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“Yes,” you answer her question decisively as your group makes it to the Long Bridge's entrance. A group of six or so spearmen, adorned in tiger masks and gauntlets with sharp jutting blades in the facsimile of claws, stand guard, barring entrance to beggars and paupers. The green tiger stripes tattooed upon their cheeks advertise their status as slaves.

They part to let your group pass by with a few muttering prayers to the Lord of Light.

“R'hllor,” the captain of the squad speaks, thumping his fist into his breast. Kinvara nods pleasantly and her acolytes willingly fall in line to allow you room to ride beside the high ranking member of their order. Despite how grand the bridge looks from a distance, the presence of such closely packed together buildings would disturb the claustrophobic. There is maybe enough room on the bridge for two carts to pass side by side, if neither driver was uncomfortable with getting close.

Passing temples, taverns, inns, brothels, cyvasse parlors, shops of all sorts, and everything else under the sun, you continue your conversation as you stroll to the eastern side of Volantis.

“Of course,” you qualify, drawing an inquisitive look from Kinvara who must have believed the subject concluded, “If my destiny is to be trampled by an elephant on my way to purchase a bowl of soup, I won't profess my fire to be burning bright afterwards.”

She chuckles. “No. You would not be here if your destiny was so meager.”

You squint. “Here in Volantis?”

“Here.” Her monosyllabic answer is final. “Now dismount. You follow the God of Flame and Shadow. And in Volantis, we adherents walk.”

Sighing out, you decide to oblige her request. Handing your steed over to Plague in the midst of the bridge's traffic proves less of a hassle than you had believed the process would be. Seems people wearing the vestments of red priests like yourself are afforded some level of personal space, due either to respect or fear. Perhaps a mix of both.

The rest of the journey you link arms with the green-eyed fortune teller, the atmosphere almost akin to escorting a noble lady to her bedchambers. At the bridge's center, another contingent of slave guardsman stand watch over a gathering of dismembered hands and heads hung from a thick, coarse rope extended between two four-story buildings. Kinvara explains the hands belong to recent thieves and the heads to executed criminals. A display for all those with ill intentions in their hearts to witness exactly how crime is handled.

Enveloped in an atmosphere of near-tenseness, the feeling compounded by the muffled rustling of robes from a dozen or so mute companions, you reach the eastern gate of the Long Bridge.

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An archway of black stone carved with a variety of strange beasts – dragons among them – is much more ornate an entrance than the wooden one on the western side. Your exit into the area before the Black Wall, which safeguards the Old Blood of Volantis, is nearly halted by the much larger force of guardsmen – thirty altogether, possibly – who eye your band of foreigners warily. Still, you are allowed entrance unmolested. Having the second most powerful or respected red priest on your arm may be the reason why.

The Black Wall looms before you – not as large as the Wall – but its presence seems much more menacing than protective. A thick wide oval – grand enough to hold an entire chariot race atop its two hundred foot high form. The marvel of architecture stands as a reminder of who are the haves and who are the have-nots in this storied city. Pure blooded nobles who can trace their ancestry to ancient Valyria and their guests are the only people allowed within the walls. A labyrinth of palaces, courtyards, temples and towers is locked away from such humble foreigners as yourselves. Thankfully your destination lies not within the walls, but just outside it.

You've been walking in such pregnant silence for far too long to suit your tastes and there is an urge to fill the void with some noise.

>Talk to Kinvara about something (what?)
>Remain quiet
>Something else (write-in)

AND

>Roll me 1d100 +8, best of 3. This is a spot check.

Rolled 13 + 8 (1d100 + 8)

>>642801
>>Remain quiet

Rolled 42 + 8 (1d100 + 8)

>>642801
Rolling to seduce.
Can't think of anything interesting to ask her, maybe ask if attendance has gone up with the red messenger showing up.

Rolled 49 + 8 (1d100 + 8)

>>642801
>Remain quiet

Writing!

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You decide it would be best to remain quiet. You don't have much to say and will patiently wait for whatever prediction Kinvara decides to grace you with whenever she feels like doing so.

Every so often you look over your shoulder to see your allies trailing a few dozen feet behind – still horsed, unlike yourself.

Eventually you arrive at the Temple of the Lord of Light – which you see from quite a distance away is absolutely filled to the brim with a tumultuous crowd in the plaza beneath the temple proper.

The building itself is enormous, composed of a series of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers that flow together as if they were all chiseled out of one enormous rock. Looming high, dozens of hues of red, orange, yellow and gold dissolve together within the stone like a snapshot of a roiling bonfire hundreds of feet high.

As you get close enough, and the din of fervent evangelical worshipers begins to deafen you, you spot the man who seems to be whipping them into such a frenzy.

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Standing on a raised dais in the midst of the temple plaza, a man whose entire shaven head is covered in a veritable mask of flame tattoos preaches in his foreign tongue. He is tall, thin and his skin is white as milk. In any other situation you would think him a freak rather than a commanding presence.

