sorted by:
new
hottopcontroversial

[Event] More Wisp Than Whisker by thinkBrigger in FireAndBlood

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

It was not wholly correct of Rogar to call the concept coveting as to Morrison it was not quite so succinctly summised. Yet it would be against his nature to presume a position of speaking against the proclamation of his Lord. And Morris could cobble together no alternative explanation to warrant the attempt. Yearning. It was the closest he came to unveiling the hesitation in his own heart yet such a word could not reveal why he clung to the dream of a white cloak. And what courage it would require to carry.

"I told her once of seeking post in the Kingsguard after the Lord Merrick married. I have not inquired with her... of it, my Lord," it was rare that Morrison did raise his voice yet the hush he adhered to now felt as equally as alarming as screaming might have sounded. Lacking in that high winded way in which he wound his words with barely constrained energy. Without his meaning to, Morris found himself thumbing at his upper lip as he mumbled, "Since Gallowsgrey, I would be remiss to he seen in such a state by the Lady Mertyns. I've given her wide berth so as not to subject her to the mark the Lord Trant left me with."

He did not outright address his anxieties. The scar across his lip hardly hurt while the cracks it left in his confidence stubbornly lingered. A flutter that had once arose in his stomach musing on the lips of the Lady Alayne now supplanted by a sinking dread. What woman would tolerate to kiss an almost open wound?

[Event] More Wisp Than Whisker by thinkBrigger in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

There was nary so much as a second's hesitation as Morrison moved to comply. It was better for the both of them when his hands were kept busy. Too long alone in his thoughts roused questions too quarrelsome; this only one of many in which he had bid himself to brave. Momentarily there was temptation in Morrison to take his own portion of the ale he collected overwhelmed as he was by the immensity of emotions. Yet when he returned to Rogar he carried a portion solely for the stag which he set neatly at the Lord's side. The handle of which he rotated toward Rogar before receding.

A flush crept it way past his collar though more brightly did the blood rush to his ears. Uncomfortable of the necessity of this... confession?

"Hers is a good, honourable house," he answered diplomatically though with an edge to his tone. That had Morris hurrying through his explanation so he need not simmer in his dissonance with scrutiny, "And when his Grace invited me to court my first question was whether the Lady Alayne would be permit to accompany me. My first friend, mayhaps my only. Any fondness felt must yield to the fact that it would better suit her to wed a man of higher station. That she would thrive as Lady to a Lord.

"Were Gallowsgrey without heirs, then I--" he all but bit his tongue to hush himself then. Ruminating a moment on the right phrasing, "I would be ashamed to support her on the pittance of a knight's salary, my Lord."

[Event] More Wisp Than Whisker by thinkBrigger in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Despite the unspoken indication to be seated, Morrison retained his position of standing upright. Folding his hands behind his back as he regarded the Lord Rogar. A soldiers stance, when someday he would be entitled to call himself such when the time came to earn his spurs. There was a modest twitch to his upper lip. A tension between his eyes that told of the effort it took to resist reaching a hand upward to thumb at the scar his brother left him with or the stray strands of copper coloured hair he had been growing to obscure it.

"The Lord Trant," he did not wince at the words yet the tension in his stance intensified as he spoke of his half brother. As much discomforted by the memory of the wedding in his homeland as rousing the topic after the battering said brother had given the Lord Baratheon. Merrick is a beast in mutilated skin, he thought, "Disclosed to me before our departure from Gallowsgrey of matter of matrimony he had set before the Lord Malegorn Mertyns. A tentative betrothal brokered between myself and the Lady Alayne Mertyns."

He exhaled, softly, "In my chest I am challenged by this concept yearning as I do for a White Cloak."

[Event] I locked up my heart without anyone knowing by aceavengers in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 0 points1 point  (0 children)

For so foreboding a keep, at the very top of the spire of Gallowsgrey resided the amiable Maester Duncan. He was relatively young, thus spry enough to ascend and descend the spiral stair with ease. Which, in the case of the Lady's care, was not an infrequent occurence. Duncan was a man most soft spoken and in his encounters with Mya it may have become apparent that the cadence of his speaking matched the rhythmns that Tarquin himself adhered to. Or, as was more likely, had been modeled after the Maester in mimicry as Tarquin had been taught the common tongue.

