Rolled 42, 364, 388, 411, 64, 213, 101, 55, 169, 229, 43, 380, 13, 183, 54, 286, 290, 268, 272, 17, 140, 60, 417, 110, 188 = 4757 (25d420)

>>456673
Oh shit nigger, it's autist quest back at it again with the stale velo.

File: Iron Stag Inn.jpg (121 KB, 573x478)

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You stumble into the Iron Stag's common room, slamming open the front door accidentally with your left shoulder, setting the stag head mounted upon the wall to shake precariously.

The innkeep examines you with wide, scared eyes that quickly find and focus on your bloodied arm. The right sleeve soaked red due to your perilous trek from the rank flea bottom street you had found yourself in.

“Find Raina and Mills,” you order the bald man. “They're sleeping in the two rooms at the far back on the left side of the third floor.”

Whether the man actually believes you or just doesn't feel like arguing with the bleeding stranger yelling, you don't really care. He does as you say, sliding out from behind his counter and rushing up the stairs.

You lean against that man's varnished counter with your non-bloodied limb while you wait for your companions to arrive. The momentary rest is pleasant.

The sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs fills you with relief. Raina has the decency to gasp while Mills simply swears under his breath. Raina wears a simple nightgown while Mills is in just a pair of tan-brown breeches, his hairy chest on full display.

Your never-to-be baby momma rushes forward and examines your arm, before being distracted by the bruise on your face followed immediately after by the lump at the back of your head. She touches it gingerly as she whispers 'poor baby' under her breath. The hand is gentle and does not send the wound to throbbing painfully again.

“Ya got fokked up, Will!” Mills decides, folding his arms and grimacing.

“I know that Mills. Stabbed and beat. Now listen,”

>Have Raina help take care of you here at the Iron Stag
>Have Raina go find Tyrion
>Have Raina find a healer

AND

>Send Mills off to find Tyrion and get him to come here
>Send Mills off to find a healer

AND

>Something else? (write-in)

>>456727
>>Have Raina help take care of you here at the Iron Stag
>Send Mills off to find a healer
>Something else? (write-in)
velo needs a fucking drink!

>>456727
Have Raina treat us while Mills goes and finds a healer.

>>456727
>>Have Raina help take care of you here at the Iron Stag
>Send Mills off to find a healer
>Something else? (write-in)
Velo the fag needs a fucking drink!

>>456727
>Have Raina help take care of you here at the Iron Stag
Get some pressure on it. Clean towels, etc.
>Send Mills off to find a healer

>>456727
>Have Raina find a healer
>Send Mills off to find Tyrion and get him to come here

We need to figure out if someone knew about this or if it had been mentioned. Could also ask the little lord how you go about NOT getting mugged.

Rolled 15, 58, 25 = 98 (3d100)

Roll me 1d100 +10, best of 3. This is a healing check.

Rolled 66 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>456777
oh boy time for 1s

Rolled 49 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>456777

Rolled 30 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>456777

Rolled 89 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>456777
100 here

>>456798
off by one how cucked can a man get

>>456800
I'm legitimately killing myself right now, goodbye.

Rolled 59 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

Bad roll here

Shouldn't be too hard of a thing for healers.
I mean, cuts were pretty much 70% of the healers used to deal with back in the olden times.
It's really the treatment of diseases that was often questionable.

File: Black haired beauty.jpg (122 KB, 600x980)

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“Mills, I want you to go out and bring a healer here to the inn.”

“How good?” Mills asks.

“The best. Raina, take me upstairs so we can treat me as best as the two of us can manage.”

Both your companions nod their heads. Mills goes upstairs to fasten his armor and Raina guides you to her room. She has you wait by the door as she fluffs pillows and guides you to a sleeping position – laying a fresh, wet, clean towel down for your head to rest.

You gingerly slip into bed while Raina pulls a chair up to inspect your stab wound.

She squints her eyes at it while wringing out a wet cloth she recently dipped into a bucket of water.

“Oh . . . you'll be fine,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I've seen cat fights that have ended up with wounds worse than this.”

“I might have a concussion,” you bring up.

“Do you have a headache?” Raina asks, examining you.

“My head is fucking killing me,” you complain.

“Vomitting, dizzyness, nausea?” she provides a list of symptoms.

You shake your head vigorously. “No. I . . . probably don't have a concussion.”

Raina gestures for you to put your arms up over your head and she helps strip you out of your shirt as gingerly as possible. She bundles the garment up and throws it into the corner.

A cold, wet towel is placed upon your bruised cheek to keep it from swelling too much while Raina stands up.

“I'm going to get some needles to sew up the wound.” she informs you, opening a chest of drawers next to the wall and rummaging through it.

“Bring me one of the bottles of fine wine I keep in my room,” you tell her.

“To pour on the wound?”

“No, so I can have a fucking drink.”

. . .

Some of your personal bottle of wine is wasted being poured on your stab wound, you clenching your teeth in pain at the action. Afterwards, you take a good swig of it. It tastes sweet and good and provides a great distraction from the heated needle piercing your flesh to stitch your meat back together.

“You've done this before?” you inquire, slightly concerned.

“Not on humans!” Raina states with a cock of her head as her steady hands continue their work.

A few moments of silence pass.

“Hey Raina . . .” you call out her name..

“Hmmmmm?” she answers, distracted by her work.

>I want you to keep the kids
>Let's fuck
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?
>Something else? (write-in)

>>456901
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?

>>456901
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?

>>456901
>I want to keep the kids
I mean... it could be ours... or something, but kids...
>Any plans with your money?

>>456901
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?

>>456901
>>I want you to keep the kids
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?
We got a fucking 100 and a 69 on the kids. There twins, so no point killing the babies.
We got the money keep the kids, if they from us. If not we kill them when there born.

>>456901
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?

>>456673
This shit is still going?

>>456901
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?
>Any plans with your money?

>>456901
>I want you to keep the kids
>Any plans with your money?
I don't care about her past life.

>>456912
She seemed pretty adamant for the abortions when she found out. If she doesn't want them it'd be kinda fucked up to force her.

>>456927
Well we got the gold, for kids. We could just leave them with other people

Writing!

>>456901
>I want you to keep the kids
>What did you do for a living back on Earth?

>>456930
Whats the point then tho? I mean I do agree it's a waste but if you're not even going to raise them and pawn them off on someone else that's also a waste.

Just a shitty situation really. Mom doesn't want them. Even though they aren't people might think they are Tryion's which could cause drama. Not even going to raise them cause we are constantly being 'Save Westeros' prophet.

Shitty situation.

>>456944
The point is not kill the babies. The babies are fine. We shouldn't kill them

They'd be born bastards due to being born out of wedlock and due to Westerosi law, they could not inherit without being legitimized.

File: Medicine Man with Drugs.jpg (113 KB, 600x800)

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“What did you do for a living?”

“I went to college,” she explains.

“Studying what?”

She simmers for a bit before sighing out. “Art,” she answers. “But I'm not stupid, alright. I learned other skills too. Like stitching up wounded cats.”

“How many cats did you have?” you inquire, curiously.

“ . . . Six.”

“Jesus!”

“I have a needle here that I could stab you with,” she comments dryly.

“Fine fine. No judgment or comment here. What's your plan with the money you have from all the betting?” you ask to make further small talk.

