File: Senelle.jpg (61 KB, 799x599)

61 KB JPG

Walking back to the Maiden Vault, the night air feels chillier than usual. Cold night here at the port city. Weather itself screaming Autumn is right around the corner. White raven should be coming in to announce the seasonal change in a few days or so.

You nod pleasantly to the Lannister guardsmen patrol that passes by, one of them making a . . . choice comment about your rear end when he thinks you're out of earshot. You let it bounce right off. Right now you have much bigger things to think about. A trip through the war-ravaged Riverlands which begins tomorrow morning. A wedding ceremony – which includes a bedding ceremony, you can't help but dwell on – the moment you arrive there. Things will be in flux and Ser Jacelyn's going to want himself an heir rather soon. Maybe you can convince him to knock up a few whores, wear a pillow under your dress and let him pick his favorite baby if it really matters that much to him.

You chuckle at your little ridiculous scheme as you approach the front of the . . . huh.

Senelle stands before the embossed double doors, her crimson locks swishing back and forth as she scans the various patrols, looking for someone. Her face is blanched, white as a sheet. The sickly pallor adds a level of desperation to her sentry-style searching.

She's another maid in service to the Queen. You've noticed her around more than some of the others in Cersei's attendance because . . . well Senelle's no Cersei Lannister, but you'd still be up for hearing her roar if she gave you half a chance.

As your eyes meet, an expression of something not quite relief, but slightly better than the pallid one she was wearing before, animates her face and gives it back some if its color.

She strides towards you, moving as fast as the dress, which clings pleasingly to her curves, and those shoes, which clack loudly upon the Red Keep's artisan-crafted cobblestones, allow.

“Lady Mira. Queen Cersei wishes to see you at once. Please follow me,” she spits the words out as fast as possible like she's spent the last few minutes or so memorizing a script while waiting for your return. Turning on her heels, the lowborn redhead makes her way towards Maegor's Holdfast.

. . . OK then.

Without another word you pursue your improvised guide as she leads you through the grounds of the castle, over the moat, past the thick walls and the Kingsguard on duty – Ser Preston Greenfield. It's only once you're inside the plush royal apartments and realize you're moving towards the King's bedchamber that fear grips your heart. Senelle stops in front of the massive, sculpted and varnished door, turning to fix you with a look that screams pity. The sound of Cersei's sobs are audible even through the muffling effect of the barrier.

FUCK!

>>587367
Plague for best anon.
Velo a shit.
Mira did nothing wrong.
Mills cheated.
Raina best animal handler.
Othello absolute madman.
More Benjen plz.

>>587415
Mannis a sicko who took our job.

File: The Hound.png (283 KB, 692x522)

283 KB PNG

Rushing forward you throw open the doors. Inside, you notice the twin hearths boasted by the King's residence are still roaring intensely. The difference in heat between rooms so glaring for a moment you fear Cersei may have set the holdfast on fire in her grief.

Clegane's imposing figure almost goes unnoticed by your eyes as you nearly mistake him for a statue or part of the background. Only the subtle shift of his mailed fist to the pommel of his longsword attracts your attention. That's how still the massive man stands guard. His motives and expression are inscrutable beneath his dogshead helmet. Although there is a tenseness to his form, like he's a cornered animal ready to lash out. Is he scared of the fires? Or something much more sinister hidden within them?

The more attention-grabbing sight is at the chamber's center. Sprawled over the king's from, Cersei sobs into the chest of her firstborn as he lays seemingly in repose.

Only once the Queen Regent notices your presence are your suspicions confirmed. She raises her face up, her porcelain doll features streaked dark red with drying blood mixed with tears. Your eyes search lower and find the dark spot upon Joffrey's carmine doublet, a bloody splotch upon his chest right where his heart would be.

It takes Cersei but a moment to properly process in her grief-addled mind exactly who you are and once she has . . .

Her eyes project an unquenchable rage – a hellfire a thousand fold grander and greater than the scorching blaze that currently warms the site of the King's assassination.

She snarls as her breasts heave with the snorting breaths of a . . . a hunting lioness.

“Yyyou,” she warbles out in a strained, gravelly voice. A one-word damnation of all you claimed to have stood for.

You gulp down the fear as you sweat half from panic and half from the sweltering inferno that dominates the scene. “I –”

“QUIET!” she shrieks. “My sweet boy,” she reminisces, looking down at the corpse and stroking his golden locks. Her expression momentarily shifts back most like to the day she had a swaddling babe placed into her arms. That's all she'll ever see him as, you realize. “You promised you could protect him. DOES HE LOOK PROTECTED TO YOU?”

You flinch at the sudden screech. “Kill her, Clegane,” Cersei orders.

“WAIT!” you declare as you can feel The Hound unsheathing a dagger. “I CAN STILL SAVE HIM!”

The Lady of House Lannister utters the wailing laughter of a woman driven mad. “Save him?! HE'S GONE!”

Holding your hands out, head swiveling back and forth rapidly between the attack dog and his owner, you explain yourself. “You've always given credence to magic, yes? Prophecy and the certainty of the future. 'Gold their crowns and gold their shrouds'? The supernatural. You have faith in it! Well then have faith in it one more time!”

File: Joffrey Deceased.jpg (49 KB, 564x566)

49 KB JPG

Cersei fixes you with a stare. She's at the end of her rope, driven to grief and vengeful. But still, that glint in her eye as she breathes ragged, unsightly breaths – disheveled and covered in the lifeblood of her firstborn. Even as all around her has turned to ash that glint of hope yet lives. Sure, she's not a stupid woman. She knows you'll say whatever you need to save your own skin, but that desperate desire to hope for a better end is still there. Cersei wants to believe you can save her boy. And that's all you need.

“How?” she over-articulates the word.

You lick your lips as you think, gulping hard. “Thoros of Myr. The Red priest.”

“Thoros of . . . - THOROS?!” Cersei spits the name out like it was poison, drawn out of the mental prison that is her situation for a singular moment by your seemingly non sequitur suggestion. “That fat, drunken slob? I've refused him entry to the Red Keep since my son took the throne. He's a whoring brute and much too like Robert. There is not an ounce of true faith for his heathen God in the man.”

You shake your open palms as you allow her to rain the doubting comments down upon you. “Y-y-you're right! On all accounts. He is not a godly man, despite his profession. But bring him here and have the priest grant Joffrey the Last Kiss. It is a rite practiced by the red priests of R'hllor to breathe flame into the recently deceased.”

“And this will bring my son back to me?” she asks, frantic. “You're sure?!”

You gulp again, thinking on how exactly to phrase the disclaimer. “I am not completely sure. BUT! The chance of the rite working is much greater than doing nothing!”

Cersei looks back down at the body of her spawn and smiles sadly as new, quieter tears pour from her puffy, red and bloodshot eyes.

Seconds of tense silence pass with your fate hanging precariously in the air on the whims of a potential madwoman. Only the crackling fire of the twin hearths and the throbbing pounding in your head serves to disturb the grotesquely serene atmosphere.

Finally, Cersei offers the subtlest of assenting nods, still stroking her spawn's cheeks.

“I'll go find him in whatever wine sink he's wandered off –”

“Clegane will find him,” Cersei calmly orders, eyes still glued to her son's fair features as she cuts you off. “You will stay here. Bring the Red Priest here for your master, Dog.”

Sandor grunts. “I hate fire priests.” His singular objection noiselessly noted, he exits the chamber to complete his task.

As silence settles in again like an encroaching army, you find yourself standing as still as possible, tensed and clenched – desperate not to set the golden-haired beauty off. Her eyes simply roam her son's body for some time.

File: When you play the Game of(...).jpg (275 KB, 761x1049)

275 KB JPG

Minutes pass in the blink of an eye. “If this works,” Cersei pierces the soundless ambiance. “Will he come back as he was before?”

“No,” you truthfully answer. “Not completely. He will lose . . . a bit of himself. Memories, mostly, if my visions are true. I would not recommend having to do this more than once.”

Cersei's hand coils tighter around the shoulders of her son, fingers digging deep into the rich fabric he wears. “You best hope this works, Mira,” she warns.

You clench your fists so hard you think you might break the skin of your palm with your nails. Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it. “Even if it doesn't work,” you're going to fucking say it “I am NOT responsible for this.”

You await for Cersei to lash out at you, shutting your eyes tight.

“Then who is?” The Queen inquires coolly.

>William Shakespeare
>Stannis Baratheon
>Jaime Lannister
>ALL OF THEM!

>>587533
> Stannis
Even if it wasn't he has been trying.

>>587533
>>Stannis Baratheon

>>587533
>William Shakespeare
AND
>Stannis Baratheon

>>587533
>ALL OF THEM!
ONLY BAD CHOICES TONIGHT

>>587579
+1

>>587579
Switching to this actually

>>587553
+1

>>587579
>Letting Cersei know we failed and is still alive

>>587787
We can pass it off as he screwed up our future knowledge earlier on

Votes called.

File: Birth of Shadow Assassin.jpg (86 KB, 538x800)

86 KB JPG

You take a deep breath as you examine the bedchamber. Other than the doors – guarded tirelessly by the Hound, no doubt – the only other entrance to King Joffrey's room would have been through the window. Striding over, you examine it. Opened and unlocked you peer over the windowsill to see a straight drop of forty feet. Perhaps an assassin could have climbed up, unseen and snuck in, but . . . there's no evidence to suggest anyone else was in this room save for Joffrey and yourselves. And casting your gaze into those twin fires, unnaturally hot and sweltering . . . it fills you with dreaded certainty.

“Stannis Baratheon,” you simply comment, looking down to meet her eyes.

The Queen scoffs. “A traitor on his payroll?”

“No, much worse. A witch. A shadowbinder from Asshai. She birthed him a shadow in his own image who snuck into your son's room and plunged a knife of smoke into his heart.”

“And you wish to bring another of these . . . warlocks into my son's presence?”

“Thoros is different. He is . . . a noble servant.” In another timeline at least.

“Why did you not warn me of the witch? You knew of her abilities and her allegiance, yes?” Cersei needles you.

“I did not realize her powers could extend all the way to King's Landing. She cannot conjure a trick such as this more than twice if she wishes for Stannis to live long enough to claim his throne. I believed The Lord of Dragonstone would pick his targets more . . . ” you become tight-lipped, unwilling to finish your sentence without permission.

“More what?!” The grieving mother demands.

“More wisely. Your son is the King, but it is us Stannis should fear. You, your brothers, your father, Renly most likely plans treachery. Hells, If I knew the Red Witch's reach extended all the way here I'd fear for my own life being taken before Joffrey's.” It is not the most sound stratagem and the farsightedness of it reminds you of one person in particular's mental failings. “I believe William Shakespeare most likely had a hand in formulating this plot, whispering into Stannis's ear to eliminate his opposition via dark magicks rather than risk war. This is a tragedy, to be sure, but it changes nothing.”

“HOW DARE YOU –”

“Tommen inherits after Joffrey!” you exclaim the obvious. “Killing Joffrey does not win Stannis his throne any quicker unless he plans to slay Tommen as well. I said no more than twice and if I I have guess my opponent's train of thought correctly, Stannis plans to use his second and final shadow to take Tommen's life.”

File: Joffrey Baratheon 2.jpg (46 KB, 400x333)

46 KB JPG

“Gods, I need to put more guards –”

“Guards will not help. Thoros might. If he undoes this murder most foul or possesses knowledge of a countermeasure we can at least safeguard Tommen. Their hand has been tipped and they have to go all the way or they've squandered this opportunity. Which we want them to do. Or else I fear for your father's life – perhaps your own, your Grace.”

Cersei sniffles. “He looks much like his father,” Cersei comments after your explanation, focusing entirely on Joffrey. You aren't sure how much of what you said she's actually been listening to.

>Console her
>Tommen needs you
>He certainly does
>Something else? (write-in)

>>588257
>Tommen needs you

>>588257
>>Tommen needs you

>>588257
>>He certainly does

>>588257
>Tommen needs you
>He certainly does

>>588257
> Console her, give her a belly rub
How the fuck are we supposed to help Tommen without Thoros? We should hang around and wait for the hound to fetch him.

Tommen needs his Sir Pounce

Votes Called

File: Cersei Lannister.jpg (46 KB, 500x725)

46 KB JPG

You place a hand upon her shoulder and whisper. “Tommen needs you now, Cersei.”

“My beautiful boy may yet live.”