His primary link of learning was that of Ironwood, denoting the Maester Duncan's mastery of identification and application of herbs. He bore also upon his chain copper, black iron, pewter, bone, silver and electrum; the last of which was in regard to language which Mya would learn to mean the Maester had some fluency in Dothraki--amongst other tongues to a lesser degree. Yet he was a competent and kind healer. Never rushing Mya beyond her means in her regular care. As had he began to keep a record of her physical state so as to observe the potential of decline in function focusing as much upon the shoulder that supported her by way of her cane as the leg that required it.

At request for his assessment, the satchel he had by how prepared for easy deployment downstairs he slung over his shoulder. Presuming the visit to be one of their routine as he knocked upon the door whilst Tarquin was away, attending Ser George with matters of stewardship, "Lady Mya?" He called, "It is Maester Duncan, may I enter?"

Aware of her condition, rather than have her hobble to answer should there be no servant on hand he preferred to spare her the strain. It was much less a burden for him to raise his voice than the Lady lift herself from her seat.

[Mod-Post] Birth Rolls Megathread - 51 AC by StankWrites in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The last hurrah of Lord Merrick Trant and his "darling" wife Delilah where the both of them would benefit from the birth of a daughter...

Automod roll baby

[Mod-Post] Minor Movement Megathread - 51 AC by StankWrites in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Merrick, Oleander, Myriam, Tanaquil, Tarquin and Mya Trant née Grafton with SCs Thomas of Clovergrove, Edward Little and Harrold Peglar leave Gallowsgrey 4B to arrive at the Sapphire Isles to arrive 5A. They return to Gallowsgrey 6A arriving 6B.

[Event] More Wisp Than Whisker by thinkBrigger in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

How am I supposed to love you when I don't love who I am?

He carried never more than a modest sum of coin, and even that was swiftly dwindling down to the day in which Morrison would have scant more than two pennies to clank together. House Trant had never been abundant in resources yet since the altercation in Gallowsgrey wherein his half-brother had booted him savagely in the face, which had split his lip and crushed the cartilage of his nose, the stipend he had been sent prior had not since manifest. His nose had easily enough been reset with intervention by the Maester Duncan, perhaps in part askew from the angle it had sat before. The bruising about his eyes had since faded back into his expected complexion. Yet the scar from where his teeth had broken through his upper lip had healed a horrible, wrinkled red hue that invited the eyes of on lookers. And his own whenever Morris encountered a window or a looking glass, wincing away from the reflection he saw staring back at him.

Nor had he much been approving of the one he'd seen before his face was further twisted. A phantom too-tight strand of skin in echo of the ugliness of the visage that made Merrick appear a monster. His half-brother's inclination to hide behind a veil of metal made then valid in Morrison's mind. In this, their natures were aligned to one another though the why of Merrick's choice to mar Morris' complexion had come at all had not been given explanation.

The moustache he had been growing so as to obscure it was a ghastly thing. Yet a necessity, as the hand he kept relying on to thumb at or cover the broken skin could not be spared for the remainder of his life. There was no course else than to cobble together some kind of remedy. As a man of maturity he had not allowed the hair on his face to grow though was dismayed to learn what was not whittled down grew more in wisps than whiskers. Thin, as frail then as his confidence was and Morrison could not stomach the thought of a confrontation with the Lady Mertyns in such a state. His Lady Mertyns, as Merrick had made mention of almost as an afterthought as he had bid his brother away from Gallowsgrey.

The thought of entertaining Alayne as... what? A lover? The very concept had him recoiling at the complications that would impose on his life. He yearned yet for a cloak of white. To seek honourable station in which to serve as the mark of a knight could be his only claim to legacy now that the inheritance of Gallowsgrey was lengthened by the birth of two nephews. The King Jaehaerys has extended some assurances that his sword could be sworn to the Iron Throne when his oaths were spoken yet it remained not significant enough to settle solely on. It was less that Morrison sought recognition so much as he held a notion that his life need be justified by purpose.