Kinvara leans close and whispers into your ear. “Light of Wisdom. Flame of Truth. First Servant of the Lord of Light. Slave of R'hllor. High Priest Benerro.”

You didn't need to hear her expound upon his titles to realize who and what this man represents. You study his bombastic speech that is unintelligible to your ears. Yet some instinctive urge within you nearly compels you to hang on his every word as his voice carries high and well by your own objective analysis. At first you think him alone up on that stage, but your eyes eventually manage to rip themselves from his captivating form to spy the guards at the edges of the platform, poised to stop any potential assassins or crazed followers from rushing the priest.

They are all dressed the same – ornate armor over orange robes, sporting spears whose tips are shaped into writhing flames.

“Is this the destiny I am supposed to glimpse?” you whisper back to your escort.

“Part of it,” she confirms.

“Well I can't understand him.”

“He preaches of Azor Ahai reborn. A girl to the east who has woke dragons from stone. Reborn amidst salt and smoke to make the world anew. She will cast off the chains that enslave us all and triumph over darkness to bring eternal Summer to the world.”

You fight hard not to roll your eyes. “I already . . . knew most of this and I was planning to meet this girl anyway. This destiny you preach of is one I am quite well aware –”

Kinvara cuts off your protests and doubts as she shoves her lips onto yours. The kiss takes you by surprise and you gasp as her tongue invades your mouth to bathe your tonsils in her taste. Her mouth is warm and pleasant, hotter than you'd expect from any other girl you've been lip-locked with.

You regain a bit of your senses and composure as her arms wrap around your waist. She hugs you tight as she makes out with you in this public venue.

>Push her off
>S-s-seduce?
>Kiss back but that's it senpai
>Something else? (write-in)

>>643482
>Push her off
Personal space lady.

>>643482
>Something else? (write-in)
oh no you don't bitch! roll to dominate the make out sess

>>643482
>Kiss back but that's it senpai

>>643523
Fug switch to this. I just don't want this bitch to manipulate us.

>>643482
> push her off
You can buy me a fucking drink first lady

>>643482
>Push her off
>Something else? (write-in)
"I think we should see other people."
"It's not you it's me."
"I just feel like we've grown apart."
"I feel we're better as friends."
"We're just at different points in our lives."
"I don't want to hold you back."

>>643482
>Something else? (write-in)
Whip out a dagger and say if she keeps this up, this is the only thing she'll get penetrated with

>>643650
There's guards there sailor.

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>>643650

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>>643658
>implying vanilla GoT isn't already edgy as fuck

>>643523
>>643544
>>643542

Kiss back

>>643571
>>643607

Push her off

>>643650

Be a particularly stupid edge-lord.

lurking

>>643836
>s-s-seduce?

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She's not going to be the one in charge here! Kissing back, your tongue wrestles with hers for dominance in your mouth as you snake a hand around her waist to firmly grip that plump rear and squeeze tight.

She gasps or moans into your mouth, you aren't sure which. All you know is her breath echoes down your esophagus like a hot wind as the spiced fragrance that clings to the locks of her hair fills your nostrils and lulls you into a sensual trance.

Your other hand reaches up to the back of her head and grabs a fist full of her dark brown curls, pulling on them just enough to add a hint of carnal pain to the pleasure of the act.

Despite Raina's pronounced coughs and eventually her pestering demands for you to stop, the tender, near-magical moment extends for what feels like minutes in spite of the roiling exultation of the crowd and the ever present silence that wafts off the forms of Kinvara's acolytes.

The moment is only despoiled by the sudden burst of green flame that shoots out of the stone dragon that appears in the peripherals of your vision.

You blink, startle and recoil, ending the link between your lips with the beautiful priestess as you take a few steps backwards.

The man who holds the iron, dragon-headed staff is black as pitch with a mane of pure white hair framing his flame-inked face. And his gaze is both stern and judgmental, sizing you up as he follows your movements with an unflinching stare.

“Moqorro,” Kinvara regards cordially as she smooths down her robe after the passionate exchange, the deep flush on her creamy features and the state of her disheveled hair betraying the intensity of your previous actions.

“Second Servant of the Lord of Light Kinvara,” the Summer Islander responds, nodding his head subtly with what you believe may be mock reverence. “Instructing the acolytes with a hands on demonstration?”

“R'hllor is the god of passion and heat, Moqorro. Every once in a while it is important for all to be reminded of that truth.”

“I am sure it was purely educational.” This guy is the best deadpan comedian you think you've ever heard. Chiggen's chuckles draw all your gazes for a few moments until his face drops at the sudden attention and you return to your conversation.

“I didn't know you had returned,” the red priestess admits to his face.

“My duties to Benerro's request have brought me back to our city.”