“I dunno . . . try to make more money with it? Perhaps open up a shop and paint. Actually make money with my skills recreating famous paintings from the real world.”

“That's . . . not a horrible plan, if you have the ability.”

“I dooo~” she says in a singsong tone as she finishes her last stitch. She bites the thread with her teeth and pulls to break it. “Looks like you're all better!” She playfully pats your upper arm, causing you to wince slightly in pain.

Your head still hurts and your face is hot and swelling despite your continuous changing of lukewarm wet towel for cold wet towel. So you'd say you're a far cry from 'all better'.

As Raina is putting away her supplies a knock comes at the door. Your companion opens it to let enter a fully armored Mills and an older gentleman.

The healer strides in irritably, probably because he got woken up in the middle of the night by an annoying and aggressive South African.

He walks to your bedside and sits down, examining you without asking your name or what happened. Right to business, you guess. He doesn't even inform you of anything, just looks you over like you were a slab of meat.

“You need two weeks of bed rest, and then you'll be fine,” he eventually diagnoses once he is satisfied with poking and prodding you. “The skin on the face isn't broken, your head wound is barely bleeding and your arm is stitched. I can provide you with milk of the poppy for 500 silver stags, if you require.”

>Take the drugs
>Thanks, but no thanks
>Something else? (write-in)

>>456991
take the drug

>>456991
>Thanks, but no thanks

>>456991
Ask him if he's got any medical alcohol.
Like for rubbing into wounds to hasten the healing.

>>456991
>Something else? (write-in)
>>Take the drugs
The drugs are only for the immediate, I don't want us two weeks hooked on this stuff.
We got shit to do in the two weeks of resting.

Also see if he can better treat the wounds.

>>456991
>ask if he can do something to accelerate our healin

>>456999
Also this
>>456991

>>456999
Oh yes, most definately.
At the very least, get the alcohol because you never know when you need a molotov.

Also, to a dying man that's worth more than 10 castles.

>>456992
>>456998

Take the drugs

>>456993
Don't take drugs

>>456999
>>457003
>>457008
Ask him about hastening the healing process

>>457011
>Don't take drugs

>>457011
Don't do drugs, kids

Wounded or not, we're still going to the tourney right?

>>457017
Fuck yeah we are. We still got to bet in the last day of the tourney get that mad cash.

>>457019
We don't actually need to be there.
We just need to tell Tyrion to bet on the right guy for us.

>>457022
Well we want to make the most money. So We give some money to Tyrion and use some money on brokers, if they agree.

File: Jar of red paste.jpg (33 KB, 538x800)

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“I'll take the milk of the poppy for tonight. Do you have something that may burn out the infections in the wound so I may heal faster?”

At the question the medicine man grimaces and goes to his bag which he carrie swith him. He rummages through it before pulling out two jars filled with red, pale ointments and placing them on the nightstand. He points to one.

“This is firemilk,” he explains. “A week's worth will cost 225 silver stags and it may reduce your recovery time by one week if rubbed in the wounds.” He points to the other jar. “This one contains Myrish Fire. A week's worth will cost you 700 silver, but it is more potent and more effective if you fear infection. I will warn you, the pain is so excruciating you will be too weak to leave your bed.”

He also hands you a vial of milk of the poppy, to drink tonight to dull your pain.

>Buy a week's worth of firemilk
>Buy a week's worth of Myrish fire
>Buy nothing

>>457027
>Buy a week's worth of firemilk

>>457027
>Buy firemilk
recovering fast is good and all but we need to be able to leave our bed

>>457027
>Firemilk

>>457027
>>Buy a week's worth of firemilk
We want to do shit in the week, like write plays or read some books.

>>457027
>firemilk
middle ground I guess

>>457031
or draw up sketches and plans for shit we might need

>>457034
Anything is better than sitting on our ass not doing anything.

>>457036
and yet here you are, sitting on your ass not doing anything but playing a stupid game of make believe.

Does it make you feel sad knowing the characters you create are infinitely more productive and useful people to society simply because they do not partake in the hobby you do which creates them?

File: 1469542214278.png (26 KB, 438x469)

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>>457037
#Savage.

>>457037
Who says I'm sitting in my ass? I'm doing lots of things that need to get done. I got to get the crops ready to be harvested.

>>457037
speaking of I think we need to introduce D&D to Westeros :^)

Writing!

>>457037
To be perfectly fair, I'd just keep the wounds clean with alcohol just for comfort reasons as it's guaranteed to work and won't leave you in horrible agony.

>>456991
>She simmers for a bit before sighing out. “Art,” she answers. “But I'm not stupid, alright. I learned other skills too. Like stitching up wounded cats.”
Damn. I was so hoping for vet, easily the most useful training for healing in a pre-modern society. Between my gf, the vet, and myself, the ED doctor, she'd be a better asset 9/10

>>456950
They're not babies, m8, they're useless trouble-causing parasites. Kill.

>>457115
[Muffled 'Crawling' playing the distance]

File: Inn room.jpg (1.84 MB, 3456x2304)

1.84 MB JPG

“I'll purchase the firemilk.” The man nods and picks up one of the jars, placing it back in his bag. You shell out the gold dragons required to pay him for the drugs and his expertise, a little extra added on to the final cost due to calling him out here so late at night. He tips his hat to you as he exits, wishing you a speedy recovery.

Raina takes a brush and dips it into the crimson, oily substance. She applies it to your stab wound first, between the stitches knitted in your flesh. It stings like dozens of fire ants nipping at your wound. The feeling is even worse – amplified by the proximity to your vital brain – when she rubs some of it on the back of your skull. The headache worsens, but the feeling of being cleansed is immense as you imagine the burning sensation to be an eradication of all the things unclean and dirty about the affected areas.

Sounded a bit like Melisandre there for a second, you think jocundly in your head. Afterwards, you ingest the vial of Milk of the poppy and feel your eyes flutter and droop as the biting, itching, burning pain fades away into . . . nothingness. Sleep comes easy then – like you're dozing in warm milk, sleeping upon floating clouds in the sky above.

. . .

Singing bluejays rouse you from your slumber. You start to shift in your bed only to realize there is a great weight attached to your side, wrapped round you. Raina grumbles and squeezes you tighter at your jostling, only semi-conscious.

Eventually you dislodge yourself from her iron grip and swing your legs over the side of the bed, rising up to your full height and stretching. You look out the window. It seems to be late morning. Shit.

You rush to the doorway, trying to shake the woozy hangover of the drugs out of your bones. Opening the door reveals Tyrion, wide-eyed with his hand raised as if he was about to knock. Behind him stands Bronn and Chiggen.

“Oh . . . Will!” the dwarf exclaims. “Mills informed us you were stabbed and beaten. You look . . . relatively alright considering that occurrence.”

“Robbed on the way back to the inn?” Bronn asks with a perturbed look on his face.

You nod. “Yeah. Managed to get the money back and gut the fucker who did it though.”

Bronn nods his head. “Shame.”

“Shame?” you ask incredulously. Bronn seems like the last person to regret the loss of life.

“Chiggen, yourself and I all were attacked yesterday. A hard coincidence to sell, don't you think?” he presents rhetorically. “Easiest way to figure out who the fuck's behind it would be to interrogate the slimy fucker, but . . . maybe I could still go around Flea Bottom and knock some heads. See what that turns up.”