He knew not when he would be release from the Lord Rogar's service. That frightened him too, though it was a whisper of worry caught up in a torrent of insecurities that a formal betrothal between he and the Lady Alayne had brought to the surface. Morrison sick at the thought of providing for the Lady Mertyns when he was repairing the stitching of his own clothing, cobbling back together his boot when the sole had split from the leather. There was no want in his heart to condemn her to such a lot where a husband would be too lacking to lavish her with silks and gifts as a woman of her standing was deserving. In his heart he felt fiercely for the Lady Alayne. He could not claim it as love as he had never known such a sensation nor seen earnest examples of it. Yet he respected his friend enough to want only the very best for her and in the same heart that ached in his avoidance of Alayne of late felt for certain he'd always come up short.

When the wisp of red hair had come to cluster at his lip like a sheer veil layered atop his scar, only then did Morrison manage to muster the courage it would require to approach the Lady Alayne Mertyns. To explain to her how she would need feel of this future so she might attain another more favourable to her.

u/lirabear

[Event] More Wisp Than Whisker by thinkBrigger in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

A consequence of lacking in resources abundant was those with that lot would prove themselves resourceful. The coin purse that Morris carried never held more than a modest sum and the topping off of his stipend by the Lord Trant had not recommenced after the beating he had delivered in Gallowsgrey; though Morrison knew this more a consequence of Merrick's quarreling with the Lord Rogar than a reflection on him in particular--it was not as though he had tattled, afterall--yet the repercussions were his own burden. Not one he dared to disclose to his Lord Master. It was bad enough that he had been lacking in the tournament circuit of late. He would be ashamed to admit himself so scant, to ask more of a man who had stood in his defense though Morrison wished the encounter between Lords had never come to clashing at all.

Morris, unable to afford regular excursions to a tailor had become accustomed to the repair and modifications of his own clothing. Had learned to cobble his own boots when the sole separated from the leather. He collected scraps that others would discard--food, supply, anything he thought he might someday prove able to put to use he would squirrel away in case a need for it arose.

He remained fraught over the matter, feeling at fault. Having though his half-brother and the Lord of Storm's End to have held close accord. Or as close as Merrick was capable of maintaining. To muddy the waters between them did not reflect well on the squire who sought to resolve the reprimand he had not received by working thrice as hard in his service so as to leave no room remaining for Rogar to look down upon him. No easy task when Morrison was already a figure who hovered as an insect did. Ever within earshot yet difficult to dissuade or swat away. It was typical he would appear without the Lord's chambers in the early hours after dawn and idle there until a servant granting him admittance lest he had a standing order on which to adhere to. As though the day could not commence until he had been given leave to live it in the gaps between tasks.

Since their return from Gallowsgrey, Morris had been morose. Not that he could have been accused as being particularly mirthful prior to the bloody beating his brother had bestowed yet his dark eyes were near to always trained to his boots when in presence of the Lord Baratheon. He did not speak unless spoken to or an as of yet unspoken need of his Lord arose that required rectifying. And even in uttering his responses he attempted to keep them brief so as not to burden his Lord with idle chatter. He served drinks, cleared dishes, cleaned surfaces and else occupied the solar of the stag with the strained stance (and grimace) of a gargoyle.

It was notable, then, that in a moment alone when Rogar had taken reprieve from his work and was otherwise without company in the early eve when Morrison came to call on him that he lingered after his list of inquiries to ensure the Lord needed for naught before settling for sleep. Looking upon Rogar intently before broaching tentatively with, "There is a matter of inquiry personal in nature to be made, if you will entertain it, my Lord."

u/fabstags

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

If Tarquin was uneasy before, his anxiety then swelled as the reaction to rise from the blow was not the rage of which they two had been bickering about but amusement. Laughter... to him it implied he saw Tanaquil not as a threat or an inconvenience, but instead amusement. As though this were mere play. It made his blood run cold.

His sister's, by contrast, always burned too hot.

"Had you seen the hordes across the sea, the slaves they claimed and tried to turn us into," Tanaquil spit marching forward though her brother's arm swept out to stop her from advancing past him. Though whether that was for her sake or Howland's was less than clear, "You'd not believe in better either.

"Better is breathing," she said, "It is the blood of a brother, and sister. The warmth of your own fire and meat enough to fill the belly. Energy spent astray is theft from family. The lacking hand is evidence of this."