“Is there a reason you have decided to interrupt my –”

Moqorro looks to you. “Your presence is requested by Triarch Vhassar within the Black Walls. You are allowed to bring your retinue if you wish. I suggest you accompany me immediately.”

Uhhhhh

>Sssssure
>Nah, I'm going to stay here
>Something else? (write-in)

>>644423
>>Sssssure
okay?

>>644423
>>Sssssure

>>644423
> Sure
Work before pleasure. Maybe or destiny awaits.
Now we have to figure out who is angry at us for chucking them.

>>644423
>Sure
All aboard tricks train

Writing!

>>644423
>Nah, I'm going to stay here
Does this cuck think he can tear me from my waifu?

>>644592
She's already taken. By a god.

We about too get raped by a summer islander pirate.

>>644735
That's a victory condition as far I'm concerned.

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“Ssssure. Lead the way, uh, Moqorro.”

He nods and begins walking away from the throng of people, the intensity and pitch of their mutterings rising a level as Benerro's own voice reaches a crescendo. Your eyes flick up as flames spark into existence, leaping from the tips of his fingers with a sudden whoosh. He trails his hands through the sky, tracing Valyrian glyphs in the air, the writing composed completely of floating flame. You and your allies eyes are drawn to the images for but a moment before you shake your head of the magical spectacle and follow on the heels of the unwavering dark figure you have agreed to accompany.

“Remember this glimpse of your destiny,” Kinvara raises her voice to inform you as she and her followers begin to be visually lost in the crowd that you push through to catch up with your Summer Islander guide.

“I will!” you promise, casting your voice back over your shoulder. If your destiny is making out with Kinvara then, well, if you get the chance you may very well be taking a more in depth study of your destiny later tonight.

It doesn't take long for you to reach the red priest's side. Every time he brings down his walking staff to accompany his gait, the dragonhead's broiling green flame crackles from both eyes and mouth.

“So,” you begin to speak, attempting small talk as you accompany this seemingly humorless man. He's almost a black Stannis. “Why does Triarch Vhassar wish to see me?” you inquire.

“He and Magister Mopatis have a relationship. Magister Mopatis sent word to the Triarch the moment he believed your guess that Daenerys or her husband may have come to Volantis. The Triarch has not seen hide nor silver hair of her and wishes to commiserate with you – on behalf of Magister Mopatis – on where to search her out next.”

You nod your head. Seems the fat man has his fingers in many pies and you haven't escape the long-reaching meaty clutch of his influence yet. No matter. Some assistance within the Black Walls will no doubt prove useful.

At the entrance to Old Volantis, the tiger cloaks on duty eye you with absolute contempt for daring to attempt entry. But one produced document from within the fire priest's robes seems to banish their authority on the subject of your permission, if not their hatred at your foreigner impudence.

“You are all allowed within the Black Walls as long as Triarch Nyessos Vhassar, a lord of ancient blood, wishes. And not a moment longer. Understand?” The guard captain asks, eyeing you all.

You all nod your heads before the slave soldiers open the massive carved piece of onyx that serves as a gate, depicting the history of the ancient city in a series of images – dragons everywhere you look.

The ancient gate squeals as it takes two dozen men to open. And soon your group either walks or rides down the streets of Old Volantis where those of Valyrian stock still dwell, even if their numbers are beginning to dwindle.

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As you follow Moqorro down the main street to whatever manse this triarch resides within, you soon spot a young summer islander woman appear suddenly, walking out from a side street to stroll beside and chat with the older fellow you follow. She is slender with smooth skin and a series of multi-colored braids spiderweb their way through her dreaded locks. You notice a long, double-curved bow slung over her back that clacks and jostles with every step.

Your eyes narrow as you examine them chatting like old friends in some foreign tongue you don't understand. Only Bronn's distinctive throat clearing distracts you from the odd sight of two very black Summer Islanders chatting and commiserating inside a location that is mainly meant to house extremely white, albino looking people separately from the more mongrel-blooded stock of the city.

When you look over your shoulder to the grizzled sellsword, he merely nods behind himself, grimacing. The dozen or so Summer Islanders, a variety of weapons at their waists, that now trail directly behind your small band of five make you realize something much more than a coincidence is occurring at the moment. You curse this obvious trap as you squint your eyes in immediate regret.

Because of that action of self-chastisement, you almost miss the Summer Islander who approaches you from the side. You notice him at the last second as he throws an arm around your shoulder like you were an old drinking buddy of his. He smiles as you take note of his short curly hair and full beard.

“William, my friend!” he announces, squeezing your shoulder tight enough that it is almost painful. “It has been some time since our last encounter.” He cackles. “I see you don't recognize me. It is I, Othello. And you owe me three ships!”

He jostles you slightly with the declaration.

. . .

You don't think you're going to be making it back to Kinvara tonight.

>Cheese it!
>Draw dagger and stab
>You attacked me, asshole!
>How much do you want?
>Something else? (write-in)

>>644904
>Cheese it!