“Yes,” Tyrion comments awkwardly at the mention of violence. “Well, regardless of any head knocking issues . . . Will, are you well enough to come watch the last of the tourney with me. I would appreciate your company watching my brother joust the Clegane brothers.”

>>457115
Real edgy

>Yeah, I can make it to the tourney
>I'll stay here and recover

AND

>Bronn, go knock some heads
>Bronn, go knock some heads but take Chiggen with you
>Bronn, don't go knock some heads

AND

Something else? (write-in)

>>457127
>something else
Bet our money in the tourney

>>457123
>Yeah, I can make it to the tourney

>Bronn, go knock some heads but take Chiggen with you

>>457127
>Yeah, I can make it to the tourney
>Bronn, go knock some heads but take Chiggen with you

>>457123
>Something else? (write-in)
I've got a plan.
Maybe we can figure out who was watching us make the bets and then make him squeal.

>>457127

also this>>457132

>>457132
This too

>>457127
>Yeah, I can make it to the tourney
>Bronn, go knock some heads but take Chiggen with you

>>457127
>Bronn, go knock some heads but take Chiggen with you
>Yeah, I can make it to the tourney

>>457125
Not everyone's fallen for your American pro-life rubbish buddy

>>457137
Like, we make some bets, see who rushes out to make the same bets, then we follow that guy and use pear of anguish on him or something to get him squeal.

>>457133
This and >>457132
Use brokers and Tyrion.
>>457127

>>457145
What are you talking about? Europe was better pro life shit than the states. Most have a limit nothing over nine weeks in some countries. But in the states some states you could wait one day before the baby is out.

>>457145
>There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface. Consuming, confusing.~

Daily reminder abortion is only okay when its low income niggers preventing more crime-prone monkey babies from roaming the streets.

Daily reminder abortion is not for stuck-up, middle-class, selfish, lazy white women to shirk their feminine duties and feel empowered because they have abandoned child-rearing -- the sacred, eternal duty of the female.


Writing!

>>457155
spoken like a true /pol/tard!

>>457155
Now Trick is making sense. Well good night

File: 1458211938157.png (61 KB, 444x547)

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>>457155

We should get our clothes washed before we go to a tourney.
Is this high class enough establishment that we could have the room service do that for us or do we need to charm the innkeeper's daughter to do that?

File: Littlefinger2.jpg (36 KB, 300x469)

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“Yeah, I can make it to the tourney. Bronn, if you're going to bust some heads, bring Chiggen with you. I'll be sticking close to Tyrion so I don't need much protection.”

Tyrion chuckles. “Goodie. A Dwarf for armor, William? Well, I'll wait for you to dress yourself. Hurry if you can, the joust will begin soon.”

Chiggen and Bronn depart while you put on your entertainer's clothes seeing as your noble's clothes are currently bloody and a bit unsightly. You nudge Raina awake and she grumbles about no longer having a toothbrush here in Westeros.

. . .

Eventually the two of you – accompanied by Mills, Tyrion, Morrec and your trusty hound Millennium – are riding at an easy canter out the King's Gate.

You reach the same spot you were sitting at yesterday in the stands as Ser Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane prepare for their tilt at each other. Tyrion uncorks a bottle of his personal wine and you share a cup between the two of you as well as Raina. Unfortunately for Mills, he is forced to watch with the commoners and stand next to your dog who . . . for some strange reason he has come to dislike. More than once you've had to chide him for attempting to kick the poor pooch.

Joffrey begins regaling Sansa downwind of you with the deeds and accomplishments of his 'dog' and his uncle the Kingslayer. He is sure, no matter who wins this bout, one of the two will take the ultimate win and the tourney prize.

A few rows in front of you, Littlefinger stands up proudly and announce a proclamation. “500 gold dragons on Ser Jaime Lannister. A dog never bites the hand that feeds it!” He chuckles and receives a few parting laughs from some of the surrounding viewers at his jest.

>Say nothing
>I'll take that bet Lord Baelish
>Make it 1000 gold dragons and you're on!
>Something else? (write-in)

>>457202
>Make it 1000 gold dragons and you're on!

>>457202
>Make it 1,000 gold dragons and you're on!
ind4 what we say to Jaime make us lost the 1,000 gold :^)

>>457202
>I'll take that bet Lord Baelish
worry.jpg

>>457202
>I'll take that bet Lord Baelish

>>457202
>>I'll take that bet Lord Baelish

This smells fishy.

Sandor would throw a fight in he was paid enough right? He wouldn't care about his rep losing to Jamie.

And you guys have been winning a lot so things might have changed or people are watching you to see who you bet on.

Food for thought.

>>457202
>Say nothing
We told Jamie we'd cheer for him. Bros first man

>>457233
Of course it smells fishy, but at the same time, it's a relatively safe bet.
If we take that bet and the result is different, we've got a suspect.

I take this as 500g for information.

>>457233
Isn't the winner of the tourney supposed to make way more than 1000 dragons?

Writing!

>>457233
He wants a chance to go at his brother though.
It's one of the few ways it's legal to kill him.

File: Littlefinger 3.jpg (34 KB, 344x365)

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Rolled 80 (1d100)

“I'll take that bet Lord Baelish,” you call from above, waving to him. He turns round and a smug smile graces his lips, although his eyes remain so absolutely . . . cold. Tyrion beside you grimaces.

Littlefinger mimics a sigh. “How unfortunate. It seems the bard with an eye for winners bets against me. I offered the stakes and you called, so unfortunately it would be poor form to rescind my claim, despite how sure I am now that I have chosen poorly. Well, at some point or another we all lose. Yet . . .” a predatory gleam comes to his eyes. “To think Tyrion Lannister himself would bet against his elder brother is preposterous. You'd never bet against Ser Jaime, would you?” The question is pointed and fierce, a verbal thrust.

Tyrion's face curdles, bringing wrinkles to his already squashed features. “Never,” Tyrion whispers like a shade. “I always have faith in my brother.”

“Well a man in your employ has just bet against him,” Petyr explains loudly like the conclusion is simple. “A man I believe has some acute skill at gauging a joust. William's impressions are enough to sway me. 1000 gold dragons on Sandor Clegane's victory! Will you call that bet, Lord Imp? Or does your faith not reach your deep, deep pockets?”

The dwarf's fist clenches. He forces his face to remain neutral, despite the building anger you can feel radiating off his body in waves. A few tense seconds pass in the stands as Jaime and Sandor mount their respective steeds.

“Of course I won't call that bet, Littlefinger,” Tyrion admits sadly in defeat.

Jaime and Sandor pick up their tourney lances.

Littlefinger begins to speak. “A shame tha –”

“I'll double it!” Tyrion spits.

“Deal!” Baelish responds instantaneously.

The flag is waved and the jousters barrel down the lists.

>>457277
I hope that's the roll for our boys shaking up the town.

>>457277
Baelish is a smart motherfucker

File: Tourney of the Hand.jpg (157 KB, 800x526)

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Rolled 63 (1d100)

Sandor Clegane, with a tabard depicting three black dogs upon a yellow field, and Ser Jaime Lannister, gilded in golden armor with a tabard depicting a yellow lion upon a red background, urge their horses onwards at each other.