You sigh out. “If the rite doesn't work though, Tommen will face obstacles aplenty and he needs you at your best to ensure his success. A boy king and a second son needs able advisers if he is to rule adequately. He needs to be trained and molded into a proper ruler to command respect and fear. Some may look down upon Tommen's legitimacy simply by comparing him to a tried and tested battle commander. We need those . . . sheep to think he is strong in this trying time. I believe though – with yours and Tyrion's guidance – he could make a fine King after we've won this.”

Cersei nods almost dumbly, subservient to your cold logic as her emotions and failures drag her down from the pinnacle of power to her lowest point.

“Bring me a wash cloth,” Cersei croaks out an order, nowhere near as commanding as she usually musters. “I should look presentable for the priest. I also need to change my son's clothes and dress his wounds.”

“As you wish, your Grace,” you acknowledge, walking over to the wash basin as Cersei wobbles shakily to her feet.

File: Thoros of Myr.jpg (70 KB, 544x478)

70 KB JPG

Rolled 29 (1d100)

“W-w-what?!” Thoros asks incredulously, pudgy fingers raised to grasp his near-balding gray hairs. His eyes travel the length of the scene in abject horror.

Sandor Clegane stands guard in front of the door – perhaps prepared to stop the newcomer if he attempts to flee.

Cersei clears her throat and speaks with a robotic elegance, hands clasped in front of her waist. “My son has passed away in a most untimely fashion. I wish for you to perform the rite of the Last Kiss so you may send my son . . .” her voice catches in her throat for a moment. “So you may send my son onward to the afterlife. Cleansed.”

“King Joffrey followed the Seven, did he not, Your Grace? Why would he want the Good God's –”

“My son wants for nothing, anymore, Thoros of Myr,” Cersei corrects him. “I want him to receive the Red God's blessings.”

The red priest looks between the two of you with a measure of doubting uncertainty, aware of some ulterior motive. You even once catch him favoring the hearths with a fearful glance. Eventually however, he capitulates. “Of course, Your Grace. It is the least I can do. I am sorry for your loss, Queen Cersei.” His robes quietly rustle as he approaches the bed and the King's corpse. A hand raises to his mouth as he spies the amateurishly stitched stab wound in Joffrey's bare naked torso, swallowing all his reluctance to be here at this monumental moment. Judging by the swaying of his movements and the stench of wine that radiates off him, you presume he's three sheets to the wind right about now.

Thoros gets down on his knees and kneels over the late King Joffrey, pulling a flask from his hip and gingerly unscrewing the cap. The Myrman throws his head back as he imbibes the liquid. He swishes the foul swill – could be wine for all you know – around in his mouth for a few long moments before swallowing.

And then he utters the prayer.

“Lord, cast your light upon this man. Your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness. His flame has been extinguished. Restore it. And let him know peace in the beyond amidst your light. For the dawn is bright and full of wonders.”

File: Shadow Assassin.jpg (20 KB, 425x601)

20 KB JPG

Thoros opens his mouth and swirling inside is a roiling flame. He presses his lips to King Joffrey's and you watch as the fire's bright heat travels from Thoros to the incestuous spawn. Entering the dead teenager's mouth, you can see heat light the blonde-haired King from within, spreading from the mouth and through the veins of his arms and chest before disappearing somewhere under his breeches.

Cersei tenses beside you, wound so tight you're afraid she may snap and break like an overused rubber band. Thoros rises from the corpse and watches it curiously. For one believing, indoctrinated moment you almost think you see a twitch of the corpse's mouth and fingers.

Minutes pass and Joffrey lies upon the same bed his 'father' had – cold and lifeless.

“He's in a better place now,” Thoros comforts, unaware of the true purpose of his presence here.

A pause. Cersei does not react. She is as still and quiet as a statue. An expression of constricted forlorn frozen on her features.

“If I may ask, Your Grace,” Thoros continues, glancing back to the fires. “What . . . never mind.” He shakes his head. “I wish there was more I could do.”

“There is!” you announce suddenly, drawing a confused look from the priest. Cersei still refuses to speak or move, only the slight swaying on her feet or the contractions of her chest indicating she's actually alive. “The King was slain tonight by an assassin doing Stannis's bidding. His Red Witch conjured a shadow in accordance with his greedy desires for his nephew's throne. Kinslaying by dark magic for power. And we have reason to believe he will strike again in an attempt to slay King Tommen Baratheon, First of his name.”

Thoros blinks rapidly as he processes all that shit you just said. He shakes his head slightly as he listens, squeezing his eyes shut. “I suspected . . . I don't know. I had a feeling. I've heard of this woman from Asshai. Shadowbinders are powerful indeed – doubly so when they invoke R'hllor's power.”

“King Joffrey was guarded by his loyal hound. He was safe from any naturalborn assassin made of flesh and blood. But how are we supposed to protect the new king from shadows and smoke?!”

“Stannis has taken one son from me,” Cersei feebly pules, finding her voice. “Please help me safeguard the other. Tommen is sweet and he is my last boy, Thoros.”

“Uhhhhh,” he stalls. “Shadows are often misunderstood. They are not creatures of darkness – but of the light. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadow. Uhhhh, let me think.”

Cersei bites her lip. You start to see the burgeoning embers of her rage begin to flicker back to life.

“If this shadowbinder was unaware of Tommen's location she could not send a shadow after him.”

You shake your head. “Not an option. He needs to lead our forces from King's Landing, visible to all. We need to project strength now more than ever.”

File: Dragon skulls.jpg (103 KB, 684x403)

103 KB JPG

“A room completely in darkness could prevent a Shadow's entry,” Thoros muses. “As could a room with so much light no shadows could exist. Perhaps if I was beside the boy at all times and a shadow approached I would be able to . . . combat it.”

“How?” you ask.

“Banish it?” he offers, unconvinced of the assertion himself.

“You weren't even powerful enough to . . . do you have anything more decisive?” Cersei diverts her seething hatred into a question.

“Well . . . it would be expensive, but . . . what if you armored your son in dragonbone?” Thoros leans against the wall of the king's bedchambers to support his weight.

You and Cersei actually share a thoughtful look. “W-would that work?” you investigate.

Thoros nods his head, trying to clear it of his swimming vision. “Dragons were fire made flesh. Creatures of the light if the scriptures are accurate. No fire can burn or warp dragonbone. In theory, no conjuration of R'hllor should be able to pierce it.”

“There are dozens of skulls of the Targaryen dragons wasting away in the dark dungones of the Red Keep,” Cersei brings up, almost rueful of how close such seemingly adequate protection was for her now deceased son.

“Am I done here?” Thoros asks, looking haggard.

>Yes
>No
>Something else? (write-in)

>>588857
>>Yes

>>588857
Yes

>>588857
Also ask Cersei for some Dragonbone for a Crossbow, before we leave

>>588857
yes.

Also we need to have mira try and get the fuck out of here and escape.

Tired and sleepy so going to sleep

File: Millennium the Black Iris(...).jpg (222 KB, 500x360)

222 KB JPG

“So you're telling me I'm speaking Japanese right now?” you ask him for the umpteenth time.

“Yes!” Plague insists, annoyance in his tone as he rubs down and petsyour pupper's sleek and shaggy coat. The former madman's really taken a liking to your black irish wolfhound, Millennium.

“And you understand Japanese?” you follow up.

“Yeah. I learned the moonrunes of a bunch of xenophobic Island dwellers so I could read their mangoes and watch their animus.”

“And you also understand German – the language the people of Myr allegedly spoke?”

“Yep again, dumbass. WOOF!” He continues to play with your dog. Millennium seems to enjoy the new attention and playmate. You realize you haven't spent much time doting on your dog in recent months. R'hllor worship has taken center stage in your life, forcing you to skimp on time spent with others. “And before you ask again, the Dothraki speak English,” the unkempt brunette assures. "I might have gone off the deep end there for a bit but I know what fucking English sounds like."

Alright . . . something funky's going on here because Westerosi sounds a lot like fucking English to you and every other smattering of Planetos language you've heard has sounded like gobbledygook. Granted . . . you don't know any real world languages other than English. But still, from what you've heard they haven't sounded like any tongue you could recognize at a casual listen and certainly not like English. And you definitely aren't speaking Japanese right now. Westeros is an analog to Great Britain NOT FEUDAL JAPAN! You're inner fanboy seeks to REEEEEE heartily.

You watch the Captain cross the deck of the Argo as you feel the ship lurching into motion, signaling your departure from the city of Myr. The ship creaks and the din of men's voices wrestle for control over supremacy of the background noise. The hard-faced, bushy-bearded seadog Semar approaches where you chat with your newest recruit.

Turning to face the sailor for his unofficial report, you rise from the barrel of supplies upon which you were seated, dropping the frustrating conversation with the former Meme Vulture completely.

Semar gives you a curt nod. “Admiral. Our armaments have been resupplied. I've performed a head count of the returning sailors and found that only three of the men have jumped ship. Much less than expected considering a voyage of this length and a crew of this size. We will arrive at the free city of Tyrosh in two days travel if the winds are kind. Do you still plan for us to not make port or have the delays and obstacles given you cause to change your mind?”

>We stop at Tyrosh
>We sail past

AND

>What do you do while back on the high seas? (write-in)

>>589730
>We sail past
Got a schedule to keep.

>>589730
>>What do you do while back on the high seas? (write-in)
Attempt to cast magic missile at the darkness.

File: finnish jesus.jpg (114 KB, 736x737)

114 KB JPG

>>589730
Also, pray finnish Jesus for guidance.

>>589730
>Sail past
>Practice magic and play with Mills

>>589907
We should definately see if we can talk dog

>>589907
seconding

>>589907
+1

>>589907
This

Roll me 1d100, best of 3.

Rolled 1 (1d100)

>>593438

Rolled 44 (1d100)

>>593438
wonder how bad i'll do

>>593438
>inb4 100

Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>593505
>>593438
forgot to roll lel

File: 1463949903599.jpg (49 KB, 540x312)

49 KB JPG

>>593459
How does Will suck so much?

Roll me 1d100, best of 3. This is a luck roll

File: 1461212425510.png (22 KB, 628x501)

22 KB PNG

Rolled 57 (1d100)

>>593703
Here comes another one

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>593703
Rolling

Rolled 84 (1d100)

>>593703
Nat 1 pls

Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>593703

>>593459
That's what you get for turning away from Kek

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

122 KB JPG

You decide to spend the next two days of your life mastering magic. Practicing the dark arts. Learning how to control fire or see the future or glamor objects! Cool stuff like Melisandre is able to do. You're sure that with no teacher, instruction manual, guide book or the faintest clue about how any of this stuff is supposed to work . . . you'll be fine! You have your faith in R'hllor and he's already seen fit to grant you a vision in the flames even if . . . you aren't precisely sure if you interpreted it correctly or if the vision has even come to pass by now. R'hllor can be quite obtuse. But you can rely upon his holy power.

You rub your hands together, chuckling inwardly about how amazing your experiments are going to be and how profitable the fruits they will produce will be for your future endeavors.

. . .

“Hey Ve-Will,” Raina corrects herself as she finds you slumped over the railing, vomiting your guts out into the ocean one cool, windy night. “Ooh. You don't look too hot. You alright?”

You wave away her concern. “I'm fine,” you croak out. “Just a bit of seasickness,” you lie.

“Oh . . . kay, but there's something you should know.” She holds up a piece of parchment and a quill. “I've been taking stock of our inventory,” she informs you as she shakes the paper to emphasize its existence. “And while most everything is as it was when we left port two days ago . . . I can't seem to find the jars of wildfire. I think someone on the crew may have stolen it. One of the more fervent R'hllor worshippers most likely. Do I have your permission to search the men's quarters for the missing armaments?” she requests.

“That won't be necessary,” you reply as you wipe your mouth with your sleeve. “Wildfire wasn't stolen. It's . . . gone.”

You look into Raina's eyes. Her pretty features are marred by the expression of confusion she wears. The sea breeze blows loose locks of black hair in front of her face as you maintain eye contact.

“What do you mean it's gone?!”

“I mean it's gone. Not here anymore. Used up. We don't have it anymore.”

“Aaaaaaaaalllright.” She scribbles something on her parchment furiously. “Well that will be unfortunate if we run into any pirates in the Stepstones and can't defend ourselves. Especially since, y'know, its got a reputation for being home to dozens of pirate dens. But whatever. No wildfire, sure. So Velo – FUCK – William. Captain Semar told me to ask if you wish to make port in Lys. We'll be arriving there in four days . . . hopefully,” she mutters the last part, obviously doubtful that things will be smooth sailing for your expedition.