>>644904
>>Something else? (write-in)
Othello buddy how have you been, I believe the fulls of engagement are if you attack you deal with the consequences. But alas we are here now. How about a drink hmm?

Can can talk about your misplaced ships and this wonderful world we find ourselves in.

>>644904
> Cheese it
Shakespeare quote battle
We need to call the guard to round up these troublemaking niggers, lynch mob when?

>>644944
+1

>>644944
This

Writing!

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You wrap your hand around the black man's shoulder and match his smile with your own. “Othelloooooo budddy! How have you been?”

He shrugs. “Alright.”

“Good, good. Now, you know the rules of engagement. If you attack . . . you, uhhhh, have to dealwiththeconsequences. Y'know?”

He scrunches his nose and nods, mock understanding on his face. “I know.”

“But – alas – here we are now, so –”

“You are a very pretty man. Kojja did not lie about that,” he mentions casually, interrupting you as his eyes roam your face, inspecting your features. The pirate licks his lips as his hand drifts down from your shoulder to the small of your back. “There are many ways to smooth over a grudge, yes?”

“Oh god yes please,” you hear Raina plead quietly.

“Uhhhhhh –”

He laughs heartily, slapping you on the back twice before disentangling himself from your form. “I am fucking you, William.”

“UHHHHHH –”

The black woman rolls her eyes before looking to her commander. “You mean you're fucking with him.”

The man looks to her with a serious gaze. “I know what I meant.” Hungry wolf eyes return to devour your figure for a few alarming seconds before he relapses into a fit of laughter again, waving away his comment as he almost bends in two at his crippling onset of mirth. “But japes and jests aside, white boy, the dragon king wishes to see you.”

“Dragon . . . King?” you inquire, confused.

Othello rubs his jaw. “Yes. Viserys Targaryen wishes for your help in locating his sister. As mutual friends of Magister Illyrio, the young dragon and the elephant Vhassar have made fast allies here in this stagnant stink pile of a city. You are an ally of the Targaryens, yes?”

>Yes
>No
>You're not mad?
>Something else? (write-in)

>>645273
>You not mad, bro?

>>645273
>y-yes?

>>645273
>Something else? (write-in)
That I am. Kinda awkward since we're on the same side now burning ships and all that. How about we all grab a drink eh? Smooth things over?

So...pirate...interesting choice. How you finding Planetos bud? But more on that latter lets go see the young dragon

>>645273
>Sure why no
>Also about earlier, you can have the fujoshit instead

>>645273
> Yes! The lord of fire demand it!
We are looking for her, he is looking for her, this is great, everything is going to plan.
When we find her we can poison her one night and big bro well wake up to find her body cold and dead beside him.
Who saved the beggar king, was it plague?

>>645318
some unknow anon,not plague

We really should have changed our name at some point. Surely the spider would have heard of is working for Stannis and if he is in contact with Viserys...

Votes called. Writing the next update tomorrow. Will be at least five posts tomorrow as well most likely.

>>645273
>Something else? (write-in)
"I'm an ally of the Night's Watch."

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“Y-yes, I am. That's why I'm searching for Daenerys,” you confirm, keeping up the lie that you aren't an agent of Stannis Baratheon.

The happy pirate raises his arms wide. “Good!” he declares. “As am I. We are on the same side then. Now come. Viserys wishes to meet with you and hear your counsel.”

. . .

The elephant theme is starting to get a bit grating. So many statues of various elephants, it's starting to border on a creepy obsession in your honest opinion. You understand it's the symbol for his political party, but it's a bit much. The Triarch seems a meek man when Nyessos greets you all cordially, assuring you his large retinue of slaves will care for all your needs and wants while within his manse – whatever they may be. He does have quite a large stable of slaves. They're underfoot everywhere you go, proffering food, drink, offering to take your coats and capes, massage you while you wait, and a plethora of other activities. You let Bronn and Chiggen have a bit of fun.

Eventually a messenger slave informs you that King Viserys Targaryen is ready to see you and personally escorts you into the 'modest' guest room he is holed up here in Volantis. Arches and tapestries inlaid with shimmering gold trim, tables layered with various delectable treats like fruit, honeyed walnuts, and sweet red wines. The lounges and couches are plush with frilly embroidered throw pillows.

Making your entrance, you summon up all the regal posture you can so as to appear professional. Viserys stares off through a large window, dressed in a fine doublet displaying his House's sigil and words. He watches the red comet in a trance, captivated by its bright, burning journey through the sky.

The sound of someone engorging themselves on food distracts you for a moment and you spy what looks to be . . . Strong Belwas. He munches on nuts and some sort of sliced meat, his arakh leaning against the plush, golden couch he rests his massive bulk upon, the cushions sinking under his weight. Seems Viserys has acquired himself an above-average bodyguard at the least.