As the distance between the two riders rapidly closes and the building sound of galloping hooves seems to boom in your ears you can't help but feel tense. You aren't precisely sure who you want to win at this point. You feel your teeth clench and grind against each other like you're Stannis Baratheon with the tension hanging in the air like a knife.

Tyrion merely whispers indecipherable gibberish – to your ear – under his breath as his eyes are glued upon Jaime. Littlefinger won't even sit down, tapping his foot anxiously.

The two titans of combat close upon each other and . . . . . their lances crash into each other's shields. Jaime's almost sends Sandor soaring from his horse, but the younger Clegane barely manages to hold on. Jaime seems much less affected by Sandor's tilt as they ride past each other.

Tyrion sighs out. Littlefinger looks back and grimace slightly, but doesn't seem to have lost all hope yet.

Jaime and Sandor's lances have both splintered. They pick up two fresh new lances and prepare for the second pass.

File: Tyrion.gif (437 KB, 500x245)

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The two riders come at each other a second time. Clegane's snarling hound helmet an intimidating ornament compared to Jaime's regal lion helm.

They charge down the lists and . . . Jaime Lannister takes a lance to his shield again while his own lance rides up into the helmet of Sandor Clegane.

The force of the blow is so discombobulating Sandor falls backwards off his horse, the gigantic man flipping end over end as he crashes loudly into the dirt.

Jaime Lannister remains ahorse and while the crowds do cheer his victory, none do so more than Tyrion. He jumps to a standing position atop the seats of the spectator bench and yells triumphantly – a veritable Lion's roar.

Petyr seems frozen stiff. He casts a glance back at the Imp, who, upon locking eyes with the Master of Coin, refuses to give Petyr respite.

“Seems my faith in my brother will be rewarded, Littlefinger. From your very not so deep, deep pockets.”

“I guess no man is right every time,” Littlefinger comments plainly as he retakes his seat.

Ahead of you, you hear Sansa remark sadly that she was sure the Hound was going to win the joust.

Jaime removes his helm and waves to the crowd proudly, his chest puffed up.

As the hype dies down and sobriety returns to the stands, Jaime Lannister and The Hound retreat to their respective positions as Kingsguard member and loyal bodyguard.

Up next . . . Ser Gregor Clegane versus Ser Loras Tyrell.

The giant 8ft man begins his preparations with the monstrous, black stallion he plans to ride while Loras Tyrell brushes his snow white colored mare's mane.

You know how this next bit proceeds.

>Don't interfere
>Interfere in some way (how?)
>Something else? (write-in)

And I'm done for the night.

>>457299
>Something else? (write-in)
Tell Tyrion we were amazed that bluff worked...totally according to plan.

Don't bet this time

>>457299
>discretely whisper to Tyrion about Loras' fate
>ask for his imput
remember, he'll get pissy with us if we don't

>>457299
Don't interfere

>Something else? (write-in)
We should whisper Tyrion that the Hound's gonna try and kill Loras after losing.

>>457299
Is the hound still in a fit state to stay his brothers hand before the flower boy gets himself killed? Maybe we should let Tyrion make a fuss

>>457304
>>457299
this +1

>>457312
Meant the mountain

>>457314
If we end up not interfering at least don't bet on the cheaty fucker

>>457312
>this.

.....Shit.....oh no.... We should tell Tyrion that Loras may be about to be murdered by the mountain. Act like we literally just had the vision.

Tell him if Loras beats him the mountain will try to murder him after killing his own horse

Oh shit I just remembered, we should check if that other better from Earth won or lost money from that joust

>>457349
We don't know if he's from earth.

>>457349
He could be the first bookie we fleeced.

>>457351
we'll find out I guess

>>457362
or we won't.
Could be he slips from our grasp entirely.
It's possible the other guy making the bets got attacked as well and he's after the same guys as us.

>>457367
I could be the other guy is Isaac from the Velo thread.

>>457381
Could be.
He did get attacked as well.

>>457367
I bet that was Isaac, time to kill him for good?

>>457385
Eh, I dunno. It could be more advantageous if we could get him to join us.
Like everyone already thinks he is a spy.

If it was discovered that he's a spy from House Shakespeare, that would certainly give us credibility.
We could say that it's time for him to retire from service and just enjoy life.

>>457385
why kill him. We could recruit him

>>457396
Because Velo is ashamed of his sins to QMing and decides to remove his power fantasy alt personality forever

>>457304
Actually, don't say anything, just wink.

By the way, do we have our sword with us?
I say we throw that to Loras the moment the mountain starts to decapitate his horse.

>>457299
>Interfere in some way (how?)
have the Hound be on stand by nearby, since he lost he'll try to go away and drink, but he has to fight here and save the fag's life
>Jaime removes his helm and waves to the crowd proudly, his chest puffed up.
Is this a result of us telling him he's more than a kingslayer?
i'd like to believe it is.

>>457525
>have the Hound be on stand by nearby, since he lost he'll try to go away and drink, but he has to fight here and save the fag's life
Doubt that'll be enough given the unexpected lance to the head.
I vote discuss w/ Tyrion but still try to profiit from the fight.

>>457464
+1

>>457336
this too

>>457299

>>457304
>>457315
Brag that your bluff worked

>>457307
>>457312
>>457321
>>457336
>>458351

Tell Tyrion Loras is in danger

>>457310
Don't interfere

Writing!

"writing"

File: Jaime Lannister.jpg (35 KB, 540x360)

35 KB JPG

Fear and concern grip you by the throat and throttle you harshly. If Jaime won that joust – whether due to your pep talk from yesterday or some other contributing factor – that means the rest of the events of the tourney could be altered heavily. Sandor stalked back to his place by the Crown Prince, but from the sullen expression on his face you aren't entirely sure anymore if he's going to stand up to Gregor. The last two semi-finalists mount their horses.

Leaning into Tyrion, you whisper your concern. “Ser Gregor is going to lose the joust due to a clever ploy of Ser Loras's.”

Tyrion squints before whispering back. “You're sure?”

“1,000 gold dragons on Ser Loras!” Littlefinger declares. “Mountains may ride but flowers grow atop them.”

Lord Jason Mallister laughs. “Make it 2000 Baelish. I won't let the Imp be the only one to swindle you out of your coin.”

Baelish shrugs. “I will be begging on the streets by nightfall.”

Tyrion scowls. “Alright, I'm sure. What of it?”

You sigh. “Gregor grows angry because of the trick. His temper gets the best of him and he slays his horse before attacking Ser Loras.”

“Gregor does have poor impulse control. Does the Tyrell boy die? My father would have Gregor's head for starting a conflict of that magnitude.”

“Loras survives, but only due to the Hound's intervention. But the future I saw –”

“Had the Hound defeating my brother in the joust before. And you think the loss might cause Sandor not to step in?”

“It's possible. Do you wish to risk Gregor Clegane causing friction between the Reach and the Westerlands?”

“No, he's caused enough between The Westerlands and Dorne as it is. But there isn't much I can really do, William. Unless you want me to jump in and stop him.”

A second of silence comes between the two of you as Tyrion's eyes shift to the form of his brother, dutifully guarding the King.

“I could ask my brother to intervene. A finer knight has never lived and he'll listen to me. Yet . . .”

“Yet what?” you inquire.

Tyrion gulps. “There is a saying, I am sure, of men who try to move mountains.”

>Convince Jaime to intervene
>Don't
>Something else? (write-in)

>>459395
ask him to give a warning to Loras to be very careful and not drop his guard after the tilt.