>Make port in Lys
>Don't stop, won't stop

AND

>What do you do for the next four days at sea? (write-in)

>>594649
>>Make port in Lys

>>594649
>Don't stop, won't stop

>>594649
>make port in lyns
>spear training

>>594687
btw it's me

>>594649
>Don't stop, won't stop

>>594649
>Make port in lys

>>594649
>Make port
Rape Raina

>>594814
supporting

>>594800
>>594814
>>594843
three new IDs appearing at the same time.
Guess who it fucking is.

>>594896
who is it?

>>594896
That's right it's me ilwars!

>>594896
I don't know who the other two are though.

>>594649
>Don't stop, won't stop
AND
>WOLOLOLO

>>594649
> don't stop

> Ask Raina what languages she hears
> Debate the benefits of worshipping R'hllor vs Kek with plague
> compose and perform some sea shanties for your loyal crew and followers

>>595305
supporting

>>596827
btw trick I'm not a proxyfag, you're a proxyfag

>>594667
>>594698
>>594800
>>594814 (proxyfag)
>>594843
Make Port

>>594687
>>594796
>>595045
>>595305
>>596827
Don't stop

>>594698
Spear training

>>595305
>>596827
This stuff

My internet is shot and I'm trying to fix some stuff right now so hold on people. Sorry for the delay. Really wish the mods would get rid of the 3 day autosage.

“No. We've been set back on our schedule for far too long already,” you explain. “We're not stopping for any more distractions for a while. I want to be much closer to our target before we make port.”

Raina nods. “I'll inform the Captain.”

“Wait!” you call after her when she turns to leave.

“Yeeeeees?” your fellow earthling asks, hand gripped to the corner of the cabin she plans to make her exit behind.

“What languages do you hear? When we speak?”

She squints, recoiling slightly at your odd question. “English. Why?”

“Plague hears everything we've been saying to him in this tongue as Japanese.”

“Hmmmm, maybe he's lying. Or just plain crazy!” the painter theorizes. “Although . . . every once in a while I catch a smattering of Spanish from the sailors. Don't know what the 'Game of Thrones' language equivalent is, but I do hear it. Anything else?”

You shake your head, pondering upon her observations. “No, that'll be all Raina.”

. . .

“What can R'hllor even do?!” Plague demands as you debate down in the hold he has deemd his own personal 'nest'.

“Uhhhh . . . revive the recently deceased, assassinate his enemies, control over the element of fire in small to relatively large doses, cast illusions, control the weather, provide visions of the future and possibly aid in the construction of wildfire – one of the most useful and deadly weapons that we can employ here on the seas.”

“Yeah,” the Meme Vulture acknowledges your points, nodding along. “But Kek has power over memes. Any idea repeated long enough, Kek will supply you with his power. This whole UNIVERSE exists because KEK banished us for your personal MEME potential. The shitstorm you caused was such high level of meme that we were granted our own pocket dimension. R'hllor ain't got shit on that.”

“Even if you're correct,” you hypothetically pose, reluctantly accepting of Plague's theory. “And memes are responsible for our predicament. How can I be sure Kek has any real power here?”

The scruffy anon laughs and gestures to himself. “Here's your proof. I woke up and was immediately enslaved by horsefucking savages. I could have been slaughtered, worked to death or who knows what. But instead I devoted my entire existence to memes and Kek. Now look at me. I'm now railroaded into the most important plotline of this world by the Ku Klux QM himself. That's what Kek has done for me. What has R'hllor done for you, Velo?” he poses his question in the most accusatory manner possible.

“Uhhhh, showed me an incomprehensible vision and . . . not much else, I don't believe.”

Plague chuckles. “See? Drop the Red witch and make the switch to Kek today. Your life will improve 100%! You'll like the way you look. I guarantee it.”

>Stick with R'hllor
>Convert to Memetheism.
>Abandon religion altogether

>>600101
>Abandon Religion

>>600101
>Abandon religion altogether

>>600101
I offer an alternative. Kek is the primordial darkness, the lord of light is just that, the light. Between us shadows are born and shaped...these shadows are memes.

>>600101
>Abandon religion altogether
but don't fucking tell anyone! cause we converted pretty much our whole crew and i don't want a fucking mutiny

>>600101
> stick with Roger
Not because I think we get anything but because in against short sight adhd flip-flop decision making.
Keep an eye out for memes empowering events though, also widespread memes that do fuck all as a counter.

>>600101
>Stick with R'hllor

>>600197
>>600154
>>600132
Stick with r'hllor

>>600108 (proxyfag)
>>600120
>>600135

Tip your fedora.

Looks like sticking with R'hllor wins.

>>600132
Oh shit this guy is a proxyfag too!

But he barely counts.

>>600225
darn

>>600229
hey thats mean trick

>>600248
you're fault for doing

>le write in

meme.

Choose my fucking cookie cutter options and choke on it memelord.

>>600257
No please Trick, no more religious bullshit

>>600301
Not a fucking proxyfag, I'm just on my phone

>>600304
Then your vote is null 4 trying to samefag you whore

>>600257
Am I miss reading or is someone pretending too be me?

>>600313
Fuck the fedora fags, stick Rhllor

>>600101
Abandon both religions and DO SOME FUCKING SCIENCE


HOLY FUCK WE HAVEN'T DONE JACK SHIT YET, WE COULD HAVE MADE A PRINTING PRESS BY NOW AND GOT A FEW BOOKS COPIED HEAVILY OR SOMETHING!

FUCKING SCIENCE MAN!!

>>600101
>Abandon religion altogether

>>600101
>>Abandon religion altogether
>>Become potionseller

File: High Septon.jpg (28 KB, 400x300)

28 KB JPG

“I bless you in the oils of the Seven,” the squat and ponderously fat man reverentially decrees as he wrings the seven-colored rag tight. Scented oil spills forth from the fancy cloth and onto the raised forehead of the young, blonde pre-teen. “The Faith blesses the rule of Tommen Baratheon: First of his name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

A multitude of clapping hands – your own included – praise the boy king's coronation. Armored completely in hard dragonbone even here within the Great Sept of Baelor – his pudgy form is reduced to stiff movements. As graceful as a fat twelve-year old in armor can act, he leads the procession of nobles through the streets of King's Landing towards the Red Keep. Five Kingsguard form another living shield between Cersei's second born and any potential harm.

Thoros of Myr trails behind, looking slightly uncomfortable as he is immersed in the customs of those who follow the Seven. It doesn't help that every now and then he receives a death glare or is within earshot of the muttering accusations of 'warlock'. Not much love for the Red God in King's Landing since the circumstances of the King's death spread throughout the populace like wildfire in the moments after the great bells had been rung.

The smallfolk cheer the newly crowned king, chanting the name 'Tommen' as he passes, vigor and heartfelt passion in their intonations. Seems Varys's rumor-mongering paid off. An envious, dark-hearted uncle slaying the true king with blood magic to steal the throne. A kinslayer who follows a foreign God, spreading lies and tainting the land wherever his touch is felt. Combine that with the potentially misleading information that the reason lean times are coming to King's Landing is because of orders Stannis gave to his younger brother in the South and Eddard Stark in the North – and Stannis has gone from disliked to outright hated here in the Capital. Lannister rule may look weaker now momentarily, with Stannis managing such an unchecked blow to your ruling structure. But it looks legitimate, unlike his claim. The Lord of Dragonstone asserts incest now and it will look like one more dirty trick among many to usurp the throne.

“Lady Mira,” you hear your name called from behind by a highborn voice. Turning round, you look down to see the Imp himself waddling up to you, flanked on either side by Morrec and Ser Osney Kettleblack of the Gullet.

“Lord Hand,” you greet with a curtsy.

“Walk with me,” he casually orders and you are forced to slow your pace to match his own awkward gait. “Quite the trying times these last two days have been. I appreciate you staying for the funeral and the coronation.”

“Of course, Lord Hand. I grieve for your loss,” you offer.

File: Tyrion displeased.jpg (32 KB, 470x313)

32 KB JPG

The dwarf snorts. “I certainly don't,” he mutters just loud enough for you and his bodyguards to hear.

“ . . . Cold,” you comment coolly.

“Oh I'm not cold. Cold would be slowly torturing a man to death to entertain and curry favor with a psychopath, Lady Mira. Or perhaps encouraging a vengeful, grieving mother to kill a still-nursing infant in an irrational blood debt for that very same psychopath. Wouldn't you think?” He smiles up at you smugly.

You meet his look with confusion. Tyrion slowly processes the sincerity of your expression before a frown graces his face. “You weren't aware?” he probes.

“Aware of what? An infant?”

“Last night – in one of Littlefinger's high profile brothels – a baby girl had its neck snapped by some unknown assailant. I'm currently searching out the man who did the deed. I know the killing was done on Cersei's orders. The baby was a bastard of King Robert's. I guess blood had to pay for blood. The babe was partially guilty of Joffrey's murder simply for being a neice to Stannis. And we paint him a villain for seeking Tommen's death. No matter the side, children must die for the cause,” Tyrion finishes his report with a musing observation. “Baby Aegon, Baby Barra, Sweet Tommen, Sweet Rhaenys. I suspect Cersei will ensure the death of Stannis's daughter if she gets the chance. Quite the cycle of child murder.”

“I see you neglected to name Joffrey,” you point out.

“Joffrey was fifteen!” Tyrion snaps at you. “Almost sixteen.” The halfman utters an exultation of disgust. “I can't believe we're still celebrating the little twat's nameday.”

“The tourney hasn't been called off?” you ask, slightly incredulous.

“Tommen insisted on honoring his brother. His brother who planned to practice the aim of his crossbow on Slynt's children. More child killing.” Tyrion shakes his head.

“Planned?” you note, curious.

“Yes. I stopped that vindictive idiocy the moment you mentioned the 'plot' to me. Slapped the vicious cunt upside his fool head too for the careless cruelty of it all.”

“And yet you still sent Slynt's daughter into a wildfire-laden warzone,” you mention, drudging up the recent past.

“That was your idea,” he reminds you.

“Which you backed,” you retort. “Wholeheartedly. Face it, Lord Tyrion. You're as unscrupulous as I or your sister when it comes to letting children die to further a sound strategy.”

“Except that sound strategy failed at its purpose. Mayhaps we're lucky it did. If our . . . 'mutual friend' is behind this then I owe him a drink. I'm starting to question if he truly betrayed us.”

File: Tyrion in his carriage.jpg (8 KB, 225x225)

8 KB JPG

“He is no friend to the Lannisters. Must I remind you of how he planned to see your brother and sister executed?”

“Yes yes. In Winterfell. I remember. Still, I can't believe Will is all bad, nor Stannis for that matter. The moment I heard Joffrey liked to take potshots at children and disembowel pregnant cats I realized no matter how much polish we provided as a family, that was a problem that was only going to increase as time went on. And our enemies had the decency to solve it for us. Tommen is a good-hearted lad and will make a fine king.”

“Good thing a child died to further our cause, Lord Tyrion,” you rephrase sarcastically.

Tyrion chuckles. “I concede your point, Lady Mira.”

He stops off to the side, in front of the entrance of the Red Keep while streams of courtiers follow in the wake of Tommen's kingly stride.

You stop as well and face the Hand of the King. This is the third King he will be serving, you realize. Hopefully Tyrion doesn't outlive this one as well.

The smallest of the Lannisters sighs out, as if pondering some great question. “Mira . . . you are obviously a very shrewd woman. Tactful, intelligent, amoral which is honestly a compliment –”

“I took it as such,” you assure him.

“I believe you to have the presence of mind to . . . make your moves at the proper moments. And so . . . delaying your exodus to stay for the funeral of a little monster you didn't care for . . .”

“Well, I believed it was best I show some measure of sympathy.”

Tyrion studies your face for a moment before smiling sadly. “Tell me, Mira. I've always wondered. Why do you love my sister?”

Your voice catches in your throat. Before you can utter protest at the accusation, he continues.

“I've seen the look a dozen times before, don't get me wrong. A different face, but . . . it can't just be because she's pretty, can it?”

>I admire her
>Kindred spirits
>She's VERY pretty

>>600946
>She's VERY pretty

>>600946
>I admire her
She's a woman of drive and as strange as it may seem...love, she may be twisted in a way but her love is as pure as they come. Sometimes you can't help who you love.