It takes the prince a moment to acknowledge your presence. But when he does, he seems to snap out of a daze and approaches you with a firm, rigid stride.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. You oblige him, combining the act with a slight bow to demonstrate your fealty to his claim for the Iron Throne. His eyes seem unnaturally wide, gleaming with . . . something. Madness?

“King Viserys Targaryen,” he speaks, deigning to drop the verbosity of all his various titles for a much simpler greeting.

“Lord William Shakespeare, of the Frozen Shore,” you reply.

Furrowing his brow, Viserys scrutinizes your title. “Frozen . . . is that in the North?” he asks.

“Uh, yes, Your Grace.”

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“Ah,” he acknowledges, nodding absentmindedly. “A Northman then. Well I assure you that I will carve out a much larger piece of the North for you to govern when I take my throne. You have but a single ship, correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” you repeat.

Viserys chuckles, looking to the ground as if he was laughing at some inside joke. “Still. With Groleo arriving on the heels of your own trading carrack, the Pirate Othello's small fleet of swan ships and the five Volantene galleys Triarch Vhassar is lending me and I believe we are forming the foundation of a navy! All we require now is an army to transport.”

Viserys smiles quickly before turning round and sitting down on a couch cushion as he unfurls a map of the world. He shifts his head in sudden, slight movements as his eyes flick from image to image. “Now. The latest report we have received is from a little over a month ago. Khal Drogo's khalasar began raiding in the Lhazarene region . . . here!”

Viserys plops a finger upon a section of land between the Red Waste and Slaver's Bay.

“My best guess would be that after raiding and taking slaves, Khal Drogo would bring his horde through the Khyzai Pass to sell the excess chattle to the Meereenese of Slaver's Bay. Afterwards. the horsefucking savages would most likely ride back into The Dothraki Sea. Now, I believe it best if we sail the fleet into Slaver's Bay and then once there, put our feelers out again for the Khalasar's location. But!”

He looks up to you. “Enough of what I will do. Tell me. You are the only Westerosi of any worth in my employ. I have received word that The Usurper lies dead, gutted by a boar while drunk like the fat sot he was. War rages in my kingdom as his Lannister son and his own scheming brother vy for power –” Viserys laughs mid-speech, savoring the knowledge. “As if the people should be surprised that treachery begets treachery. I have also received word from Illyrio that in his final moments, King Robert called off the reward for my head of that of my sister.”

Viserys stares back down at his map, his eyes unseeing. “I guess even traitors have their moments. Perhaps he saw the seven hells he was damned to rot in and chose to right at least one of his many wrongs. Regardless,” the Valyrina-blooded noble looks back up to you. “I am still in the dark on most of the goings-on in the Seven Kingdoms. Tell me, Lord Shakespeare. What news do you bring of Westeros?”

>What do you say? (write-in)

>>648316
>What do you say? (write-in)
You summed it up quite nicely my King, things are quickly falling apart in the Westeros. While the North Marches on the south to aid the current Lord of Dragon Stone the other southerners burn our lands for their petty squabbles. Amusingly your grace it seems there may be more than meets the eye going on here you see whispers have been creeping across the continent of a Dragon in the east...and it seems the Forces of Dorne and the Reach are yet too act. While they have officially declared a side, opposite sides if i'm not mistaken it seems they are both waiting for something.

Despite of Priestly duties and being i'm not normally one for prophesy but were those not two of the Kingdoms who were loyal to your house till the end. Whatever the case, they waste their best fighting strength and we can gather ours. Do you have any spies among Drogo's men>

I totally plan on getting this fuck nugget too invade and get killed so Aegon can come down hero style as per Vary's plan. In the chaos prior we'll get Stannis sat on the throne for a time.

>>648316
Right now,the fake king and the lannisters of westerlands are locked in a war against Stannis of dragonstone,the north and the riverlands.The stormlands under renly baratheon declared for stannis but havent fought any major battles so far.The Reach declared for The iron throne since the lannisters hold ser loras captive.Dorne has yet to declare for any of them but tbqh they are the most likely to support you in you conquest of westeros.

>>648391
Also the iron islands are also a mistert.Balon greyjoy is bounded to help the north in this war, but he is a treacherous cunt and might as well betray them and carve his own independent path

Writing!

>>648364
Err... isn't Aegon that pretender that Varys put up, who has zero experience in ruling?
All things considered, wouldn't even the Lannisters be a better choice than him?

>>648730
genuinely I have no idea, and while the boy has no experience nor does Tommen. It's the people around them who matter.

>>648826
Yea and we know absolutely nothing about the people Aegon surrounds himself with nor do we actually know anything about the man himself except that he's prideful and that he's backed by Varys and that he's got an army of sellswords.

His claim is as shaky as your average Mount & Blade character's

>>649157
The Golden Company Commanders are great, Jon Connington is pretty fuckin solid (abit a little old). Between the Spider and the Cheese Monger he has quite the information network. So yeah we do know.

