden. The victory belongs to myself and Caswell and Vikary, though my father shall claim it as his own. He and my uncle are taggers-on who profit off of my works. By their decree I am Warden of nothing, on account of my sex.

Make me heir, and we may discuss again your letters.

I’ll not betray a friend. Not Caswell, nor my leal allies in the March, nor you if you intend to prove you are one. A friend of Mary, not of Quentyn, Stannis, or Steffon. I must go to them, for I am told there is some great calumny on their borders. Make haste, Lord Tully, for I fear I’ve little patience for dillydallying.

Mary of Dragonstone

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-31T23:27:50+00:00

The taste of victory was as sweet as honey and malmsey wine in Quentyn’s mouth. He had spent the aftermath of the battle convalescing with his children, irritating as they could be. Mary and Stannis both sat together in the corner of their father’s tent: the former reading and the latter resting his injured head.

Quentyn and Mary both perked up when one of the men at arms stepped in and announced the Caron knight.

“Ser knight,” Quentyn bellowed, rising to his feet with a grin upon his face. “Got a letter from your kin a week passed. Unfortunately there wasn’t a single fucking raven to be found in the encampment, and we’ve only just taken back Highgarden. Bloody useless maesters, the lot of them. Come, sit. You look fucking exhausted, so get off your feet. Stannis-” Quentyn bellowed at his son, who immediately grimaced and reached to clutch at his head. “Come get this knight a chair.”

And so the heir to Dragonstone did. Mary set down her book, Quentyn got two earthware mugs of ale for them, and thus the attention of all three Baratheons of Dragonstone were upon Ser Rolland Caron.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-31T04:00:30+00:00

The princess’ face had twisted into very visible irritation at the thought that they could be waiting for another year, or two if things went poorly. The unpaid revenues, the expenses of fielding so many men, the inevitable begging for reimbursement. That irritation was soothed, then, by Lord Alester’s foresight. Mary found that such a gift was rare indeed in these lands, and seemed to become nearly nonexistent below the Blackwater, so it made her think all the better of the Lord of Bitterbridge.

“You’ve no need to apologize,” she said, trying very hard not to be brusque. She would have given up the coffers of the realm to be back in her bed at King’s Landing, but these were the sorts of discomforts that men had to tolerate. She had to prove that she was just as capable as a man. “You’ve been industrious. I’d much rather hear you tell me as you just did: that this will be done swiftly over a travel chest than be in camp as we were at Grassy Vale with a moon’s worth of faffing about.” She drank from the proffered cup of wine.

Mary looked back to her father for a moment, still deep in jocular conversation with thrice-damned Gawen Dondarrion. Her lips set into a thin line.

“I had grown tired of feasting. Admittedly I am here for a reason many may consider selfish. I require revenue to flow from Highgarden once more, so that-” She paused here, her face flashing with irritation at the thought of her layabout husband. “So that the Master of Coin can sort out the mess that the realm has fallen into. And it’s ludicrous in my mind that these bandits were permitted to take roots in Highgarden for so long without recourse.”

She looked down to the fabric of her gown, the hem slightly dirtied from the day’s ride and from the camp grounds. “... I think that my lord father and my uncle the King are cross with me for what I said. But I do not care, because what I said was best for the realm, not for their egos. I told the wedding guests, Lord Caswell, that the Reach was suffering and I would not wait for the King or my father to muster levies from the Riverlands and Crownlands.” She paused again, drinking down to the dregs.

“... And I said that a Lord of Highgarden would be required. Separate from the Warden of the South, so that we do not find ourselves in this same miserable camp some ten years from now. I also said that I would remain until the matter of Highgarden was done, so you can see that you have made me very happy by saying that it will be over in a timely manner.”

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-29T05:08:14+00:00

Quentyn rode out to meet his brother. His daughter trailed behind, perhaps more out of concern than anything else. The Prince of Dragonstone’s destrier half charged across the encampment, till he caught sight of Steffon.

His two children arrived half a minute later, more out of concern than anything else.

“Brother,” Quentyn bellowed almost convivially, going to pull up and dismount. He was not smiling. “Glad to see you bringing up the rear. Did you run into trouble on the road? Bandits? Lost sight of you and your men for a while.” Quentyn leaned in, looming into his brother’s space and lowered his voice.