But in regards too our mutual "friend" I belive there may be others like him, back when the coup occurred there was a strange man, a Tyrell soldier, i'd also seen him with the Bard, birds of a feather flock together and all that....I worry there are more than just our bard friend out there, if he has any sense he'll be trying to gather them, she should be on the lookout and do the same.

Is Mira still planning her Tyrell jump ship later down the line?

>>600946
>Why does Jaime? We just do, Lord Hand.

>>601200
not a proxyfag btw

>>600946
>She's VERY pretty

>>600946
>She's VERY pretty

>>600946
>She's VERY pretty

>>600946
> She's VERY pretty
"I am not a wise woman."

>>600946
"I like bad pussy, she's very pretty"

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

437 KB GIF

“She's VERY pretty,” you admit.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “I see you truly possess a man's appetites. For such a schemer your desires appear quite shallow.”

You shrug. “No one is wise when it comes to love.”

“If that isn't the truth,” he remarks with a self-deprecating mumble. Tyrion sighs out. “I heard the eunuch once speak of his disdain for love and lust. 'Desire' as he put it. Ruined the kingdom, in his eye. I can't say I disagree. Rhaegar's love for Lyanna ended the Targaryen dynasty. Robert's love for the girl killed him long before my sister's claws finally sunk into his flesh to rend him apart. Jaime's love . . . well we know what that is responsible for. And Cersei's love for her son has taken the life of an innocent child. Perhaps it would be better for the world if we all got snipped.” Tyrion chuckles.

“She's undergone a lot of hardship recently,” you attempt to excuse. “She's not in the best mental state. I've tried to sooth her some, but it is obvious she's still not completely ready. You're her brother and – ”

“Yes yes,” he nods. “Thankfully she's been more receptive of my assistance as of late. I will protect Tommen with my life. He does not deserve any of this. We'll do our best to keep the Kingdom running from here. Letters have been sent. Alliances re-established. Now my brother and father have to win in the field and we'll make it through this war.” Tyrion sticks his hand out. You grasp it firmly and shake. “I wish you good fortune at Harrenhal, Mira Towers.”

“And I the same, Tyrion Lannister. Hopefully we will see each other again.”

And with that you take your leave, moving towards the Dragon Gate where your betrothed awaits with his men to escort you to the landed seat you have been bequeathed. A nervous jitter actually enters your body at the prospect of leaving behind this viper's den of a city. Not many manage to come out of this meat grinder for the better and you find that you are one of those elect few. Started from the bottom and now you're here.

You realize, with a smile. You might actually miss this place a bit.

File: Maester Cressen.jpg (165 KB, 800x530)

165 KB JPG

“The white raven has come, Your Grace,” Cressen creaks out as he addresses the gathering of Stannis's council. Which is currently composed of solely yourself, Maester Pylos, the King himself and Ser Axell Florent – castellan of Dragonstone and acting Hand with Eddard Stark currently embroiled in battle. You're short two of your select membership – Ser Davos and Melisandre currently busy assassinating a king.

It's the start of the second month of year 299. Which means you've been here in Westeros – this new, yet familiar universe – for about a year now. Perhaps a little less. And Autumn is finally upon you. Huh. Maybe you should have enjoyed the Summer more rather than piddle your time away doing . . . whatever it is you've been doing. Sheesh, time sure flies.

The old cracker has a coughing fit and while the four of you twiddle your thumbs waiting for him to recover, Stannis's eternal scowl deepens watching the pitiful scene of his old Maester's infirmity.

Eventually it persists long enough that Maester Pylos rises up and moves to his side, offering a shoulder and the promise of a glass of wine to ease the old man's health issues.

“You're too old,” Stannis notes dourly. The King looks unnaturally spent this evening. An effect of the stress of leadership or . . . something more sinister? His cold eyes are like dark blue bruises in the hollows of his face. He looks gaunter and thinner, like he's been eating less. “You should be resting. This news can wait.” Frankly, Stannis should be resting too and not having war meetings every week like this.

The veteran Maester waves away the king's concerns, quite irreverently you must say – bordering on disrespect for the claimant's regal authority. Stannis bears the near-insult by passively frowning, per usual.

Maester Cressen recovers just long enough to spew forth more words – accompanied by copious amounts of spittle. “Hot steam has begun to issue from beneath the vents of the Dragonmont for the first time in decades, your Grace.”

Ser Axell - a homely man with a broad-nose, close set eyes and a double chin - laughs uproariously at the Maester's revelation. “Of course! With the Lord of Light's omen becoming more prominent in the sky, it makes sense His Chosen's seat of power would begin to seethe with more fire and life.”

Ser Axell established himself as one of the more fervent converts to R'hllor, following in the footsteps of his niece – Queen Selyse Florent. Maester Cressen glowers quite angrily at the man's commentary.

“Yes, well I don't deal in prophecy, Ser Axell. Only the weather as it is reported,” Cressen chides.

“And you've done your duty,” Stannis acknowledges with a solemn, precise nod. “Now return to your chambers to rest. Maester Pylos, escort Maester Cressen to his room.”

As Maester Pylos pulls upon his older associate's arm to do as he was bid, you hear a muffled shout from outside the door.

File: Davos Seaworth.jpg (31 KB, 300x462)

31 KB JPG

“Oi, stop ya fokkin' kaffir piece of –” suddenly the door bursts open. Brienne the Blue and Ser Robar Royce the Red step forward, hands at their sidearms. Davos stumbles in, a wild-eyed look on his face. His hair is a tangled mess and the brunette locks swish madly as he searches the faces amidst the room, coming to a stop once he spies the King. Ser Mills the White follows right on the former smuggler's heels and grabs the onion knight by his shoulder.

“YOUR GRACE!” Ser Davos shouts, breathing ragged. Doesn't look like the man has washed himself in some time. “I need to speak with you in private!”

Stannis narrows his eyes. “Is Lady Melisandre with you?”

“Aye, your Grace. The witch is –”

“All of you out!" Stannis orders. "Save for Ser Davos and Mannis.”

“Your Grace,” Brienne begins to protest from beneath her full helm. “I advise you to keep at least one of your Kingsguard – ”

“I thought you were the Rainbow Guard?” Stannis asks ruefully, locking eyes with the large woman, causing her to back down slightly. “I have no need of Renly's children playing dress up. My order stands. Leave.”

You gulp. Why do you have to stay?

File: The Painted Table.jpg (91 KB, 685x276)

91 KB JPG

The red priestess stands beside Ser Davos, a picturesque portrait of calm compared to the haggard smuggler. His eyes are sunken, you notice. He looks exhausted and terrified, uncomfortable at his close proximity to the woman. How long has it been since he's slept?

Stannis doesn't look at his subjects – instead casting his gaze across the painted table. He seems entranced by the detailed map of the continent – sealed inside a soundproof prison within his own head. Some few moments pass as you stand to the right of the hollow-eyed monarch – watching him for some sort of reaction. Eventually, he notices your stares and looks up to demand your service.

“Were you successful?” he inquires.

Melisandre nods simply. Davos looks between the two of them rapidly, disbelief on his face. He points at the witch.

“This . . . sorceress, she . . . she – it's pure evil what she did, Your Grace! You bade me to sail up the Blackwater with her aboard the Shining Light and I did so, with my best men including my son – risking all their lives for your plan. And she . . .” Davos seems to see the scene anew, played on a video screen within his mind's eye. “She did some sort of dark ritual which . . . it looked like . . .” he trails off, lowering his accusatory, index finger.

“It matters not the specifics,” Stannis comments. “If it succeeded then Joffrey named-Baratheon is dead.”

Davos shakes his head furiously. “You cannot win the war like this, Your Grace. It's not right. None shall follow you if this is how you take the throne.”

“All shall follow me for I am their rightful King,” Stannis replies. “And there is but one pretender left in my way.”

“Blood magic cannot be –”

“I didn't use blood,” Melisandre corrects the former smuggler, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Blood magic is no worse a crime than the indignity of letting incestuous abominations sit the Iron Throne for a moment longer than necessary. We've already committed, Ser Davos. It is time to follow through.”

“We have to be better than the Lannisters. Honesty and fairness is why I followed you, Your Grace. It's why I let you chop my fingers and it's why I serve you. They will not see the man you truly are if this is how you seize power.”

“Without Tommen they lose the Tyrells,” Stannis reminds his loyal subordinate. “Without the Tyrells my brother harries them from the rear while I betrothe Shireen to Loras to solidify peace. The Lannisters either retreat to Casterly Rock or I crush them at King's Landing.”

“And how long do we celebrate before Renly stabs you in the back to the cheering adoration of thousands who despise us,” Davos points out.

>We need to end this, Davos
>Davos is right.
>Anything else? (write-in)

>>606196
>Davos is right.
HOWEVER
>Anything else? (write-in)
There is a slight issue I believe we may be overlooking your grace should we succeed and the pretenders are slain and you do indeed take your rightful place on the throne, we need the people to want you too be their king lest they support insurgency and deceit. Those Rainbow guard are more likely than not assassins for when the time comes.

So here is my suggestion if we use the Shadows too strike again, I say we kill Tywin...if worst comes too worst then Jamie/Cersei will erupt into a fit of rage and kill Loras which works in our favor or he doesn't and we've lost nothing. As of now killing Joffrey was proving a point, we can strike at will, now they will have to fear that. However if we simply kill the pretenders it makes the incest look false, more like an excuse.

As much as I hate too say it we need to do something a little more cunning, now is not the time for a scalpel but something...sweeter.

I propose we kill Tywin soon and in the meantime we focus winning the people over, turn them against the crown and the Lanisters...starve them somehow, psychological siege.

>>606219
seconded

>>606219
+1

>>606219
+1 best decision in a long fucking time

>>606713
Mannis needs to be our reasonable and cunning person, he will sort everything out. Him and Mills shall make Westeros great again before looting old valyria

>>606713
Not a proxy btw

>>606196
>Davos is right.
>Anything else? (write-in)
"He is right. We could end THIS war very quickly by killing Tommen."
"What you must keep in mind is that the populace really, REALLY is not a big fan on you being of different faith and if you kill kids on top of that, you'll have very high chance of having insurgency all around."

"There is however an alternative method."
"Killing Joffrey was an act of justice. Own up to it. State that Joffrey hunted the common folk for sport, that's reason enough to kill him."
"Start boasting on how under rule of Stannis Baratheon, shit gets done. Rile up the populace, start spouting painful truths about the system that you intend to fix and how you intend to fix it."
"You also need a slogan. How about "Make Westeros Great Again."?"

>>606799
Fuck off with MWGA.

Everthing else I liked.

>>606219
+1 I support not killing cat owners

File: Mannis.jpg (18 KB, 236x470)

18 KB JPG

“That'd be right, Ser Davos,” you admit with a shrug, drawing the attention of your other three collaborators. “His counsel is indicative of the common bloke's opinion,” you explain. “The smallfolk will sing no songs of the King who sat on his dreary island worshiping a foreign God and letting a sorceress kill his enemies. Even if you succeed and kill these whackers, you need the mob to want you or there'll be another war with another claimant – and we'll lose that one.”

The onion knight nods along. “They must be defeated in the field, Your Grace. As every war before has been won.”

Stannis grinds his teeth. “I have three thousand soldiers. I cannot defeat the Lannisters in the field. Shall I do nothing at all and let the wolves bring me my throne? I do not mistake them for hunting dogs. I will seem a craven if I do nothing.”

“If you must use the shadows again,” the former smuggler shivers as you mention the details of the ritual aloud, “Kill Tywin instead. Rob them of their greatest strategist.”

Melisandre sighs, looking irked. “Then killing the boy will have been pointless.”

“What does it matter?” Davos asks. “We slew him without a single man lost.”

“There is always a cost, Ser Davos,” Stannis speaks solemnly. “I have sacrificed . . . much, to ensure his death. And I am prepared to do so again.” He locks eyes with his red witch and she nods once in recognition of his determination.

“It wasn't pointless,” you assure them all. “We proved a point – we can strike at will. That will give them cause to fear us. A false king lies dead in his bed because their sins will come back to haunt them. But slaying a boy of twelve will make the claim of incest appear false in most blokes' eyes.”

“You said killing the boys was a way to ensure Stannis's claim without relying on the charge of incest!” The lady of Asshai shouts at you, angered by the flipflopping of your stance.