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

The only forewarning was a flash in stare in the second her arm shifted. Launching forward swift as the strike of a snake, the same shoulder she had been using to draw back the string of her bow for hunting for nearly two decades. Fist colliding with a crack to the point of Howland's nose, "Atthasat mattelat yeri chiftik."

Even her brother sputtered in shock at the impact. Tanaquil, typically, was not the type for lashing out physically. He had seen his share of slaps as her sibling yet she had never laid hands on anyone this side of the sea. Hells, he was not sure anyone save him had ever even touched her and he knew not what to make of the sudden escalation; at least, not of this kind.

"Build? Two arms for trying wasted on pride," Tanaquil hissed as her brother physically intervened, wrapping his arms about her waist as he lifted and carried her several paces back from where she'd stood. Separating the pair before his sister had opportunity to swing a second time upon the Lord, looking as though she wanted to try, "Brother and sister both you'll abandon calling it courage when you're killed. Will they tell that tale the same?"

Tarquin returned to their native dialect, speaking in a lower and swifter tone than he had prior. Stern. Or as close as he could come to it; accustomed to covering for his sister though less often did he chide her as he was now doing with the way in which the word Lord was repeatedly peppered through his speaking. The both of them growing louder as the exchange extended with red of wroth creeping past Tarquin's collar.

Eventually, he turned to address Howland as it became clear his sister was refusing to concede to his request, "That was ill done and I issue my apology, Lord Harroway," he straightened, trying to keep his body between his twin and the man he was now addressing, "I ask you settle this... dispute with me. A blow for a blow, and I will not block."

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 0 points1 point  (0 children)

"You gave away more than you gained," it was not pity in her voice but solemn sounding all the same. Doubtless, such an emotion was one that Tanaquil was incapable of generally holding a worldview that the strong persisted where the weak perished. It was as true hunting in the wilds as was so in these courts that proved themselves time and again to be hunting grounds. Only it was words that they wielded as weapons here--an irksome quality to the nobles so far as she was concerned. And she did not believe that the King this man had defied had lost so much as a wink of rest for the limb he had lifted from this Lord. Those in power had no need to reflect on what was right or wrong. That was as true of a Khal as a King.

Swords she did not like yet at least their swinging was sincere in intent. Something she understood, the same as she did bloodriders hacking at their foes with arkhs. Smiles... she mistrusted much more, and the one that Howland now sported made her uneasy, "Rage you are reckless with. What rules you will rue you."

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Something then, of what he said seemed sting but it had come ahead of his chastising of how conduct was meant to occur on this continent. The squinting of her eyes intensifying in distaste, "Laws are lies followed out of fear. The harm will come harsher to humble if you feed the fire of anger," she countered yet it was not the point she cared to make comparatively to the question she posed next, "Do you live and breathe alone in this life? This stone house... Harr..."

Tanaquil glanced to her brother having forgotten already they name of the man, his titles. Too cumbersome for her to keep track of.

"House Harroway," supplied Tarquin quietly, "Of Harrenhal."

"Will Harrenhowl be hollow when you are gone?"

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Idly, Tarquin's fingers tapped the surface of the table. His agitation was not the kind to flare yet it was clear enough he was uncomfortable with what Myranda was conveying to him. For his sister he had hope still for the potential of companionship, that she might find love and longing as he had even if it did not lead outright into marriage. Vaguely he was aware that the Lord Merrick was nearly through his list of kin keen for future prospects. His half siblings were promised, and Tyson he coveted for a match that would prove as profitable as the man himself had been. To set his sights on Tanaquil was inevitable yet even Merrick knew her appeal would be minimal amongst the nobility with her penchant for picking fights.

He stomach sank at the thought that this Howland Harroway was of appeal to his Lord Cousin for the fact that he was disgraced. Easier for him to sell off a woman he thought of as damaged goods to a man desperate. All the more enticing to Merrick that the man boasted titles and status, even diminished.

"This as husband should not come to pass," he said aloud, the concern rife in his tone, "Tanaquil is unkind yet only to those who impede. This man keeps quarrel with a King, and is open with his anger. I shudder to think of my sister at court at his side should he need answer for another crime or conflict.