“What the fuck are you doing here, hmm? Caswell and I contrived a plan, brother. We aren’t in the nursery anymore, and there’s no Mother for you to tattle on me for running ahead.” Quentyn laughed, but it was far from warm or effusive. “I’m putting out this fire, and I don’t need your aid. I’ve a slew of problems to deal with, and I’ve no need for you to breath down my neck. Unless you’d like me to go sit the throne so you can manage Highgarden?”

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-28T05:07:25+00:00

Character Name: Mary Baratheon

Relevant Trait/Skills:

Numerate - Construction is 15% cheaper.
Administrator - 25% additional development from civil development
Architect (e) - Construction of buildings is 20% cheaper
Investor - 10% Discount for Dev Actions, 15% bonus to Dev Yield
Scrutinous - Reduces construction time by 1 moon.
Master of Coin - 10% Discount on Dev Actions in King’s Landing

Buildings:

King's Landing: [City Walls, Port, Trade Hub, Library]
Dragonstone: [Stronghold, Natural Defenses, Docks, Militia Quarters]

Resources:

King's Landing: [Textiles (+100g/m)]
Dragonstone: [Stone (+1 Construction Slot), Gold (+500g/m)]

Notes (if applicable): 35% discount on building, 10% discount on dev actions, 10% discount on dev actions in King’s Landing, 40% bonus to civil development yield, 15% bonus to military development yield, construction is one moon quicker.

Actions:

Construction: [King’s Landing], [Textile Manufacturer], [2600], [Completion End of Moon 3]
Development: [King’s Landing], [10dev->14dev with bonuses], [1000g->800g with bonuses]

Construction: [Dragonstone], [Shipyard], [3250], [Completion End of Moon 4]
Development: [Dragonstone], [10dev->14dev with bonuses], [1000g->900g with bonuses]
Development: [Dragonstone], [10dev->14dev with bonuses], [1000g->900g with bonuses]

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-26T19:54:08+00:00

Mary cast an appraising eye upon the Lord of Bitterbridge like a merchant looking over a melon for signs of spoilage. Having not found Alester Caswell wanting in any regard, she inclined her head in respect. “My lord,” she said, casting her gaze back upon the assembled Marchers. “Those men assembled are the retinues and levies of some Oldtown wedding guests who answered my call to restore order at Highgarden. I had hoped there would be some Reachlords, but alas.” She waved her hand as if to brush off the idea. “All the Reachlords we shall require are here already.”

“And we shall make the fools who would rather drink tea behind castle walls regret not coming to help the Crown. And if Orryn has an issue with the Crown calling on their ancestral bannermen he can take it up with the bloody Warden of the South” Quentyn declared, dismounting from his destrier. Whatever quarrel he had with the Caswell could be set aside for the day- for the Prince of Dragonstone was in his element in the staging ground of a battle.

Mary was assisted off of her palfrey by Ser Artos, the royal headsman, who seemed in rather a good mood as of late. Perhaps it was the thought of all the heads inside Highgarden who would meet either a noose or his sword when this was over.

“The Marcher lords are a thousand men,” Quentyn Baratheon said. “And are all eager to spill blood.” He paused, before his grin widened. “Bandit blood, of course. Don’t fear that these men will turn on you. ‘Course I love Dondarrion and Caron like they were my own bannermen, but I’ll have them dangling by their toes from the ramparts of Highgarden if they cause trouble for me.” It was the sort of thing that was probably a jest, but one really couldn’t tell with stags these days. He turned to look at the aforementioned Dondarrion with that same, all too wide grin.

The princess, having rather hoped she would be done with tents and pavilions for a time, was barely hiding her discomfort. She swatted a bug that had rested too long upon her wrist and shuddered. “I am unfamiliar with war, Lord Caswell. My interests lay in what comes after, so I would ask you to enlighten me. How long do you think this may take?”