You shake your head as you grab the bridge of your nose. “I was wrong, alright. I made a mistake and a miscalculation. The more dubious our victory over the Lannisters, the easier it will be for Renly or someone else to oust us in turn. We need mates at the end of this or else we'll be drinking with the flies before we end up carking it. And since we're yabbering so much on the subject – this Rainbow guard Renly sent us.”

File: Rainbow Guard.jpg (170 KB, 776x600)

170 KB JPG

“What about them?” Stannis rounds on you, one eyebrow raised. He seems to honestly be considering your implied suspicion.

“I don't know if we can trust them. They're certainly not my bowl of rice. I'm suspecting . . . foul play. I think Renly may have sent them to watch over you more than guard your life. Assassins placed right beside you when and if we win this.”

Stannis nods his head, listening to your hunch with closed eyes. He looks to his other advisers. “What do you two make of my 'Kingsguard'?”

“They're more concerned with appearances than getting dirty,” Davos comments, considering the idea you proposed thoughtfully, wracking his brain with his extensive observations of the knights of summer. “They don't like Dragonstone – you can see it in their eyes. I'd place seven sword arms you trust beside you before I'd place the seven 'best' sword arms that Renly can scrounge up. Honestly though, a few of them don't look like they've got much going on in their heads. Of course, that also makes it easier for men to follow orders, so . . . I don't know. I wouldn't trust them with your life, that's for sure Your Grace.”

The red woman simply chuckles. “A vestigial remnant of your former faith – Lord Stannis. Seven soldiers representing seven gods. You are Azor Ahai reborn. The Lord of Light's chosen. You have one God and one Kingsguard.”

Davos mutters a stifled, dark chuckle as he casts a downward glance at her feet - the most he's willing to fill his vision with her appearance. “I suppose that Kingsguard 'd be you?” he asks sarcastically.

She shakes her head. “No. Your Kingsgurad is R'hllor's light. Shining through the hundreds of thousands who shall adore you, Your Grace. When the night is dark and full of terrors - you will be the one they flock to. ”

Stannis nods. “Then we're unanimous, it seems. I do not trust them either. Assassins, fools, incompetents – perhaps all three. They serve Renly's interests. I don't want them near my person and I don't want them near my daughter. Solutions?”

>Have them killed
>Have them imprisoned
>Send them away
>Something else? (write-in)

>>608468
>Send them away

>>608468

>Send them away
>Something else? (write-in)
Make use of them, they so claim too serve you, yet the carry Renly's "Popularity". I say we use it.

Send them around too Garner support and send someone you trust with them, we can use their "flare" to drum up more support for you. It will kill two birds with one stone. They are away from you, we make use of their talents and finally We may "accidentally" loose some of Renly's best fighting men (and woman).

Have them openly work too support us, tie their Glory too our own if they indeed have any. We must make use of them in the field but make it very, very clear they work for us. We can figure each out...maybe even break one or two into spilling your brothers plans, his weakness if he trusts in his friends to much.

[In short split them up into smaller groups and send Mannis and Ser Mills out together with none merc armies, we're gonna sack Casterly Rock, cut them off from their gold...]

>>608468
>Something else? (write-in)
"Possibly best swords in the realm mucking about in one of the most secure castles in westeros twiddling their thumbs?"
"They are not officially King's Guard yet. You can offer them Lordships in exchange for glory. Send them out on a Quest. There's plenty of good land to redistribute once this war is over."

>>608610
Basically what he is saying. There's no point in wasting men of talent.
Good ruler knows how to both recognise talent and utilise it.

These men have competence. We need to give them something to gain and something to lose. After that, they will not risk assassination and you'll gain men of talent.

We should use Ser Mills as a poster boy on our campaign to gather forth neglected men of talent.
He was after all a complete nobody, but with the right opportunities he distinguished himself as a peerless warrior.

Also, the people who watched the Melee thought he was a real cool dude.

>>608487
>>608468
>on a quest

>>608468
Fucking kill them you idjits

>>609062
Not a proxy

File: Stannis Baratheon.jpg (27 KB, 600x450)

27 KB JPG

“Send them away, your Grace,” you offer. “You have seven of the best knights alive currently twiddling their thumbs in the most secure castle in all Westeros.”

Davos nods in agreement. “With the Royal Fleet stationed here, any siege would have to best us in a naval battle first to land their troops on our shores.”

“Too right! Give them some piece of piss to do. Promise 'em rewards and glory for it. They carry your banners and Renly's popularity. Their flare and talent tied to your bid for the Iron Throne legitimizes your claim and adds prestige to your name.”

Stannis ponders the idea, his eyes rapidly moving across the room like he was reading some script written on the inside of his irises. “I know exactly what I will do with them. My fighting men are being wasted sitting here upon the shores as much as my younger brother's servants. I will send these knights of Renly's to bolster Eddard Stark's army in the Riverlands. Along with half of my foot and two hundred knights. Lord Monford Velaryon will lead these forces – the fool's been pestering me to go on the attack for months now, as if I stood a chance. I fear he mistakes me for Aegon the Conqueror and one of these statues for Balerion the Black Dread. I'll let the gloryhound lead the charge. If we must win my seat by military might I will not have it said that I let the Northmen do the work.”

Stannis returns to his seat – stationed right where Dragonstone would be physically on this enormously long map. “My plans for war will be announced at the feast tonight. In the meanwhile – as it seems beneficial for the moment to let Tommen live – Maester Pylos will word a letter professing the boy king's true parentage. I will have the declaration delivered up and down the coast – to every Lord in reach of a raven, informing them of the truth. It will be up to them, what to do with that truth.”

“The Lord of Light requires an offering,” Melisandre counsels as the meeting seems to be coming to a close. Stannis fixes her with a steady gaze. She steps forward, towards the King. “He has done much for you of late. Your faith to him must be reaffirmed.”

Stannis nods once. “The Red God will have his due. That I promise.”

File: Dragonstone.png (480 KB, 860x393)

480 KB PNG

The Great Hall of Dragonstone is a dreary place like the rest of the spooky castle – despite the presence and valiant attempts of all those in attendance. Carved in the shape of a huge dragon lying on its belly, great double doors of dragonglass are chiseled into the shapes of teeth and placed firmly in the mouth of the black stone lizard. So to enter you must essentially consent to being eaten by a giant fire-breathing monster. You try having fun eating while something else is meant to be digesting you – see how merry a time you'll have.

Men, dressed in a motley of blues and greens with brooches of seahorses, swordfish, crabs and other denizens of the deep oceans, attempt to feign frivolity as their conversations turn to conspiratorial mutterings in the echo-amplified chamber and the music of their minstrels turn somber by the atmosphere. Perhaps you're all doomed already. This is the Hell you were sent to when the volcano exploded or your throats were slit in your sleep by elite Lannister marines.

You shake your head free of such nonsensical daydreams – daynightmares, more like – and resolve yourself to enjoying some element of this supposed feast. If this is anything like Mount and Blade, the main point of attending feasts is to schmooze with all the nobles and accept quests from them to curry favor. Maybe you should do something similar – if not so videogamey.

>Speak with Lord Monford Velaryon
>Speak with Ser Mills the White
>Speak with Ser Davos Seaworth
>Speak with Melisandre of Asshai
>Speak with King Stannis Baratheon
>Something else? (write-in)

>>609286
>Speak with Ser Mills the White
Priority one

>Speak with Ser Davos Seaworth
Priority two

>>609291
Oh shit, also tell the Maester too not try and poison fire lady, it don't work. Stannis needs you alive not a martyr

>>609291
>>609295
These.
We need a man of reason in the house.

File: 5351080+_5cbe1fc43c33dcd9(...).png (72 KB, 1161x851)

72 KB PNG

>>609286
Swadia stronk.
Mira is a filthy Rhodok

Rolled 35, 38, 61, 91 = 225 (4d100)

Eddard Stark, Halys Hornwood, Medger Cerwyn, Ser Pate of the Blue Fork

Rolled 4 (1d100)

Jaime Lannister

>>609323
Looks like Pate's on a roll.

>>609324
Poor Jaime. Ain't catching no fucking breaks in this quest.

>>609324
Rekt.

Rolled 10, 1, 96 = 107 (3d100)

???

>>609335
Perfect

>>609337
my condolences

Rolled 3 (1d3)

>>609335

1 - Captured

2 - Killed

3 - Horribly Maimed

>>609348
well that could have been worse

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>609348

1 - Eye gone

2 - Arm gone

3 - Leg Gone

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>609351

1 - Eat own eye like Xiahou Dun

2 - Cry like a bitch

>>609355
That's metal as fuck

Rolled 99 (1d100)

Lol keep forgetting certain people.

Hey Jory Cassel, what's up dawg?

>>609375
Kicking ass and taking names.

Rolled 49 (1d100)

and now for the Tripod

Rolled 25 (1d100)

>>609382
Around average, as expected.

How much dick does Shae get.

Rolled 4 (1d100)

>>609384
How much of a migraine does Tywin get from his daughter being a Harpy and Jamie getting fucked up

>>609385
dudes apparently as chill as they come, also as expected

Rolled 60 (1d100)

>>609385

Rolling for Mountain's migraine.

>>609387
Hmmm, probably kills a squire to relieve the pain but not too bad.

Rolled 18 (1d100)

Does Kevan Lannister get le tricked?

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>609391
...yup now do the guards fuck up?

>>609392
looks like no prisoners are escaping

Rolled 88, 55, 38, 38 = 219 (4d100)

Kevan Lannister, Daryn Hornwood, Eddard Karstark,

>>609396
whoes the last dice?

>>609397
Torrhen Karstark.

God damn this whole battle is a cluster fuck. Who won?

Rolled 6, 40 = 46 (2d100)

>>609402
Want to see it get even harder to parse.

Kevan Lannister again, Andros Brax

>>609405
well thats not going well...will Unicorn man drown again?

File: martin.png (11 KB, 448x82)

11 KB PNG

>>587367

>>609396
>>609323
>>609324
>>609389
I am completely and uterlly confused.Is every main character battling riht now?Did they all meet up in the middle of the field and decided to start a brawl?

well this is interesting

File: 350px-Fourteen_Flames.jpg (75 KB, 350x486)

75 KB JPG

Been following this quest off and on for a while. So much fucking potential to explore characters and locations the main series will never get to. Imagine a character infiltrating the house of black and white and finding what's hidden in the chambers deep inside of it, the Council of fourteen. Or sneaking into the crypts of Winterfell and finding what horrors wait down there.

Hell, there could even be a fucking expedition into the ruins of Valyria that would be exciting and horrifying as fuck.

>>611937
I'd recommend Soma's Life of a Bastard quest as they're doing just that, going to Valyria, but unfortunately Soma has had to put that quest "on hiatus"

>>612171
Why is it downvoted to hell on suptg?

>>612221
Because well:

1. Soma abadoned it

2. Soma's fans of his other big quest - Banished - were mad that he was doing some other quest rather than the quest they loved.

>>612171
This has been the quest that got me into this board, I'm enjoying it I just get excited thinking of all the places it could go. I watch the show now and think "fuck, they'll never wander through the streets of Mereen hunting pussy but Westerns Quest might"

>>609959
No they are playing risk via raven.

File: Mills2.png (234 KB, 589x900)

234 KB PNG

Standing up, you brush off any bread crumbs that may linger on your muted brown doublet. The only piece of flair upon it is the fiery heart of R'hllor sewn into the breast – the Baratheon stag within. You find Ser Mills the White standing dutifully along the back wall of the Great Hall, eyes peeled like a hawk for any potential treachery posed against King Stannis within his inner sanctum.

You grab a handle of the amber fluid and approach the knight with a smile, cheery even if the news you bring the South African earthling may not be something he's looking forward to.

“Oi there, mate!” Mills greets with a laugh, accepting the coldie heartily, wrapping his mailed fist around the glass. “Thanks. Could really use a butcher.” He drains the stein of piss in a few quick glugs. “Ahhh~” he sighs out contentedly. “Beer's much better than it should be on this fokk heap of an island.”

“Too right, cobber,” you concur with a friendly nod to accompany your warm-up small talk. “So, uh, have you heard yet?”

“Heard wot?” he asks, puzzled frown stitched to his features at your vague question.

“Uh, you're going to join the blue along with the rest of your . . . Rainbowguard. Stannis is sending half his armies off to war.”

Mannis's face deflates as you tell him the news. “The King doesn't want us watching out for him?”