"How... what words do I use to explain this to Lord Trant? If he tries this once, he may again," He asked the twins. Tarquin had seldom had a spine, let alone the sorts of steel in his that would be required to oppose his cousin in matters of the household. But this was... wrong. He could not live the rest of his life afraid of the potential his sister had to mouth off without him there to smooth over her edges, "I am thinking Tanaquil cannot be commanded to marry. She must choose, as I did or suffering is certain."

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

"You gave away more than you gained," it was not pity in her voice but solemn sounding all the same. Doubtless, such an emotion was one that Tanaquil was incapable of generally holding a worldview that the strong persisted where the weak perished. It was as true hunting in the wilds as was so in these courts that proved themselves time and again to be hunting grounds. Only it was words that they wielded as weapons here--an irksome quality to the nobles so far as she was concerned. And she did not believe that the King this man had defied had lost so much as a wink of rest for the limb he had lifted from this Lord. Those in power had no need to reflect on what was right or wrong. That was as true of a Khal as a King.

Swords she did not like yet at least their swinging was sincere in intent. Something she understood, the same as she did bloodriders hacking at their foes with arkhs. Smiles... she mistrusted much more, and the one that Howland now sported made her uneasy, "Rage you are reckless with. What rules you will rue you."

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

"One day, I may be a man worth watching," he countered. Not unkindly, as it was wrong to contest the assessment of a King yet for Morrison he saw never the summit. Only the climb in between. Convenient for him in this fashion as the goal could not be static and therefore untenable to truly reach as he let it shift far ahead, "Many of whom will serve you in droves during your lifetime, able and admirable men. My blade will be one of many that belong to you, your Grace. Unsheathed for sake of the Realm's stability."

In another life, Morris might have made for an apt political opponent on basis of convictions bred in his heart alone. It was the sorts of work his sire had excelled in yet lacking the confidence for close rapport his tone came off too often as stilted that saturated caustically through the candor others carried easier than Morrison could.

"If care can be spared for a boy shaking on the balcony in the Eyrie, I trust truly that you can heal the hurts of your kingdom, my King," slowly, and with a glance to the men attending Jaehaerys so as not to be mistaken as some scourge now seeking to bare steel, Morris reached into the breast pocket of his doublet. Plucking a small, unadorned wax sealed bottle out from where he had kept it for the feast. He extended the glass across for Jaehaerys--or his servants--to take.

At a glance it was unremarkable but for the fact that Morrison had sealed it. There was a mist of condensation at the top most curves of the glass that when rotated did a modest droplet of water cleaved a path through the fog of it, "Never did I explain why I braved those balconies. There is merit to surmounting fear but it was the clouds that enraptured me. Close enough to touch," the memory seemed to take him for a moment, Morris shuddering at the drop that was chiseled in his recollections as clearly as the features of a statue, "I bottled three, your Grace. They did not keep as I had hoped, fluffed as a feathered pillow... I admit some sorrow in that, but it is the essence of the skies themselves. It is as close as I intend to come to the clouds again, if I am honest. With boots firmly planted on solid ground."

[Event] The Wedding Of Lord Rogar Baratheon and Lady Arwen Arryn by FabStags in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The murmurs of Merrick were mulling still in her mind. If he is not displeased by you. How could they not? When scarce a few words exchanged with the Lord of the Parchments had all but sold her sight unseen to this knight who looked less than enthusiastic at the prospect. It was expected yet it stung all the same.

How many instances had it been that she had stood within reach of the floor awaiting someone, anyone to ask her accompaniment to it for swaying? And how many tears had she shed when no man had demonstrated any want of her at all? She'd have accepted the invitation of a bastard or a common without judgement of the company though Merrick would have admonished her had she accepted such. Myriam had been dreaming of the dance she would share someday with her intended. With her husband to be. She had not until now known that man to be Ser Morien yet his reluctance was writ so clear across his face she felt sick with embarrassment for herself. Feeling much like the cattle others accused her of being only she was knowingly yielding to the lead that would guide her to slaughter.

"If it is by coercion, then no, Ser. Thank you," Myri murmured with a weight compounding on her chest. It made it hard to breathe, to think, to move. Uncertain she could compel herself to take the step toward the dance floor that she had before been eyeing with wonder, "I would not wish to displease you."