>>459395
>Something else? (write-in)
"Robert got pissed and stopped the fight before it lasted very long. Maybe we can just yell at Loras to run towards us as the Mountain kills his horse?"

>>459395
>Don't
Don't worse happens if your brother dies. If fighting begins. We'll have to try something else

>>459395
>Convince Jaime to intervene

>>459395
>Convince Jaime to intervene

>>459395
>>Convince Jaime to intervene

No don't risk Jamie, don't do it. We need him on side. It's not worth the risk. Throw rose boy a sword while the mountain kills his horse but don't risk a lion

>>459395
I'll change my vote here >>459467 to this >>459476
Throw him a sword if shit gets hairy.

Vote called.

Writing at some point who knows.

>>459395
>Something else? (write-in)
"Maybe we can throw him a sword when Mountain is busy killing his mount."
"Mounted knights have advantage over dismounted ones."

>>459561
Not when the Dismounted one is taller than the Horse by a more than would be fair margin.

>>459566
The advantage is that of mobility.
Horseman doesn't need to let a footman to hit himself.

>>459594
Dude the Mountain's sword has "THIS KILL THE HORSE" engraved on it.

>>459395
I know I'm a bit late but I say Loras mad his bed and he can dam well sleep in it.

File: Gregor Clegane.jpg (44 KB, 540x360)

44 KB JPG

Rolled 16 (1d100)

“Get your brother to intervene,” you almost order the dwarf. Thankfully your social better doesn't take offense at the urgency of the request. He leaps up and begins waddling across the stands, thankfully too short to obscure the view of the audience from the now galloping knights.

It's clear even now that Loras's ploy is working just as it did in the novels. Gregor is struggling with his unruly black stallion that he can barely control. Loras, meanwhile, charges smoothly down the field on his mare. You spare a glance towards Tyrion and see he has made it to his brother. Jaime Lannister leans forward and listens intently to Tyrion's words. The Kingslayer glances at the still occurring joust and nods once in recognition, although he continues to speak with his brother.

The two jousters meet while The Mountain is still struggling with his lance and shield. Loras's weapon perfectly strikes the center of Gregor's breastplate and doesn't even break as he rides by.

Gregor falls down in a crash of horse flesh, steel and mass. The cheers of the crowd are so loud for the triumphant pretty boy knight, who raises his visor and waves elegantly to the crowd in his post-victory trot, that many people don't hear Ser Gregor's shout as he rises back to his feet.

“SWORD!” you faintly hear Gregor's outcry of rage and watch as his squire comes running. Tyrion points out the Mountain's actions to his brother, who stares at the scene from within his ornate lion helm.

When Gregor unsheathes his massive six foot greatsword from the scabbard the frightful boy attending the knight has brought, Jaime says one final word to Tyrion and then begins running down from the King's place of honor towards the tourney field.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOIN' KINGSL –” King Robert's demand is halted as the scream of Gregor's horse silences the audience.

You watch blood spurt and drip from the neck of the black beast, nearly beheaded in one blow. It collapses loudly to the ground in a SLUMP. Sansa gasps, as do others. Joffrey sits up and looks forward intently. Loras glances over his shoulder towards the ugly noise. His mare trots nervously in place.

Jaime has descended from the stands to the lists as Gregor begins stomping towards The Knight of Flowers, his rage apparent even if his visage is hidden behind his great plate helm. The slit used for vision too narrow for you to get a glimpse of the giant's eyes from your position.

He hefts his sword in two hands over his shoulder – even though you know he can hold it in one.

“Stop!” Jaime declares, drawing his own gilded longsword.

Gregor shows no indication of listening to the son of his liege lord, his anger too blinding – clouding any judgment the dim man might have.

Even at a large, imposing height himself – being roughly 6ft 2 – Jaime is dwarfed by Clegane's eight foot frame.

It looks to be a real David and Goliath situation.

>>459669
POST MORE NOW
QUICKLY
THE SUSPENSE
IS KILLING ME

>>459767
He's maimed Jim.

>>459772
I"M GIVING HER
ALL SHES GOT
CAP'N

>>459669
My god this is too intense.It might be your best update so far, trick.

File: Fight at the Tourney.jpg (142 KB, 800x430)

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Gregor moves forward. Jaime raises his plain white shield – the only signifier of his status as a member of the kingsguard, save for the matching cloak – and prepares himself, shifting into a fighting stance.

The minute movement is all it takes to set Gregor off. Viewing Jaime as little more than an obstacle in his path, he swings his mighty sword in a flat arc.

Jaime jumps back as he braces his shield to block the blow. Jaime is possibly the best swordsman in the land, but even with the skill to properly stop a sword, the power coursing through the Mountain's trunk-like arms proves too great for a mere metal shield to blunt.

The force of the strike sends a roaring THRUM coursing from the impact as the shield crumples and Jaime is flung to the side, sprawling into the dirt. He rises to his feet still, not letting the setback throw off his mind as it did his body. Kneeling on one knee he raises his sword and prepares to be sent to the grave the way a warrior should – steel in hand. Gregor raises his weapon over his head for an overhead smash to permanently deal with the gilded, golden annoyance.

Cersei stands and screams, Tyrion gasps. King Robert has a slack look on his face, confused.

The Hound, however, has already barreled across the list.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he rasps at his elder brother. The sound of his sibling speaking actually seems to attract Gregor's attention. Instead of bringing his sword down upon Jaime, The Mountain brings it around his body to clash with Sandor's own thrusted blade.

The two large men's weapons bounce off each other and as Gregor prepares his next attack, Robert finally finds his voice.

“STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!”

Sandor drop to a kneeling position under Gregor's half-hearted swing, stymied by the King's proclamation. It seems Robert's booming voice finally draws him out of his aggressive fugue.

You watch Gregor's helm fix itself upon King Robert's person. You can see the Mountain breathing heavily, his gigantic frame shaking, boiling with rage. He drops his sword with an audible THUNK and begins storming off back towards his squire, metal boots stomping through the tourney ground dirt.

Barristan moves forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. King Robert places a meaty mitt upon Selmy's shoulder, halting him from pursuing the retreating knight.

“Let him go,” Robert simply says. “SOMEONE GET PYCELLE DOWN HERE TO LOOK AT MY BROTHER-IN-LAW'S ARM!”

This shout is much more commanding and even in tone as opposed to Robert's last outburst.

Tyrion has run down the stands to where Jaime now sits in the dirt. Cersei, for all the love you see in her eyes for her lover, has the sense of tact to stay by Robert's side during the whole ordeal.

>Go to Jaime
>Skedaddle
>Stay where you are?
>Something else? (write-in)

>>459804
>Stay where you are?

>>459804
Go to Jamie

Visit Jaime with Tyrion actually.

>>459804
>>Stay where you are?
>>Something else? (write-in)
Play something to lighten the mood, maybe Bowie's Heroes.

>>459816
Stay where you are

>>459826
>>459831
Go to Jaime

Writing

>>459804
>Go to Jaime

File: Loras Tyrell.png (162 KB, 300x297)

162 KB PNG

You stand and make your way down the stands towards Tyrion, leaving Raina all by her lonesome.