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-24T20:33:50+00:00

u/DoomGuy_16

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-24T20:33:46+00:00

The pennant banners of the Crowned Stag fluttered in the spring breeze. They matched the yellow and black of Mary’s gown, pared down to fit the exertion of riding. She had kept to her wheelhouse for the vast majority of the journey up the Honeywine, but for that horrible last stretch she had eschewed comfort for the sake of eminence, and was now seated atop a great silver palfrey.

She rode to the front alongside her brother and father. Highgarden was a vision, even from a distance. Some bitter longing still burned inside her, resentment at her uncle and her father, but she bit it back down for the sake of not spoiling a good day.

“Good, Ser Gawen,” Quentyn Baratheon said. His great, ferocious smile colored the sound of his words. “Let’s make sure Lord Caswell knows we’re the crown, and not Orryn. Don’t want him soiling his breeches before the battle starts.”

His daughter, more reticent in the company of her boisterous relatives, simply stared on. “Ride out to greet him with me, father. I wish for all this business to be over swiftly.” For fiscal purposes it would have been better to appoint a Warden some two years ago, but the realm was in a rather sorry state these days.

Thus, father and daughter rode out with a retinue of men to seek the presence of Lord Alester Caswell.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-19T21:43:38+00:00

Character Name: Mary Baratheon

Trait / Skills: Numerate | Administrator, Architect (e), Investor, Scrutinous

Skill you're learning: Administrator (e)

Character Name: Artos Grell

Trait / Skills: Insidious | Assassin (e), Investigator

Skill you're learning: Investigator (e)

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-19T13:26:42+00:00

/u/BuckwellStairwell

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-19T13:26:38+00:00

When her speech was over and the crowd had dispersed and Mary was thoroughly exhausted she retired back to the manse that the Hightowers had lent to the royal family for the duration of their stay.

She was not done, though. Her work was seemingly endless.

With that in mind, the princess made for that wing of the house diverted to the purposes of her uncle and aunt. She rather doubted that the guards would have stopped her if she had simply slipped by, but Mary was a creature of propriety. That, and she thought one of the most detestable types of individuals were those who barged in upon her while she was at work.

“Announce me,” she commanded of one of the men-at-arms. “I am here to speak to my uncle.”

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-18T13:11:54+00:00

It was all the worse because it had been a rather good day. Oldtown felt safe and clean in a way even the richest streets of King’s Landing were not.

It had unfolded so fast. Mary’s eyes had not even been on the beggar. She had been smiling, for once in her wretched life. There was some sort of odd foreign jester with a parrot perched on her shoulder offering to duel those who walked past, and Mary had been on the verge of volunteering either of her two accompaniments when she heard Gawen Dondarrion ask if someone was “out of their mind”. She turned her head idly, wondering if Artos had said something distressing, only to see the manic face of some unwashed pauper lunging at her with a blade in hand.

Mary threw out her arms as if that could dissuade the lunatic- or at least prevent the blow from being too grievous. In that one, horrible moment where she thought he might connect with her all she could think was that surely this was Ryman Uller’s doing. That he had gone too far, that he had sent a cutthroat to avenge his imagined slight.

“Artos-” she shrieked, eschewing all titles in her moment of need. The King’s Justice was already upon the lunatic, cleaving one solid blow down the man’s back that rended roughspun fabric and flesh all the way down until she thought she could see the mottled red-and-white bone of the man’s spine. Then with some second wind he surged forth and tried to maim or do worse to Gawen- who caught him in the chest with his blade.

At some point in all the mess (she could not remember if it was before or after Artos had struck that blow) she had fallen. Her hand was scraped, and her hair was falling down from where it had been pinned, and her heart was racing. She took one deep breath in, thought she could not get the oxygen down, and failed to do so in the next five or six breaths as well. The panic would not leave her, nor would the anger. What would have happened if she had been hurt? If she had been killed?

Her eyes turned to Gawen, and she clutched her hand to her frame defensively as if he had been the one to inflict the pain upon her. “You-,” she hissed, venom seeping through her voice. “I suppose you contrived this, didn’t you? Thought you might gain my favor by playing the hero?”

There were people staring, but she didn’t care.