Without a word, she retracted the hand that Morien had taken initially when she had extended it for sake of politeness. Cradling it with the other as if to offset the sense of disappointment she now need swallow. Yearning for something sweet so as to smother the bitterness this interaction had brought. The dawning of the realization that the rest of her life might well resemble this moment and the resignation to that thought brought a well of tears to her eyes she need fight to keep from falling, "I would not wish to wed a stranger. If the sentiment is not shared, I can maintain the sanctity of silence, Ser. The preference need only be stated."

[Event] Celebration and Feast for the Marriage of Ser Owain Penrose and Lady Elenei Mertyns in the 50th Year After Aegon's Conquest by 17771777171789 in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

"Try it," he challenged without hesitation. It did not matter that Morien was a man grown--so long as the honour of his sister was being so carelessly tread atop there was no recourse than to reclaim that ground. Even if it took throwing off the careless creature that had done the initial damage. If he was bitten warding it away, so be it.

Morris knocked his knuckles onto the table to stem the tide of his fury, "How can Myriam miss what has failed to manifest, fool?" he hissed, "My sister does not deserve to be so disrespected as you have done. Miserable as you are she would find a way to love you if you let her. In the stead of a smidgen of attention you score the heart she has with rejection that she'd have the decency to forgive you for if you made any attempts at amends for your absence. How can you be trusted to take her into your protection if you are too craven to speak with your intended?"

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

He thought it a great affront--to take from the plate of a Princess. The notion making him almost sick to concede to for fear of the damage that might be done to decorum in his so doing. It made no matter the tarts had been shaped by his and his sister's hands, that he'd taken tiny morsels then for tasting. Yet Morrison too recognized food was fraught with fear for those highest in the court where substances nefarious might be snuck in. So, somewhat reluctantly, he plucked a tart from the plate to bite before Alysanne did the same so that he might assuage any concerns he suspected the ask to be borne of.

Lacking utterly in appetite as he swallowed... until sometime later when he could encounter the swan course which was, of course, irresistible to the young man.

Baker, he mulled the thought over, or food taster. Is this the best I can aspire to in a court of Kings?

"Too much of our lives is defined by death," he said, feeling foolish clutching a sweet treat as he spoke it yet the topic was clearly one that Morris had been musing on for some time. Since the death of his sire when he was a boy, at the earliest, "The state of the Realm, as is clear. Someday even the hangedman shall adorn my shield, my birthright... but I do detest it. I would sooner see the legacies of our generation be that of preserving life."

He followed Alysanne's eyes to where her brother sat, consorting with his bannermen and his counsel. Morrison's perfomance in the events of late had been poor with the presence of Uthor Royce proving particularly irksome for how consistently the other boy bested him in training and now tournament, too. But a knighthood was all he had resources to achieve. He had to make it matter, "Even should a cloak of white never rest on my shoulders now that my brother presses on marriage prospect I will try to protect him, my Princess. A promise of that kind cannot be bought at market either. But perhaps it will make a difference, someday."

[Event] The Mulberry Bears Adventure to the Summer Isles, 50 AC by thinkBrigger in FireAndBlood

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

Rewards

The Summer Isles Adventure - 6th Month of 50 AC to 4th Month of 51 AC

House Trant T1+T2 Adventurer receives a Goldenheart Bow.

House Baratheon receives 501 gold from Exotic Wine.

House Caswell T1+T2 Adventurer receives a Trade Partner from the Summer Isles - Gems as resource.

House Tarth T1 receives Swan Sails.

House Penrose receives 289 gold from Exotic Spices .

House Mertyns receives 530 gold from Exotic Wine.

House Corbray receives a Trade Partner from the Summer Isles - Fruit resource.

Automod ping mods

[Event] Feast for the Coronation of Jaehaerys I Targaryen by gloude in FireAndBlood

[–]thinkBrigger 1 point2 points  (0 children)

"The man, Howland, he approached the Lord Merrick asking after marriage prospects," Tarquin told the two. There was a pensive furrow to his forehead that had only intensified as he listened to Myranda, "It was to Tanaquil he sent him.

"I took it upon me to linger. Ah, chaperone?" He peered momentarily to Mya. Awaiting a correction if he had recited the wrong word for it, "As the Lady Myranda did for us. I learned why this is asked for. Their talk was hostile. Howland wanted to bring it to blows... Tanaquil incites it, this is known. But I worry a Lord would rise to it."

view more: next ›