You cross into the lists towards the two Lannister brothers. Loras has pulled his horse around and dismounted. He kneels behind Jaime and helps Tyrion with undoing the fastenings on the left shoulder of The Kingslayer's golden plate. The white shield lays dented. crumpled and useless on the ground. Sandor has stalked back off to guard his charge once more.

“Good job, dog. You saved my nuncle,” Joffrey congratulates his pet.

Jaime rips his helm off with his right arm and tosses it across the tourney ground, the lion tumbling through the dirt. “Gods damn that stupid . . . violent – hurry up, Tyrion!”

“I'm sorry, brother,” Tyrion apologizes honestly. “I have never been squired, so I am not familiar with how to undo plate.”

“Don't worry, I'll handle it,” Loras offers as he finishes getting the pauldron off of Jaime. He gently sets the golden shoulder guard down. You finally make it to them and kneel beside Tyrion.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

“No,” Jaime darkly mutters, as he studies you. “My arm is broken.”

“Are you sure, brother?” Tyrion inquires.

“Yes, I'm sure!”

“I apologize I should have never –”

“Quiet! I am more upset the brute bested me. You hear that, boy?” He speaks over his shoulder to the youthful knight now working on removing the couter. “You win the final joust by default. I can no longer compete. For quite a few months, I'm afraid.”

Loras laughs. “Do not worry, Ser Jaime. I believe I have some idea of what transpired. You may have saved my life by halting Ser Gregor. I forfeit the final joust. You may take the winner's purse.”

“I am painfully aware gold will not restore dignity or reputation lost,” Jaime comments ruefully. “I guess I'll give the winning purse to Clegane. I owe him my life, I suppose. Tyrion, send our father a letter detailing which dog needs be beat and which should be rewarded with a good bone. Maybe he can inspire some sense in that man's head.”

As the last piece of armor comes off you see a very large bruise on Jaime's upper arm. Looks like there might be some internal bleeding as well.

Pycelle finally manages to shuffle his boney, decrepit ass down to the tourney grounds and shoos you all away.

You and Tyrion awkwardly look at each other.

>What now? (write-in)

Also I'm playing pokemon go for the rest of the night so no more updates for a while.

>>459922
>What now? (write-in)
Get a practice spear and get to work

>>459922
>go to some inn
>speak privately to Tyrion about what we saw

>>459930
can't, for a week remember?

>>459922
>ask tyron how to invest our money
>ask tyron if we can land a job as royal bard

>>459922
>What now? (write-in)
Makes sure our woman is still about, number 2 regather the party. 3 joke to Tyrion about pycelles fake issues. Ask Tyrion what it would take to have red keep quarters

>>459932
fug, you're right, we should still buy one though
>>459934
Supportan

>>459934
i guess this too

>>459922
>ask Tyron how to invest our money
>ask Tyron if we can land a job as royal bard
>Buy some books of about skills, like spear fighting, or something else. Also write a play

>>459922
Ask if Tyrion can look after our money while we recover.
Read a book about navigation and try to get in touch with Davos Seaworth or the master of ships in general and try to inquire what the price of ships is nowadays.

>>459930
>Practice spear
You mean a stick?

>>459930
train while injured

>>459932
Speak privately to Tyrion about what you "saw"

>>459934
>>459939
>>459943
>>459951 (plus purchase books)
Ask to invest money as well as be royal bard

>>459936
stuff

>>460104
I'm voting
>Ask Tyrion for help investing
Maybe mention some modern inventions to him and get his advice. Inventing in the printing press could make us seriously rich.
>Ask Tyrion for help landing a job as a royal bard
>Attempt to befriend Jaime and Tommen

>>460131
Seconding, especially the inventing printing part

File: Littlefinger.jpg (149 KB, 800x544)

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“So Tyrion,” you ask as you re-enter the stands. “What would be a good investment for my money?”

He eyes you curiously. “I would suggest gold mines, but I believe my father would run you out of business rather quickly and if not that, it would end up a bad investment for your . . . health.”

“Might I suggest brothels?” Petyr asks as he approaches you both heaving a heavy, purple velvet sack clinking with coins. “I apologize for eavesdropping, but I want to settle my debt with the Lannisters now rather than later. Here are 2000 gold dragons, container courtesy of Lord Jason Mallister.” He throws Tyrion the sack of coins, before turning to you. “Of course if you would like to invest in one of my pleasure houses – seeing as you're already giving me 500 gold dragons.”

“Let's make it simpler,” Tyrion speaks, tossing the bag back to Lord Baelish. “Take 500 gold dragons out of that sack and you can give the rest to my friend William here. I only wished to humiliate you. William can rob you or fund you, whichever he wishes.”

Petyr gives you an appreciative look. As he does so, Pycelle has managed to get Jaime's broken left arm into a sling. Jaime is brought back to a standing position and the announcer for the jousts comes out to declares him the winner of the competition.

Ser Loras and Jaime clasp hands, Loras enthusiastically raising their hands up to promote the crowds cheering further. Jaime even convinces the Hound, after some aggressive urging, to come forward as well for the crowd to commend him too and his brave defense of Ser Jaime.

“Alright, enough cheering for a joust that didn't even happen!” King Robert announces. “On to the archery field!”

As people begin to file out of the stands to watch the shooting competition, you contemplate and muse over Lord Baelish's offer.'

>Invest in Littlefinger's brothels for 1500 gold dragons
>Invest in Littlefinger's brothels for even more money than that! (how much?)
>Invest in Littlefinger's brothels for 1500 gold dragons and he owes you a favor
>Invest in Littlefinger's brothels for 1550 gold dragons and he has to ensure you will be named the royal bard
>Nah, fuck off Littlefinger
>Something else? (write-in)

>>460200
>ask for more details first
>what does this investment entail exactly

>>460200
>Nah, fuck off Littlefinger
"Sorry, I've had bad experiences with brothels."

I say we get a ship.

>>460200
>>Nah, fuck off Littlefinger
>Something else? (write-in)
A fucking ship, also some books and shit since we have to rest for a week.

Writing!

>>460213
Be a polite fag when we tell him to fuck off

>>460200
>Invest in Littlefinger's brothels for 1550 gold dragons and he has to ensure you will be named the royal bard

>>460222
For some reason that option I tagged 50 more gold dragons onto the bribe. Eh, whatever

>>460222
I don't think being a royal bard is particularily a safe occupation.

>>460228
Well It is a usefull and influent position,probably the best one we can get right now

>>460230
True that, but it's also a deadend and has a risk of us pissing off the royal family if we have to leave without them being ok with it or if we say something wrong.

With the current royals, I'd rather not risk it.

File: Mills.jpg (17 KB, 212x300)

17 KB JPG

Rolled 24, 7, 100 = 131 (3d100)

“Unfortunately Lord Baelish I have had a few bad experiences with brothels recently,” you politely decline.

“Yes I heard,” he replies, smiling and handing you the bag. Your eyes narrow a bit as you grip the soft, velvety texture.

“From who?” you ask.

“Oh, from Chataya. She told me you came into one of my establishments seeking employment and turned down quite the offer. To think 2 gold dragons a day was too poor an offer for you. I fear what plans you must be hatching to earn yourself more financial gain at faster a pace than that. I do hope you aren't planning to clean up at every tourney. King Robert loves his contests, but they are not held so often you hope to make your fortunes that way. Especially if your luck continues like this. Regardless – I will keep my eyes out for your business ventures, my friend.”