“That'd be right! Well, he doesn't trust your mob and figured it would be best if you didn't continue being a bunch of bludgers,” you inform your fellow anon. “Stannis is pretty safe and, well . . . we're mates, right?” you ask honestly.

“Of course we're mates, mate. What's buggin' ya?”

You sigh out as you fold your arms across your chest, leaning against the wall. “Just thinking. How much do you trust these other cobbers of yours?”

“Ehhhh,” Mills admits with a shrug. “I want to fokk the blonde bitch so I guess I trust her with my dick.”

You recoil slightly. “You want to have a naughty with Brienne the Beauty, mate?”

“Eh, technically we're not allowed to get married so we could fokk and it doesn't matter much, y'know? Although I'm only going to do it after I kick her ass one of these days.”

“Alright you root rat, what about the others?” you investigate.

“Dull fokkheads. Why ya ask?” Ser Mills narrows his eyes.

“Eh, I got a gut feeling that . . . well, y'see –”

The sound of CLINK CLINK CLINK interrupts your train of thought and nabs your attention along with every other noble and attendant packed into the dreary hall. The loyalists of Stannis Baratheon go quiet as they look upon the form of Maester Cressen, holding a metal fork and wine goblet in his wrinkly, trembling hands. Atop the crown of his head is an antlered helm you often see the fool Patchface wear as he entertains Princess Shireen.

File: Cressen with his goblet o(...).jpg (163 KB, 1032x1080)

163 KB JPG

The old adviser stands upon the raised dais where Stannis is seated with all his lords, bannermen, counselors and family. The Stag of Dragonstone's fingers tighten around the utensil he holds as his eyes fall upon his elderly maester.

“I commanded you to rest, Cressen,” Stannis chides. “Am I to expect Seven Kingdoms to listen when one ornery, old man will not?”

The King's subjects take the opportunity to laugh, breaking the tension, however momentarily.

The elderly intellectual shuffles, his chain of service jangling as he does so. “I apologize, your Grace,” he responds with genuine deference. “But I received news just moments ago that I believe you should hear – that we ALL should hear!”

“It can wait,” Stannis counters humorlessly.

“It really cannot,” Cressen insists. “Good news, from House Chyttering. The death of Joffrey the Illborn has been confirmed!” Cressen raises his glass of wine. You stare at the plonk, then glance to where Ser Davos sits to confirm your suspicions. The onion knight eyes the Maester nervously, clutching and squeezing his pouch of finger bones.

The entire hall goes up in whooping and cheering, a wave of joviality that was previously forced becoming a moment of actual atmosphere at the news of such a triumph. Lord Monford Velaryon himself claps loudly while Salladhor Saan chuckles as he sips his Lyseni red – eyes glinting with the greedy prospect of his future looking much brighter than before.

“By the will of the Seven,” pious Guncer Sunglass declares over the din of competing voices.

“By the will of R'hllor!” Queen Selyse counters.

Cressen gestures to Stannis's homely bride. “I'm afraid, Lord Sunglass, I must agree with her Grace. This deed was done by the will of R'hllor and the Red Priestess herself.”

All eyes rubberneck to her beauteous, fiery form – placed directly to the right of Stannis at the high table in the seat of honor. She smirks sweetly, eyes crinkled in warm mirth. “Our enemies cry that Joffrey was slain by a conjuration of Lady Melisandre's Lord of Light,” Cressen announces, indicating to her with the goblet, wine sloshing in the cup. “They declare his powers responsible for this just action." He takes a long moment to pause, catching his breath from the excitement. "I do hold some worry they may hate us now in the Capital, fearing we worship some . . . dark god,” the geriatric maester notes with more than a hint of concern.

“All men should fear the Dark,” the Red Witch preaches. “But I am a servant of the Light.”

Cressen manages a chuckle at her words. “Mayhaps I'm just a fool and deserve to wear this crown.” He looks down to the ground and wears a smirk as pronounced as Melisandre's own at what invisible picture he says by his feet. “But it seems the dark claims us all in the end. I see no reason to fear its embrace now.”

>Interfere
>Let things play out

>>613722
>Interfere
Yell across at Cressen from where we are almost casually.
"It won't do anything you stupid old stoat. Don't waste your life when it still holds some value."

Then when asked what we're talking about inform our King whats in the goblet. Kindly ask Cressen too put the poison down

>>613729
supporting

>>613729
I'll also add that we should mention too Mills we will do what we can too make sure he gets a chance to seethe his sword in the blondie but more importantly let him know if he wants too stay alive here and his comrades are about to do "something foolish" come too us. We'll do what we can too keep him safe. we earthlings gotta watch out for one another

>>613729
>>613732
Actually better plan, When we yell too him shake our head and tell him that better not contain what we think it does...gonna be wierd if it aint poisoned

>>613733
+1 Supporting this

File: Red Witch.jpg (98 KB, 428x570)

98 KB JPG

“OI CRESSEN!” you shout, drawing all the eyes in the room towards the corner where you and Mills have been conversing. Even Cressen and Melisandre are distracted from their mental skirmish. “That wine best not contain what I think it does, mate.”

Cressen's face deflates and Melisandre merely titters silently. Stannis looks from you to his elderly maester, frowning. “Contain what?” the King asks simply, a disconcerted tone plain in his harsh vocals.

The old man's fretful, yellow-green eyes betray his murderous intentions – as does the rigid, tense posture of Ser Davos, seated farther down the high table.

“Cressen!” Stannis shouts bitingly from where he is seated. “Answer your king. What else does that wine contain?”

“B-b-but . . . how?” the maester croaks out the question to you.

You shrug. “Future, mate. And I can tell you it won't do anything you stupid old stoat. Don't waste your life when it still holds some value.”

“CRESSEN!” At this jolting howl, Melisandre rockets up from her seat, the chair she was in squealing as it is forcibly scooched backwards. She grabs the goblet from his shaking hand with as much grace as the rapid action allows.

Cressen doesn't fight to maintain his hold on the object, stunned as he is by his stymied assassination plot. “Clearly your wise man, my Lord, proffers me a drink to my success. And I accept.”

Without a hint of hesitation, she presses her luscious, red lips to the rim of the glass and tips it backwards, drinking deeply. The ruby gemstone set in the red gold choker at her throat begins to glow noticeably bright even from where you stand some ten meters away.

Cressen's eyes grow wide as he watches her drain the glass empty of its liquid contents, elegant enough to not spill a single drop. His jaw drops, mouth simulating a breathing fish as he struggles to speak or comment upon the miraculous events occurring before him.

Not long after, Melisandre hands him the empty chalice – her smirk wider than ever as the ruby pulses with magical light.

“What –”

“Fire cleanses,” she informs the scholar as she cuts off his befuddled inquiries.

“N-no woman or man could survive . . .” he trails off.

She shakes her head in disappointment while Azor Ahai reborn sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Guards!” he orders. “Seize my maester and throw him in the dungeon. You wish to ignore my pleas for you to rest?” Stannis asks sardonically. “Fine. Now you will rest in a cold, dank cell. I hope you're pleased with yourself. And someone take Patchface's helmet off of his head. I tire of these silly games.”

Mills strides forth to carry out the King's orders as Melisandre sits back down, grinning like a shot fox.

It's clear to all with any sense of intrigue or quick wit the jist of what just occurred here in the Great hall.

And the verdict is out.

R'hllor rules in the court of King Stannis.

>>615744
Who are you and what have you done with our QM?

File: Jaina Slynt.jpg (213 KB, 421x750)

213 KB JPG

The first few days of travel up the Kingsroad have been quite disconcerting. Senelle has proved to be a rather . . . interesting companion. Cersei had said you required a maid to be in your attendance since you were to be surrounded by multitudes of rough and hardy men for a extended length of time. When you informed the mentally fraying queen that Senelle had a much brighter future with yourself as opposed to the Lioness, she agreed to give the redhead over to your service. You've saved the girl from being tortured to death by a mad necromancer, so that's a plus to her potential future and your good deed of the month over and done with.

You also discovered the first night of your journey that the secrecy of some of the more risque aspects of your relationship to Cersei were not as secret as you had hoped. To be fair, you had felt like testing the waters anyway, but Senelle had been most eager to please at the slightest of come-ons. Except . . . you could tell her heart really wasn't in it. You have a nose for these things. Pleasing you purely to satisfy her own desires to make her way up in your court did not sit right with you. You've had enough of that and haven't touched the lowborn girl since.

You've also taken Janos Slynt's daughter with you to be a much younger and less alluring attendant of yours. Jaina Slynt is a rather pleasant, obsequious twelve year old girl who does as she is bid. Again, considering the bleak prospects of her future in the capital, you believe bringing her with you was the smartest and most ethical decision you could possibly make at the time surrounding your departure from King's Landing.

Other than you three women, Ser Jacelyn – your rugged, knightly husband-to-be – has been commanding his subordinates in a properly military fashion. His force consists of former friends and subordinates who he trusts to be competent and loyal. They jape and sing, chat and train as you make your way up to Harrenhal.

Your nights are lighted by the blazing red comet traversing the sky above you – made extremely visible in the otherwise pitch black camp. A torch to light your journey, some of the men jape.

Every day you pass greater and greater throngs of traffic – all heading South to King's Landing from the war torn Riverlands. Some have donkeys, horses or carriages – but most pass by on foot, sporting their valuables on their backs and wary, grim expressions on their faces.

By the second day you start to see the lines of graves. Impromptu and freshly dug earth with nothing more than wooden sticks for markers – you sometimes spot rows and rows of them packed together in clusters of misfortune and tragedy. Done on the go by traumatized friends, family or strangers – the sight unnerves you all. You feel a twinge of regret, before you realize it doesn't quite matter – they were dead anyway without you.

That pill is much harder to swallow when you spy the few intermittent graves made for much smaller bodies.

File: Yoren.jpg (387 KB, 693x950)

387 KB JPG

Riding your steed near the center of the train, you are confused when the whole procession comes to a halt for seemingly no reason. You are the largest party on the road and nothing stands in your way. After lifting yourself up off your horse to peer over the helms of your soldiers for some sign of why you have been randomly stopped, you spy Jacelyn's standard-bearer sporting his coat-of-arms – three silver fish on a blue chief. A group of Jacelyn's former goldcloaks seem to be conversing quietly with a group of men in front of an ivy-covered inn.

Feeling concerned, you kick your horse forward and weave your way to the front, eager to listen in on the conversation.

Senelle follows beside you and Jaina serves as your constant shadow.

Creeping upon the sight of the altercation, you see your fiance chatting with a stooped, coarse Northman garbed all in black, chewing a plant which bleaches his teeth blood red.

“I heard you,” the black brother nods as he speaks. “But the boy's destined for the Night's Watch now. Whatever he did in the city to warrant that pretty warrant of yours, it's null and void now.”

Ironhand sighs. “I do not care. Queen Cersei ordered –”

“Her laws – no laws – apply to my job with the Night's Watch.”

Jacelyn's steely gaze searches across the small gathering of orphan boys and criminals. You yourself spot five wagons most likely laden with supplies destined for the Wall. A tall muscled boy – black of hair and blue eyed, holding a bull's head helm by his side – is clearly Gendry. Fettered in the back of one of the wagons are three prisoners from the black cells.

The squat, bulky, hairy and noseless form of Rorge.

The fat, doughy, bald and sharp-toothed form of Biter.

And . . . Ser Barristan the Bold. The old knight sits near lifelessly beside his more disturbing companions. His eyes search the countryside without truly seeing much.

“How many recruits do you have with you, old man?” Ser Bywater asks . . . Yoren. Yeah, this must be Yoren the Night's Watch recruiter. “Thirty?”

He shrugs his gnarled, shoulders. “Twenty eight,” he answers honestly. “Twenty nine yesterday, but we lost a man. Sellsword by the name of Praed. Fourth recruit I've lost in thirty years. Not in the mood to make it five.”

“My men could make it thirty-two,” the knight threatens coldly. “We outnumber you more than ten to one.”

Yoren looks around the score or so of Jacelyn's closest soldiers, nodding thoughtfully. “That you do." He shakes his head. "Still not giving you the boy.”

“Please, do not make this difficult,” the former guard captain pleads.

“You ever hear the tale of Aegon the Conqueror and Lord Commander Hoare?” Yoren asks. Seems a non sequitur to you.

“I feel I'm about to,” Bywater retorts, annoyed.