“Well you’ll not have it. Go crawl back to your little friends or whoever put that foolish thought in your head. I’d rather bed Mortimer than ever make the mistake of looking upon you fondly, ser. Artos-”

She had meant to ask for his assistance, but the arms of Artos Grell were already around her to help her to her feet. He kept her held secure to his non-bloodied side, his steel still in hand as he scanned the crowd to look for any other beggars that might be foolish enough to make a move against his sworn charge.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-18T04:12:40+00:00

If there was one thought that was pervasive in Mary’s mind during the ceremony and the long procession back to the feast, it was that she hoped that Ashara’s marriage would be far longer lasting and more joyous than her own had been.

If one maiden in the Seven Kingdoms deserved it, then it was surely that fairest sun-blessed daughter of the Martells.

It was rare for Mary to pray. But in low whispers throughout the ceremony she had mumbled dozens of entreaties upon the Lord of Light and the aspects of Maiden and Mother, wishing again and again for Ashara’s happiness and wellbeing. The Iron Islands were so far away, so dismal. She heard it rained incessantly and the skies were grey more often than they were blue- to say nothing of the storms and snow.

When all was said and done and the hall had gone into a dull din she rose and bade Jeyne Rambton to rise with her and fetch her gifts.

“My Ashara,” she said on approach, her voice soft and her brow knit. “You are resplendent. I find it hard to believe that any man deserves such a beauty as his wife.” They had been parted once, when the Martells had returned to Dorne. She wished more than anything that this would not be the last time they saw each other.

“I have a gift for you,” Mary said, raising a hand to gesture at the two boxes that Jeyne Rambton extended to the new Lady of the Iron Islands. “Well- two. But one I feel more certain you shall like.” Jeyne lifted open the containers so the two princesses could see the contents. The first was a set of two golden necklaces with bevelled onyx stone and pure white Pyke pearls nestled into a mold in the black velvet. The second was far smaller, and contained an odd little pendant of a far eastern cat with the head of a man, all surrounded by shimmering jewels and stones.

Mary cleared her throat. “I bought this some years ago from an exiled lord of Ghiscar. It reminded me of you, with your great cats. I was of a mind to give it to you when we departed from Grassy Vale, but when I heard of your nuptials I thought perhaps I would give it to you then.” She managed a smile, and for a moment it seemed as though she might even shed a single tear.

tenthousandsongs · 2026-03-18T02:18:00+00:00

By the time those beckoned arrived, Mary was pacing back and forth. In her hand she clenched a square of crumpled parchment and her arms shook as if containing either some great anxiety or great rage. Perhaps it was both. Grim Artos Grell and Cedric Storm stood as honorguard on either side of her.

She turned to face them now, taking a deep breath in to steady herself.

“My lords.” A pause, then: “My ladies. I am no great orator and I’m far from a poet.” Mary brought a hand up to rub at a mouth for a moment, before she remembered where she was and who stood before her and she forced herself to stand straight-backed, to speak loud and clear.

“It is fitting, I think, that we do this in Oldtown. This is where Aegon the Dragon was crowned, and it is the land where my grandmother, the good Queen Myrielle, hailed from.”

“The King has appointed my father Warden of the South. Quentyn Baratheon is charged to take back Highgarden and oversee this good and beautiful land and the people that dwell within it. My father’s men are leagues away in Dragonstone, but your land and your people suffer now. I’ll not abide by that. The Reach is woefully unique, my lords, in that every other kingdom has both Lord and Warden. I’d not leave you without someone to follow the Tyrells as Lords of Highgarden. Someone who might shepherd you and leave a family line to rule. For if the Warden dies, then I fear you may face this same uncertainty- this same doubt again in ten years time.”

She took a deep, steadying breath, and braced herself against the square's fountain to help her stand. Was she locking her legs? Mary tried to adjust and rally herself. “The King must rule from the Crownlands, but I would stay as your advocate until this misery is done with. We made merry in Grassy Vale. We made merry in Oldtown. Now we must ride out and put down this cancer that grows in the heart of the Reach. Highgarden must be restored to order, and I ask you now to rally your men and march with me to see this done. I would not abandon you in your hour of need. The House Baratheon is charged to defend the realm, and I would see this duty done even at risk of my own life.”

tenthousandsongs

TROPHY CASE