He bows deeply to you and then takes his leave at that moment. Only Littlefinger could make you feel like you lost while holding 1500 gold dragons in profit in your hands.

You and Tyrion eventually make your way to the archery field and watch as those competitions occur.

You manage to convince enough lords to bet against your pick for the winner – Anguy – that when the boy manages to defeat Jalabhar Xho and Ser Balon Swann at 100 paces you find yourself 3000 gold dragons richer.

However, when it comes to the grand melee to close the tournament, only after you've bet roughly 1,500 gold dragons on Thoros of Myr to take the victory do you discover an interesting bit of information that . . . surprises you.

It seems that Mills signed up to join the melee last night and he will be competing along with 39 other men to take the grand purse of 20,000 gold dragons.

He gives you a friendly wave as he mounts his horse and gallops to the starting area. You are left to watch in abject horror at whatever occurs in the next . . . you believe the melee took three hours to finish in the novels.

Well, here's hoping the fool doesn't get himself killed.

>>460234
Where going to bet his opponent

>>460234
>100
Mill the madman win it all.
All the 20,000 gold dragons, you blonde hair warrior you did it.

Any niggas with a good plan on how to make mad dosh after the tourney?

Clearly Mills got a combat build, the mad man.

>>460234
Surely he doesn't know sword fighting¿ Maybe he is a secret ninja

File: Melee.jpg (235 KB, 1242x810)

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You, Raina, Morrec, Tyrion – hell, even Millennium the dog understands how crazy this is on some level – watch in abject horror as the melee begins and Mills immediately rushes into the fray with his horse, screaming his damn, fool head off.

He charges some knight and smacks him over the head with a blunted tourney blade. The victim falls off his horse and is forced to yield under a barrage of smacks as Mills screams South African obscenities at the poor boy.

Eventually Mills realizes he's won that particular bout and moves on to the next knight to savage with his weapon.

This continues as the melee goes on for another hour and a half as well as another seven combatants – each one putting up more of a struggle than the last, but all of them eventually yielding to the screaming South African. At this point you're watching in pure awe. Mills is a chaotic whirlwind on the battlefield.

Finally it comes to the last two fighters left standing – Thoros of Myr, his sword alight with green flame and Mills the ornery South African.

Mills takes one look at Thoros's weapon and spits on the ground. “Fok off you're flaming shit doesn't scare me.”

The ensuing clash of longswords lasts for two minutes of conflict, before Mills ends up kicking Thoros's horse with his boot. The beast rears up at the discomfort and throws the fat Myrish red priest to the ground in a heap of red silk robes. The foreigner raises his hands and laughs jovially at being bested, surrendering gracefully rather than continuing on against the onslaught of a beat down sure to follow.

The spectating crowds go up in a cacophony of sound as they cheer for your bodyguard. Your little group also finds itself screaming at the top of their lungs for his victory. He raises his sword high in the air and takes in the praise. Even with the niggling though in the back of your brain about losing out on 1500 gold dragons you still can't help but feel happy for his success.

When Mills whips out his dick to piss out the wildfire on Thoros's sword, King Robert's distinctive jolly laugh adds to the noise as a noticeable undercurrent.

“Now there's a fucking warrior!” He bellows praise for the brutish act. “That man can have a seat at my fucking table tonight.”

When Mills finally escapes from the throngs of adoring fans and lords of various ranks offering him jobs and positions on their forces, you hug him tight.

“I bet 1500 gold dragons the man you beat was going to win!” you yell mock angry in his ear.

He laughs uproariously. “The fok you doing betting against me?”

“I didn't know you were competing!” He sputters his retort, as if that explains it all away.

“Well I bet all my money on me at ten to one odds. I just made 3000 more gold dragons off winning!” He cackles. “See ya at the feast tonight, Shakespeare.”

File: A Feast.jpg (328 KB, 605x496)

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After purchasing a new noble's outfit for a gold dragon to replace your bloodied one, you arrive at the feasting grounds for the second and final night of the tourney.

Jaime, Tyrion and Raina sit together, chatting with the Hound.

Mills speaks with Ser Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon, the King's own brother.

Chiggen and Bronn are here even, way in the back talking with Anguy – the man who won the archery competition.

At the same time Morrec, Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr are getting wasted together, drinking deep of their cups while feeding your dog scraps from the table.

>Go to Jaime, Tyrion, Raina and the Hound
>go to Mills, Loras and Renly
>Go to Chiggen, Bronn and Anguy
>Go to Morrec, Beric, Thoros and Millennium
>Talk to someone else at the feast (who?)
>Fuck this feast, go to sleep
>Something else? (write-in)

>>460273
>Go to Jaime, Tyrion, Raina and the Hound

Last update of the night.

Voting stays open until I run again.

>>460273
>Go to Jaime, Tyrion, Raina and the Hound

File: mills atm.jpg (273 KB, 1162x850)

273 KB JPG

We should go ask Mills what his plans are next as well.

>>460273
>Something else? (write-in)
Begin thrashing out hard party music, time to impress the crowd

>>460273
Let's go rustle the hound's jimmies. Also find out how the Fuck mills beat a bunch of trained fighters. Damn now I wish Robert had fought

>>460273
>>go to Mills, Loras and Renly
AWEH BOET
EK IS DIE SHIT BRU
EK HET AL DIE MENSE GEFOK

>>460273
>>Go to Jaime, Tyrion, Raina and the Hound
These three, then Millls Loras and Rnly later

>>460285
This, most definately.

>>460285
dis

>>460273
>>Go to Jaime, Tyrion, Raina and the Hound

Rolled 25 (1d100)

better than 6 please

Rolled 95 (1d100)

>>460408
rolling for oral ability

>>460273
>Go to Jaime, Tyrion, Raina and the Hound

>>460279
>>460285
Also these

File: The King Slayer.jpg (98 KB, 424x500)

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You make your way to Tyrion and the people he's dining with at the feast. Jaime wears a crimson silk tunic embroidered with a golden lion. He also wears a crimson cloak and a leather jack as well as a white, cloth sling wrapping his broken left arm.

Meanwhile The Hound digs into his food ravenously while Raina fixes him with a dreamy stare that every now and again Sandor looks up, acknowledges and then awkwardly goes back to his food.

“So how long will you be out of commission, brother?” Tyrion asks his elder sibling as you sit down and grab a bowl of crab leg soup.

“Pycelle says a few months,” Jaime relays as he spoons spotted dick into his mouth.

“Are you taking milk of the poppy?”

“No. I prefer the pain to the dulling of the senses.”

You aren't sure if you agree with that sentiment, feeling the burning itching sensation from your arm and head due to the recent application of firemilk. Thankfully it is less intense than yesterday, but you think you may have worsened it by boiling some of the wine you bought and drizzling it over the wounds just to be extra careful.

“Well,” Tyrion continues the conversation. “You will have to recover quickly. The Warden of the East is a demanding position.”

Jaime rolls his eyes at the mention of his newly gained position. “I despise that fucking title. I don't even live in the Vale.”

“Narrow Sea runs up and down the entire east side of the country.”

“And I live on the Western side. And what happens when father passes? Will I be Warden of the West too? I'll have to be on both sides of the Kingdom simultaneously.”

“As well as Lord of Casterly Rock,” Tyrion tacks on, bemused.