>>649224
Based on what?
Seriously, the only person I know anything about from that crew is Varys because everyone else in that band has had little to none character developement.
We don't know what they each personally like and want nor what their temperament is like unlike with the actually established houses.

>>649224
Also, if you've pushed a Dothraki horde on the shores of Westeros, wouldn't you think that it's counter productive with our goal on trying to keep Westeros from being engulfed into a long and bloody war?

Furthermore, what would backing an upstart claimant with only an army of sellswords even gain us even if we manage to win this protracted campaign of senseless slaughter?
You might very well end up getting killed yourself because it's just more convinient that way.

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“You summed it up nicely Your Grace,” you admit. “Things are quickly falling apart in Westeros. The false King Joffrey is locked in a war with Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone over the legitimacy of Joffrey's parentage. The Lannisters back Jofffrey while the North marches south to aid King Stannis. The Stormlands – under Renly Baratheon – have declared for Stannis, but have yet to participate in any major battles. The Tyrells declare for Joffrey because the Iron Thron holds Ser Loras Tyrell hostage. Dorne has yet to act but they are most likely to declare for you.”

Viserys laughs as he leans back on the couch, slipping one foot over the knee of his other leg. “Of course they are. The Usurper butchered their family same as mine. I've never doubted the Dornish nor their loyalty to the crown.”

“And the Tyrells also sided with the Targaryens until the sack of King's Landing, correct? They like neither candidate much and only go to war out of necessity. The Iron Islands have been relatively quiet as has the Vale of Arryn. Whatever the case, your staunchest detractors and enemies waste their fighting strength destroying each other. And . . .”

“What?” Viserys asks, cocking his head.

“There have been . . . whispers, rumors even, traveling across the continent of . . . dragons, in the east, your Grace.”

The lilac-eyed prince gestures to himself. “And how right they are. Here is the dragon they speak of and he has awoken.”

That was . . . kinda lame. You cough and decide to pose a question of your own. “Do you have any spies among Khal Drogo's forces who might give you information as to the Khalasar's whereabouts?”

Viserys nods his head. “I wouldn't call them spies. But perhaps . . . loyal agents? Jorah Mormont was a fast and constant friend. The former Lord of Bear Island, exiled for slavery by Eddard Stark. Although from the way the man looks at my sister,” Viserys shakes his head. “The other one is Allant.”

You squint at that. “Allant? Who's that?” You take a seat across from the silver-haired young man.

Viserys puts his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. “A peculiar fellow. I believed him Westerosi and he spoke the common tongue adequately. I thought he was a commoner at first, but he was very well-informed about political matters. We drank together and he became a loyal follower of mine. When I suggested I should accompany the Khalasar to ensure the fruition of my investment, he insisted to go in my stead as a representative of my interests. I have received multiple letters from the man. Although it has been some time since I receieved word from him.”

Viserys suddenly sits back up and looks across at you. “No matter. I thank you for the information, Lord Shakespeare. I will be putting you and your Argo under Groleo's command. How soon will your ship and crew be ready?”

“Three days at least, Your Grace,” you inform the young man.

Viserys nods. “It will probably take Groleo just as long to prepare himself. The fleet will move out together then three days hence.”

>Say something? (write-in)

AND

>What do you do for the three days you spend in Volantis? (write-in)

>>649641
A week reasoned argument with some good points. Allow me to rebut.

Raaarr, dragons!

>>649790
>Say something? (write-in) "I look forward to serving under you, your grace."
AND
>What do you do for the three days you spend in Volantis?
Smooch Kinvara

>>649794
Say something about looking forward to bringing fire back to westeros to go with the constant blood spilling.
Ask how he feels about R'hllor and the red messenger.

Didn't someone want to look for more wyldfire?
Head back to the temple and see if that priestess is keen to explore the depths of the passion that R'hllor has granted us.
Seduce Strong Belwas.

>>649812
*well reasoned
And if you think I am just being facetious (just a little bit), if Plague is correct then memes have power. Dragons are pretty mem worthy at this point.

>>649790
>Say something? (write-in)
I can't exactly afford to keep this ship running just on charity my liege, if I'm to keep my ship running, I need to pay my crew and I cannot do that without conducting trade on the way.

Thanks to all the wildfire I had to use to fend off Othello and the repair bills, I'm very deeply in the red and if I'm to join this fleet, somebody must pay for the salary and supplies for my crew if the trade is interrupted.

I'm sure Illyrio can accomodate for my expenses.

>>649949
Also, say that since we are an exiled noble, we do not exactly have any form of income, which means the only way we could have afforded this vessel was through getting a loan from the Iron Bank, who will kill us if we do not pay back.

>>649973
...
Really? Make ourselves out to be fucking stupid (which we are) and assume he will never find out about our stash of gold dragons?

Wait. Wait.
How about saying that since Benerro is the first servant of the lord of light, he should have tons of cash and since he is the one that roped us into this, how about having him foot the bill?