File: Aegon the Conqueror.jpg (703 KB, 744x850)

703 KB JPG

“When Torrhen Stark – the King who Knelt – swore fealty to Aegon Targaryen, well . . . his sons didn't like that. One of which – the eldest – joined the Night's Watch. Swore he'd serve a Southroner before he'd serve some foreign Dragonlord. Well, good King Aegon feared a rebellion brewing from the lad and flew to the Wall upon Balerion the Black Dread.”

“Now. Lord Commander Hoare was brother to Harren the Black, who burned with all his sons at Harrenhal when he refused to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen and his three great dragons. There was no love between the Lord Commander and the Dragon King – but Lord Commander Hoare was not a stupid man. He did his duty as leader of the Night's Watch and stayed out of the affairs of the realm. And he knew from many accounts just what those dragons could do.”

“As the tale goes, Lord Commander Hoare rode out with a procession deserving of a King and offered to feast and host Aegon as long as he desired – so the foreigner would learn the sacred duty of the Night's Watch firsthand.”

“Well, Aegon was busy. He had a new kingdom to run and wanted to leave immediately – with Torrhen Stark's son in tow. Whether he was going to roast the Heir of Winter alive or keep him as a hostage, no one knows what his plan was. But Lord Commander Hoare's answer was simple. The King in the North's son had given up all titles and joined the veritable organization of the Night's Watch. No king could touch him." "

"Aegon laughed, of course."

"He had just spent the last few months demonstrating why all should bend the knee to him – and don't be fooled! Lord Comander Hoare knelt before Aegon as the rightful King of Westeros. But Aegon was denied a request. He feared that Harren The Black's brother and the heir apparent to the North in the same place with ten thousand fighting men spelled trouble for his reign later down the line. And he wanted obedience from his subjects.”

“Now Aegon could have set Castle Black aflame if he wanted – roast half the Night's Watch alive then and there, but he saw no need to kill us when there was a much more significant symbol to burn. The Wall itself. He took one smug look at that 700 foot chunk of ice and saw it as another chance to demonstrate why men should do as he bid. Aegon asked the Lord Commander the purpose of the Wall. Lord Commander Hoare answered it was the only thing guarding the realms of men from what lay beyond.”

“Aegon saw the Wall as just another false claimant to his authority. He declared his dragons were the only thing required to guard the realms of men and Balerion the Black Dread would burn down any enemies to his rule as well as our order's backwards, primitive subject of dedication.”

>>617594
Whip out crossbow. Put a bolt in Gendry's eye hole.
"Nice story old man, now get out of our way."

File: Balerion the Black Dread.png (1.25 MB, 998x542)

1.25 MB PNG

“He loosed the meanest, largest and most vicious of all the Targaryen dragons upon our wall of ice. The Wall was bathed in torrents of black fire as Balerion flew up and down, a giant black blot against the sky that could cast a shadow over the entirety of Castle Black. The few dozens of men unable to flee the Wall proper in time were burned alive as were many of the supplies we had stored atop the Wall. But the Lord Commander sat by passively and watched with disinterest as Balerion spent the next six hours assaulting the Wall, which Hoare had sworn to protect.”

“Did the Wall melt when met with dragonfire? Yeah."

Yoren takes a moment to look across all your faces, letting his craggy features slowly shift into a devious smile.

"About a foot or two. And when Balerion nearly collapsed as it flew back to its master, exhausted and in need of a good nap, do you know what Aegon did?"

"He laughed, of course."

"The next day Aegon the Conqueror assured Lord Commander Hoare the Night's Watch would receive two hundred fresh recruits and enough supplies to repair the superficial damage his dragon had doled out that evening. And he feasted with Lord Commander Hoare and Torrhen Stark's eldest for a month afterwards, learning to respect what it is the Night's Watch does.”

. . .

It takes a few moments for you to realize the story has concluded. Once Jacelyn is sure there will be no epilogue, he shakes his head. “That tale would have been delightful to hear as a child. But I am a knight charged with a duty. If you think some tall tale from the time of Aegon's Conquest will sway my 'respect' for your authority, you're sorely mistaken, crow.”

Yoren's chest rumbles with a dark chortle. The recruiter shakes his head. “Nah, you misunderstand. The story's for me. Lord Commander Hoare didn't back down from Aegon the Conqueror nor Balerion the Black Dread. Now . . .” Yoren shrugs. “I'm no Lord Commander Hoare, but Queen Cersei's no Aegon the Conqueror neither. And you . . .” Yoren points a black gloved finger at Ser Jacelyn Bywater and spits a wad of red mucous into the grass. “Are no Balerion the Black fuckin' Dread.”

>Do nothing
>What do? (write-in)

>>617646
>Do nothing

>>617646
>>Do nothing

>>617646
>Try to intervene

We know how important the wall is. Don't wanna fuck with the nights watch.

>>617646
Have them arrested for incomptence.
Following the Queen's orders is all well and good, but if you are too stupid to pick a fight with the Night's Watch in public, you don't deserve your post.

Just hire some raper to slit his throat in the night like everyone else does, but doing something this stupid in front of a lord and putting her in a position where she can't not take action, you deserve to be punished.

>>617770
Last ruler of Harrenhal was after all a supporter of the Night's Watch, so it is expected her to intervene if she sees members of the Night's Watch being put to the sword in front of her in order to keep public order in her lands.

Deniability in a situation like this is very important.
Night's Watch probably has a lot more respect in Harrenhal and therefore for the sake of public order, it's necessary for us to take action since we have no deniability.

>>617646
Tell Jace to sod off and let the night watch do it's job

>>617646
>What do? (write-in)
Do you trust me husband...let the nights watch do their job...we saw nothing

>>615744
>>617576
>>617594
>>617613
>>617646

In case you get through this quest by ctrl f ing my name, all these are my posts

>>617761
this

>>617761
Supporting +1

>>620768
Not a proxy btw, just your friendly south american

>>617646
>>617761
Changing to this

Sorry y'all. My internet, even after having the router replaced, is being a shit. Am writing now.

File: Jacelyn Bywater.jpg (176 KB, 407x266)

176 KB JPG

You urge your Westerlands courser forward. A gift from Tyrion Lannister for your dutiful service to his House. Jace and Yoren finally notice your presence. Jacelyn's already massive frown deepens slightly as he sees the twelve year old girl by your side. Good. The more deterrents to having this end in bloodshed the better. Yoren nods deferentially.

“M'lady,” he greets. “Don't believe we've met. Yoren of the Night's Watch.”

“Mira Towers, Lady of Harrenhal,” you reply.

The crow furrows his eyebrows. “I was under the impression Lady Shella of House Whent was the Lady of Harrenhal. Has been for a long time now.”

“Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal to loyalist forces and was stripped of her holdings for colluding with the rebels,” Jace explains. “The King granted all its lands and incomes to my lady wife for stopping the treasonous plot of one of your charges.”

Ser Barristan's ears perk up and suddenly his body animates with life once more as your conversation develops. The former kingsguard looks over and fixes his eyes upon your form. You glance over to the old man, feeling nervous, noticing the attention in your peripherals for so long. His eyes do not scream hatred. Barristan simply studies you curiously, like a visitor at a zoo.

“My sympathies to you both,” Yoren offers with a light note of compassion in his voice.

Jacelyn chuckles in amused confusion. “Sympathies? For what?”

“Harrenhal is cursed. I wouldn't wish that drafty castle upon my worst enemies,” Yoren admits.

“Well for the time being we are charged with keeping order in the lands that fall under its control,” you explain. “Lady Whent was a friend to the Night's Watch, was she not?”

“Aye,” Yoren answers with a nod. “A good woman who didn't deserve the misfortunes that befell her.”

“Well, I see no reason not to continue that relationship,” you announce for any to hear decisively. “Shella Whent ruled ably with the support of her people. I assume they expect certain traditions to be upheld. Tell your allies at the Wall that as long as I am in command of Harrenhal the Night's Watch will be allowed to perform their duties unmolested.”

“The Queen –”

“Might have been mistaken, Ser Jacelyn,” you lie as you interrupt the crippled knight's protest. “As I recall, the boy was an armorer's apprentice for Master Tobho Mott. Her Grace probably ordered the arrest while bereaved with grief. A lapse in judgment or recollection is to be expected for such an immaterial issue while she focuses on ruling in King Tommen's name. Subjects serve their Lords and to properly serve we must serve with discretion. Tell me Ser Jacelyn, do you truly believe we should carry out this arrest?”

You fix him with a questioning glare. He meets your gaze with a hard, unyielding one of his own for a long time, licking his lips as you see his wheels turning. Eventually he sighs out.

File: Gendry.png (566 KB, 585x900)

566 KB PNG

“Give me the helmet,” Ser Jacelyn orders, rounding on Yoren once more.

Gendry's eyes go wide and he clutches the admittedly exquisitely-crafted piece of steel like it was a babe at his breast. “What?!” he shouts, sounding more indignant than when Jace was nearly asking for his head.

Yoren turns round and looks to the boy. “Give him the helmet!” he orders, clearly deciding this is as best a compromise he's getting.

“It's mine! I made it myself,” Gendry argues.

“That's the point!” Jace exclaims, rolling his eyes. Yoren stomps over to the muscled teen and merely has to give him a hard look before Robert's bastard hands over the helmet, scornfully and with a suitably perfect amount of angst.

Yoren politely hands it up to your lantern-jawed fiance, who passes it back to one of his more trustworthy subordinates.

“Bleed one of the horses onto it. Dig up a skull – plenty to go around. Bring it back to the Capital and then return immediately. The deed is done. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” his brother-in-arms nods knowingly. “Deed's done.” The unnamed goldcloak turns his horse and ushers it back towards the caravan.

“Shame,” Yoren comments regretfully. “Was good steel. Wall's always in need of good steel.” He turns to look at you. “Well Lady Towers. Seeing as we're such good friends and all, you wouldn't mind escorting me and my recruits as far as Harrenhal, would you? Would be a shame if supplies aiming to reach the Wall were accidentally . . . reappropriated.”

>I've helped enough. You're on your own
>Sure.
>Something else? (write-in)

>>622476
>>Sure.

>>622476
> sure
Add long as you and yours stay downwind of me.

>>622693
>>Sure.
this. Not too harsh though

>>622476
>Sure.

File: Stepstones.jpg (596 KB, 1100x807)

596 KB JPG

“Sure,” you accept, smiling deviously. “As long as you and yours stay downwind of me.”

Yoren chuckles. “I promise not to get the stink of work into your pretty little nostrils. We'll trail behind. Far enough that me and mine don't get confused for you and yours. Y'know. In case wolves attack.” He matches your smile with one of his own.

You gulp a little as he brings up the prospects of . . . well, wolves.

You really hope all that nonsense of the curse of Harrenhal is just coincidence.

. . .

The journey through the Stepstones had been perilous. Rumored as a den of pirates and often fraught with storms, the whole crew was on edge. One false move, one accidental mishap, or one unlucky occurrence could have ended with the Argo dashed upon the rocks.

But somehow, despite all the odds considering how shitty your luck often is . . . you make it through unscathed. It's even a rather pleasant journey. Truly this is the work of . . . R'hllor? Maybe it is. Maybe it was KEK. Maybe it was just a random string of lucky breaks. Honestly . . . you sigh out.

Religious fervor is starting to lack the luster or the high you could ride in the initial stages of your newfound faith. Perhaps you're becoming like Thoros – an adherent in name only.

But the religious support of the crew is as strong as ever and you keep up the sermons and praising of the Lord of Light for their sakes at least. Morale is as important a resource to maintain as food or ammo.

After a tense two days navigating around jagged rocks, you made it into the safer waters of the Summer Sea as your carrack skirted the coast of the Disputed Lands. Not much piracy out here – just Lyseni and Tyroshi ships passive aggressively psyching each other out. As an obviously Pentoshi trade ship you've been left alone in relative peace from the two feuding city-states.

You watch from a long distance away as a tiny blip on the horizon passes you by. Captain Semar had informed you that that was the Free City of Lys. It's been four days since you passed Tyrosh so it seems the Captain has not been lying to you or miscalculated the voyage's time table by any significant degree. The scruffy Westerosi also informed you that you had to make port in Volantis to at least stock back up on food, if nothing else. It's on the way to Qarth and the best port to leave from if you wish to properly avoid getting too near the Smoking Sea that sizzles and kills where the mighty Valyria had once stood proudly.