“I will foist one of these burdens upon you, little brother. Mark my words.”

“That won't please Cersei~~” Tyrion practically sings, biting into a biscuit slathered in jelly.

Jaime scoffs. “Cersei is never pleased. I could be The Warden of the North and South as well and she would merely ask why I am not ruling the Kingdom yet.”

“If you rule, she rules,” Tyrion says plainly.

File: Sandor Clegane.jpg (46 KB, 300x393)

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“Do you two ever shut up?” The Hound inquires gruffly, raising his face from his lamb stew, garnished with carrots, peas and basil.

Tyrion and Jaime look at each other and laugh at the burned man's insulting question. Sandor then rounds on Raina, still staring at him.

“What are you looking at?!” he finally demands of her impolite behavior.

“Uhhhhhhh, you,” she answers lamely.

“Well stop!” he growls. “Or I'll rip your eyes from your fucking skull.”

Jaime chuckles and slaps the large man on the shoulder, directing Sandor's fury towards himself. Jaime doesn't look the slightest bit uneasy at being on the receiving end of Sandor's anger.

“Please, let's keep this feast civil. No more bloodshed. Tell me Clegane, what do you plan to do with the money?”

“Depends,” Sandor spits. “Your father executing my brother?”

Jaime sighs out. “I do not believe so. Chastised, stripped of some boon, denied some appointment. But –”

“My brother is too useful a butcher. I'll find something to spend the gold on.”

>Comment on the previous exchange (what do you say?)
>Bring up another topic of discussion (what?)
>Play music
>Go to another table and speak with someone else (who?)
>Something else? (write-in)

>>461896
Play music, bring the beats to westeros.
Otherwise just before we start tell Jamie and Tyrion we'll be rocking out.

>>461905
How about instead of being fucking boring we try and start some decent conversation with some of the most powerful people in the kingdom.

>>461896
>>Something else? (write-in)
Take a giant shit right in front of them.

>>461924
How about we ask Jamie if he needs a Squire? If during his recovery time he can teach us some stuff to keep the boredom at bay,

>>461927
Backing

>>461896
Pay Kate Bush's hounds of love for sandor and raina

>>461939
>>461927
Proxy fags go Shitpost elsewhere

>>461957
I just came in here. Go fuck yourself.

>>461938
backing because he could teach us thing and that's good, also Tyrion won't get mad at us for it.

>>461938
He is one of the best knights around, he has his pick of squires, why tyre Fuck would he take on a bard with a spear?

>>461995
Because we told him we know he's much more than a kingslayer.
And we literally have the ballest gear to be his squire literally have "madnest in Great ones must not go unwatched" on our armor.
We can be the most badass duo ever and try to save KL and Westeros.

>>461995
Because he's in recovery mode. I don't want to be a Squire we are helping him nor get bored and learning so tricks while we're at at. Also by tailing him we mentioned people including maybe Tywin

>>462005
But we are shit at fighting!

>>462013
All the more reason to side with a badass fighter who can teach us shit while he's wounded.

>>461927
this is a good idea. sign me up

>>461896
>Play music

>>461896
Play some swanky stank tunes

>>462025
>>461927
>>461939
>proxyfag realisze suddently that he has to at least post two time with and ID before getting his vote counted

>>462034
>It's not a vote I like
>Better call him proxyfag
Kill yourself.

>>461905
>>461957
>>462028
>>462031 (Proxy)
Play music

>>461927
>>461939 (Proxy)
>>462025 (Proxy)
Take a giant shit

>>461938
>>461968
Be Jaime's squire

Play music wins.

>>462034
>fear mongering
hilarious

>>462043
>>461966
>>461927
>can only use his real IP to reply
My point stay right there

>>461896
>Ask to become Jamie's squire.

Literally anything other then fucking wasting this opportunity by playing music cause some of you nerds aren't creative.

>>462046
>proxy
Its aristo goddamnit I wanna play some swanky stank tunes

You play some music.

>Comment on the previous exchange (what do you say?)
>Bring up another topic of discussion (what?)
>Go to another table and speak with someone else (who?)
>Fuck this feast, leave
>Ask Jaime to be his squire
>Shit on the floor
>Something else? (write-in)

>>462053
>Ask Jaime to be his squire

>>462049
>tripfagging in someone's quest
You can fasely accuse me of being a proxyfag all you want, but you're the real attention whore here.

>>462053
>Shit on the floor

>>462053
Ask Jaime to be his squire, play some stank tunes for him too

>>462053
>Ask Jaime to be his squire
Hah. Pacha, Trick.

>>462053
>>Shit on the floor

>>462055
>not using trip to identify yourself accross the quest discord and the thread.
You're the real pleb here

>>462053
>Bring up another topic of discussion (what?)
Their opinion of the Starks

Bring it up subtly of course

>>462056
Sounds good senpai desu

>>462061
>identify yourself across anything on 4chan
Attention whore. Plain and simple.

>>462068
come in a quest
>shitpost and ask to shit on the floor.
>call people attention whore
some real cognitive dissonance here

>>462053
>Ask Jaime to be his squire

>>462053
>Comment on the previous exchange (what do you say?)
Well we could comment on that it's really damn hard to get the mountain executed with the whole trial by combat being a thing.
You'd have to risk some really competent men in that fight.

File: 1468651555408.gif (309 KB, 400x300)

309 KB GIF

>>462049
>>462056
>>462063
>Attention whore's face when he was wrong

>>462071
It's a meme quest. Nobody in their right mind gives a flying fuck. Just look at you: you're giving a fuck.

Guys, you do realise that being a squire means we'd have to be constantly attending him.
I don't care what we do, I don't want to sacrifice all our working hours on jaime.

It would make it impossible for us to deal with our objectives.

>>462080
Therefore we should take a steaming shit on the floor
Let it air a bit
Give everyone some time to think
It'll be good.

>>462080
A squire isn't a servant.
We'd deal with his weapon and armor (which he'll not use because he's injured).
We'll maybe drink wine with him and sing him stuff but we're not gonna be there 24H a day 7 days a week.
Even he need some room to breath he's not the kind of guy to be supre reliant on people like Tyrion is.

>>462087
>A squire isn't a servant.
They sure as hell are. They have to attend their knight's every need and constantly be there to service them. Have you even watched/read GoT?

Ok so let's ask Jamie for some basic lessons so he won't go mad with boredom, once that's done say we are going to go socialise. Play music and mingle, maybe even seek out varys? This is our best chance to catch him

>>462054
>>462057
>>462058
>>462072

Ask Jaime to be his squire

>>462056
>>462060
>>462063

Shit on the floor

>>462062
Ask people their opinions on the Starks

>>462074
Point out trial by combat

>>462094
>They have to attend their knight's every need and constantly be there to service them.
Hot! New husbando

Anyway, asking to be Jaime's squire barely beats out taking a shit on the floor.

Rolls coming soon.

>>462102
Unbelievable.

Roll me 1d100 + 16, best of 3. This is a diplomacy check.

Rolled 88 + 16 (1d100 + 16)

>>462107

Rolled 48 (1d100)

>>462107

Rolled 100 + 16 (1d100 + 16)

>>462107

Rolled 20 (1d100)

>>462107
nat 1 baby

Rolled 31 (1d100)

Oh god please don't make us into a squire.

Rolled 34 (1d100)

>>462107