We are just a trader after all that's allegedly very close to bankruptcy

>>650024
It's not like we'd tell him how much gold we have.
Also, taking a loan to buy a ship is not idiotic, it's an investment.

Especially since the ship managed to handle it's own against the most dreaded pirate fleet in the narrow sea.

Roll me 1d100 + 5, best of 3. This is a charisma check to seduce Kinvara

Rolled 12 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>650060

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Rolled 92 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>650060

Rolled 34 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>650060

>>650069
Harambe knows best!

>>650076
>>650069
Please involve a pickup line including gorillas.

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>>650076

Choose feat

>Bravado
>Noble Spirit
>Political Connections
>Seducer

>>650149
>Seducer

>>650149
>Seducer

>>650149
>>Political Connections

>>650149
>Political connections

>>650149
>seducer

>>650149
>Seducer
Now, I'm gonna go with this because it fits this situation.

I think this will however get us in more trouble than is worth.

>>650149
>Seducer

>>650149
Seducer because half of our achievements involve fucking peopl

Seducer - Your natural attractive qualities are attributes you have cultivated and learned to emphasize (+20 to seduction rolls)

Anyone who is attracted to your gender will find you attractive, no matter what.

>>650538
I'm glad we got this just after making a couple of new sexually aggressive friends...

File: Kinvara.jpg (89 KB, 546x806)

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“I look forward to bringing the fire back to Westeros, Your Grace,” you tell Viserys as you stand up to take your leave of his presence.

He nods with a smirk on his face. “Oh yes, Lord Shakespeare. We will be bringing fire down upon them.Fire and Blood. I believe your Red God will be pleased by the time our war is over.” Viserys sticks a gloved finger gently between his partially parted lips, tapping upon his white teeth as he fantasizes of a vengeance that may well never come.

. . .

While at first Kinvara protests your advances when you swing back around the Temple of the Lord of Light, you quickly convince her that, with such little time left in each other's presence, you two should make the most of it.

And make the most of it you do – often and loudly. She is so enthused with your performance and presence in her bedchambers that she allows you to rest at them for the entire length of your stay. An invitation you make use of for a multitude of reasons. And y'know what? The sex may be good. But the pleasantly warm cuddling partner is honestly the best part. She's like a heated blanket.

As much fun as her company is and as enjoyable it is to spend time focused on carnal activities, you do need to occupy a majority of your free time with some other pursuit while one or the other of you is recuperating. Perhaps it would be bet to leverage some of Kinvara's good will towards you to accomplish some task you are interested in.

>Learn some basic magic
>Acquire wildfire (10 jars)
>Sell your trade goods to the Red Temple (double their worth)
>Something else? (write-in)

>>651163
>>Learn some basic magic

>>651163
>Learn some basic magic

>>651163
>Learn some basic magic

>>651163
> Magic plz
I'm a expecting this to go terribly wrong. But maybe we can get something that will impress the ladies.
> acquire wildfire
Because it is useful.
I have no idea what trade goods we have or why...

>>651163
>Learn some basic magic
Guess this is a good place too do it. Maybe throw a little extra god to Bronn and Chiggen for being such good sports through all of this.

>>651243
Other than our absolute log of a dick and our winning charm, wonderful music and singing?

>>651281
Yeah, something more. Maybe we can add a light show to our lute performances. Or make ourselves into a warm blanket like fire waifu does. Because what's the point getting anything practical when we are going to screw it up anyway.

>Increased body heat
>Minor flame manipulation (candle)
>Better divination skill (more accurate flame readings)

>>651445
>>Minor flame manipulation (candle)
we can get better at it later.

>>651445
> minor flame manipulation (candle)
If this is scrying then fuck yes! If it is just lighting a candle with our mind ... not so much.

>>651445
>>Minor flame manipulation (candle)
We can do that force hand thing when we light all the candles in the room with a wave of our hand or put them all out?

>>651462
Good party trick and good for planting barrels of wild fire and lighting the fuckers with our mind for a distance

>>651462
what why would it be scrying? No it's just minor manipulation of perhaps a candle's worth of flame. You can either bring a dull candle to full brightness or dull the candle's light until it goes out. You can't, however, bring an unlit candle to being lit.

>>651163
>Sell your trade goods to the Red Temple

Rolled 7 (1d7)

>>651698
oh no, The Stranger!

File: Red priestess worship.jpg (64 KB, 591x394)

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You are enthralled by the concept of magic. You remember what you saw her do – igniting that flaming torch with one look. No excuses will sway you, she was responsible for that! What Benerro managed – to summon fire from his hands as if a mere snap of his fingers could spark a blazing flame, like that was some natural phenomena. You must learn!

You spend the next three days speaking to your lover of your urge to learn of the powers you can wield as a member of the faith. She reminds you time and again that you nor she wields any powers. It all originates from the Lord of Light and you are merely a conduit for His will.