The next leg of your journey will take six days regardless of what your plans are and you ponder on how much time you should spend within the walls of the eldest of the Free Cities.

>How do you spend the next six days at sea? (write-in)

AND

>Purchase supplies and leave as soon as possible
>Look around and see if anything catches your interest
>Some other plan? (write-in)

>>624302
>>Purchase supplies and leave as soon as possible
>How do you spend the next six days at sea? (write-in)
Get too know our men, earn their loyalty and trust, this also doubles as we may meet some named characters we'd missed.

>>624302
Spear training

>>624302
>Look around and see if anything catches your interest
Rape some girls
>How do you spend the next six days at sea? (write-in)
Rape Raina

>>624302
>How do you spend the next six days at sea? (write-in)
See if you can't get gunpowder to work.
>Look around and see if anything catches your interest
>Some other plan? (write-in)
If we can get gunpowder to work, see if we can't have a Bronze swivel gun made.

>>624302
>Attempt magic
>Purchase supplies and leave as soon as possible

>>624339
Mannis already did that for us and aparantly chemical compounds are diffrent here. he made gun powder but all he got as flash powder.

>>624559
That might be because you idiots keep trying either at sea in the most humid environement possible or in a castle made in the only material on earth that's supposed to magically stop DRAGONFIRE.

>>624764
So when Trick tells you to shove it up your ass how are you going too respond?

>>624794
To be perfectly fair, Gunpowder is a thing that might have stopped working either through machinations of Melisandre or by the magical nature of Dragonstone.

It might even be the reason why Will was brainwashed in the first place, to stop the spread of knowledge through printing press and further research of gunpowder via Will's personal funding.

>>624805
>printing press

When will this meme end? The main reason there is no fucking tech advancement is because for most things it would take so long to get any return and by then the main events of the story would be over and that's fucking boring.

Get it through your heads. You are not going to do any kind of industrial revolution like Velo tried to railroad you into doing back then.

>>624893
Nice try, Velo

>>624805
> brainwashed
No, we are just stupid.

>>624302
> Look around
Nigga getting real sick of being copied up on a boat.
> how spend time
Fishing! And fucking sailors. We can compete with Raina to see who can lay the most of them on this trip.

Revote

Choose from

>Spear training
>Getting to know the men
>Fishing

>>626350

>Getting to know the men

>>626350
>Getting to know the men
Surely we can do more than one thing on our six day pleasure cruise?

>>626350
>>Fishing

>>626350
>Getting to know the men
Spears a secondary thing.

Rolled 1004 (1d1200)

Demi

File: Honors.png (96 KB, 380x254)

96 KB PNG

You spend the next six days getting to know your crew better. Learning their desires, their wants, their aspirations and their dreams. You even host a bit of a “band night” where you all play your instruments and chat with the off duty sailors, singing bawdy, jaunty tunes.

Most of the men are either R'hllor worshippers at this point or very receptive and tolerant of the fire god. Most men think you're the best employer they've ever had. You pay well, most of them have made it so far together through thick and thin and the light at the end of the tunnel seems to be some grand payoff. The crew of the Argo are not merely loyal – they're friendly towards you.

The language barrier proves to be a difficult one that stymies interaction with a large chunk of your sailors, but you still manage to pass over it a tad – learning very basic Bastard Valyrian phrases, which sound nothing like any language you've ever heard before, and a smattering of Dothraki curses.

The bond between the 'officers' of your crew – mainly you – and the common oarsman, deckhand or cabin boy becomes as tight and strong as dragonbone. Most, if not all, of these men will follow you to the end.

You have found that in your constant pestering and interactions with your hardworking crew – a motley assortment of different individuals with a variety of temperaments – you have become a much better reader of both persons and social situations. With a new repertoire of attitude-altering tactics to soothe over and ingratiate yourself with a stranger of any culture at your disposal, you have a much better chance at successfully convincing others to do what you want. That's how pleasant and culture savvy you have become.

. . .

Old Volantis – the First Daughter – sprawls across one of the four mouths of the Rhoyne. Even as you sail towards the majestic city you can feel the hot, humid change in the climate. Winter may be coming to Westeros, but Volantis still seems to be in the sweltering heat of Summer if the sweat pouring down the panting face of every hardworker aboard your ship is a valid indicator.

The deep harbor you sail into stretches before your eyes for what looks like leagues. It is HUGE and seems sparsely filled even though you can spot well over five dozen boats moored to the docks. One of your crew comments that it is rumored that all the isles of Braavos could fit in this harbor.

When they say Volanits is the richest and most powerful of the Free Cities . . . well, the city does its best to look like it lives up to that reputation. You'll be better at judging the veracity of that claim once you get a good look at the interior.

Coasting into port, the men work diligently to moor the ship as you pay the dock official two gold dragons to roughly approximate the number of 'honors' – small brass coins – it costs to take up space here in the proud free city.

File: Volantis.png (666 KB, 694x379)

666 KB PNG

You let your loyal crew stream off the Argo with two weeks worth of pay clutches between their fingers – an advance you informed them, seeing as the next leg of the journey will be quite long and potentially harrowing as soon you will upon the closest point you're willing to risk nearing where the Doom of Valyria occurred.

Reminding your crew to stay nearby as you may be leaving relatively soon, you promise to give them at least three days of rest before continuing onward. This is the minimum amount of time Captain Semar requested to successfully stock up fully on supplies.

That business dealt with, you, your bodyguards, plus your two allied anons stroll onto the docks. As one close-knit posse, you ride your Westerosi warhorses into Volantis proper – Raina generously allowing Plague to ride bitch on her destrier.

Past the rather mundane-appearing wooden docks, which carried the smell of salt water, fresh fish and elephant dung – you quickly find yourself in the Fishmonger's Square which . . . still smells of salt water, fresh fish and elephant dung.

A chaotic tangle of dwarf elephant pulled carts, litters carried by tattooed slaves and various foot traffic seethes and breathes in front of you, like a multitude of cogs in one chaotic, incomprehensible machine. At the center of the massive square stands a cracked, headless statue of granite holding up a spear and shield.

The square earns it's name, as fish peddlers of as many shapes and sizes as the species of fish they sell, hawk their wares, screaming what you assume must be the names and the prices into the din. Fish, eels, clams, shrimp, crabs, lobsters, seaweed-wrapped sushi – you even spot a stall displaying a gigantic turtle, big and as heavy-looking as any of the destriers your foreign band rides.

The cacophany of noise is enough to put most of your group on edge – and it clearly distresses the most mentally fragile of the team. Plague is fidgeting on the back of Raina's horse.

Chiggen looks over his pauldrons to address you, clearly uncomfortable surrounded by the ocean of slaves and freedmen. “Where would you like to go, m'lord?”

>Check out the finest and largest inn in Volantis
>Check out the Temple of the Lord of Light
>Attempt to gain passage through the Black Wall
>Purchase something (what?)
>Sell something (what?)
>Something else? (write-in)

>>628274
>Check out the Temple of the Lord of Light
let's get some contacts first

>>628274
>>Check out the Temple of the Lord of Light
maybe they heard some things

>>628274
>Check out the Temple of the Lord of Light

>>628274
>Something else? (write-in)
Information gather, tell the lads too keep their ears too the ground but don't go digging, don't draw attention.

>Purchase something (what?)
Make more Wyld Fire. it's green Plague will love it. In the meantime ask Bronn if there's anything fun too do here?

Check out a whore house and all that good stuff.

Hows our money situation

>>628297
Why would we pay for whores when we already have Plague?

>>628300
Because plague has Dothraki STDs

>>628274
>Purchase something (what?)
Books on Higher Mysteries aka Magic
>Something else? (write-in)
Try to figure out if there are any Anons in the place

>>628297
Why the fuck would a bard need a whorehouse for?

>>628581
Like, you've got a guy that's rich, good looking, charismatic and has a big dick and you STILL can't get laid without paying for it?

>>628284
>>628292
>>628293

Checking out the Temple of the Lord of Light wins.

File: Fishmonger Square.jpg (135 KB, 629x522)

135 KB JPG

You roll your tongue around in your mouth as you ponder your first move here in Volantis. The books have mentioned and featured this place a fair bit in the latter part of the series. So first . . .

“Let's head to the Temple of the Lord of Light," you decide. "They might have some useful information. Plus cultivating allies in a new and foreign place is never a bad idea.”

Your friends and allies nod their heads in agreement and it takes but a moment for your group to set off, with Bronn taking the very aggressive, pushy lead. You stand out a bit in the crowd, with more than a few passersby muttering 'Westerosi' under their breaths followed by what is most likely a smattering of insults in various foreign tongues, but thankfully with the abounding atmosphere of chaos, it isn't hard to merge into the disorderly traffic seamlessly. And at least you're not a slave or part of the 'plebeian' foot traffic, so you're not the most low status characters here in this bustling, morning market.

Weaving your way around stalls and underfoot of a few lumbering elephants – only slightly terrified you will be squashed in an accidental snafu – Bronn eventually falls in step behind a red priestess being accompanied by about a dozen acolytes.

The sellsword looks back over his shoulder and shrugs, indicating this is as best a plan as he can devise to find the temple and honestly . . . you can't think of a better alternative. You certainly have no idea about the exact layout of this city. Only that there's supposed to be a rather long bridge coming up if you wish to reach the Eastern side of the seaside city.

You notice that the fire priestess whose heels you are doggedly following is dressed in much the same scarlet robes as Melisandre – right down to the large ruby at the center of a red-gold choker wrapped round her throat. She's quite the beauty like Melisandre as well. The most striking differences between the two being that this woman is brunette and, from the few glances you gleam as she looks round the square dispassionately, her nose is more prominent and her eyes are a piercing green as opposed to a lusty red.

“She's got a fine arse,” Chiggen mentions with an offhand comment, quiet enough for naught but those in your group to overhear, assuming any in the surrounding crowd speak the common tongue of Westeros. “You can tell, even through the dress.”

As the priestess you're trailing nears an exit to the square, she casts her glance to the side where an out of the way section of the cobblestones has been cleared of traffic so two jugglers can throw flaming torches to each other in an entertaining routine. It seems to provide a pleasant diversion for a large gathering of enthralled spectators.

When the red priestess halts to gaze at the mummers performing, all of her attending disciples stop immediately in turn, never speaking or questioning the actions of their mutual mistress.

File: Volantene marketplace.png (147 KB, 521x338)

147 KB PNG

You stop your horses too as you stare, torches spinning rapidly through the air in a pre-planned fashion. The jugglers are deft and quick, hamming it up for the audience as they toss their flaming implements between their legs, backwards, with their eyes shut and a variety of other clever tricks and feats of daring. You're watching the scene of medieval entertainment for maybe five or so seconds before one of the tossed torches, which before had been burning at a constant speed, suddenly ignites in an explosive fashion - mid-air.

The crowd gasps and unfortunately the juggler aiming to catch the torch does not recoil, grabbing the prop instinctively as he most likely has been drilled to do a thousand times over to earn his paycheck.

The yelp of pain is immediate and he drops living flame to the cobblestones, his unburnt hand clutching the wounded one as he seethes from the pain. You swear you heard the sizzling of flesh. That's not going to be a fun recovery, you realize.

The gasps and mutterings of concerned patrons continue for a few moments before the red priestess speaks, nabbing the attention of the entire section of the market for a few moments.

Her verbal utterings appear chiding in attitude, if you had to make a guess. After she speaks her piece to the mob, the red priestess resumes her journey and her procession scurries after her once more.

You look to Plague. “Hey! You can understand Valyrian, right? What'd she say?”

“Wenn Sie mit dem Feuer spielen, am besten vorsichtig sein,” the Meme Vulture relates, his face slightly pallid and confused from the event he just witnessed. That wasn't what the red priestess had said at all by your account, but you assume Plague just spoke his German interpretation of her words.

Raina fidgets on the horse your fellow anons share. “What does that mean in English?”

“If you play with fire,” Plague speaks the proverb ominously. “Best be careful.”

>Follow the red priestess from a distance
>Approach and greet her
>Something else? (write-in)

>>630828
masturbate furiously

>>630828
>>Approach and greet her

>>630828
>Approach and greet her
Introduce Bronn and Chiggen as two open minded warriors if needs be (help them score some fire priestess tail)

>>630828
> approach her
For sure that crap that she babbled had nothing to do with us. Not like we have been unsubtly following her or anything.

>>630828
>Approach and greet her