Escorted deep within the walls of the massive Temple, you spend much of your time not spent screwing praying to R'hllor and performing a variety of rites. Melisandre had taught you the specifics of these earlier when you had learned how to worship under her tutelage for nearly two months straight. The practiced motions come to your body easy, having been memorized by your unthinking muscles, as if you had been in a daze for those dedicated days of study.

“I've done these before,” you inform Kinvara that first night, as you two are about to sing and pray before a brazier within the temple alongside Benerro, beseeching the Fiery Heart of R'hllor to bring back the dawn that will banish the darkness. “And I never spontaneously developed powers.”

“Things have changed since the dragons have come again,” she whispers beside you. “Before, to perform the spectacle Benerro did this morning before the crowd, would require . . . much preparation. Oils, hours of fasting and prayer, powders and sacrifices. And afterwards his fingers would be singed a deep black, burnt and cracked – requiring medical treatment. Now though . . . there are no issues. R'hllor's connection to his faithful is much clearer. And this is a place of great significance. Sacred and special.”

You shrug and agree. Who are you to argue with the woman exploding shit with her mind? Together you sing and pray, throwing spices and kindling into the fire, asking for the re-emergence of the dawn. Gazing into the blazing fire that scorches your arm hairs, you swear you see much. Or perhaps that is merely an after effect of whatever possible hallucinogen you may have inhaled from some of those questionable materials being burned so close by.

But you believe you see much. A man devours himself. Another figure locks himself within his own prison, tossing away the key. An armored figure hunts a fiery stag. A strong man pushes a boulder to the top of a hill only for it to roll back down. Another sinks beneath the waves on a cracked and broken ship. Only once you see the dark smoky fist again, wrapping round the head of a snake and squeezing tight, do you blink in recognition of a familiar image. Peering back into the flames you see just regular burning fire, simply adding your sonorous voice to the chorus of red-robed priests in earnest once again.

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The next day you are escorted to a dark room as black as night and Kinvara lights a pure black candle on a small holder at the room's center that immediately washes the dank chamber in eerie, unnatural light.

“Dragonglass,” she merely speaks. “Burning once again for the first time in a hundred years.” It is an unpleasantly bright light. Everything is altered by the impossible fuel source's ability to burn. White seems as bright as fresh snow and the red in your lover's robe turn to flames before your eyes. The inky blackness of shadows cast by the candle are so dark you would believe the universe simply did not exist in those spaces where light does not pierce.

For a long moment you see her in the twisted bending of the light. Light-haired, fairly pretty, well-dressed. An ornate crossbow strapped to her back as she rides her horse. She seems . . . vaguely familiar.

Kinvara cocks her head, apparently seeing the same image as you.

“Who is – ” before you finish your question, the girl at the center of the dragonglass candle's wick startles, looking straight back at you instead of forwards. She heard you speak! Kinvara gasps and the flame quickly sputters out, leaving you both in darkness once again.

. . .

On your third day of study, you finally manage to tap into . . . something. You feel like your blood is boiling and you develop a headache, the image of a burning wick seemingly scorched into your corneas permanently. But regardless, you successfully channel your faith in His presence around you and your own desire for results into making the flame of a simple candle sputter and die.

Kinvara smiles and gives you a condescending clap of praise. Hey! It's not a bad result for merely three days of magical study.

“Good luck in your journey,” Kinvara wishes you well as you prepare to make your departure. You can't help but notice the hint of sadness in her tone. “And remember your destiny.”

She locks lips with you one more time, drawing the kiss out longer than Raina probably appreciates.

But no matter, you enjoy this special moment of teacher-student bonding.

Captain Semar laughs as you walk up onto the deck of the Argo. “A man has to have a bit of fun every once in a while.”

You jerk your head and wink to the salty seadog's comment. “Yes he does.”

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“So,” he ruminates as he speaks. “We're part of a fleet now to find this girl? Well, doesn't matter much in the long run who we're with. But if we're heading to Slaver's Bay, we still need to pass by the Smoking Sea and stop in New Ghis, if only for a moment."


"In other news, six of the sailors didn't return – not bad, Commander. Many fine captains have seen larger portions of their crew shirk their duty at the prospect of approaching the Doom of Valyria. And there's a good chance a few of those absentee were enslaved or killed and not simply craven. So loyalty and morale is still high with you. The swan ships have already sailed out and the silver-haired boy is on his Volantene ships ready to follow us. The Captain of the Saduleon has said we're the point ship of his section's formation. So I'll get the men to work. It will be twelve days at sea. And I recommend praying to your red god to see us through this next leg of the journey safely. My leg hurts. That's always a bad sign.”

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

AND

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

>>651729
Attempt to use your spear as a medium for casting magic and shit I guess.

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Rolled 19 (1d100)

Rolled 43 (1d100)

>>651729

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>651733
>>651735
i help u

Harambe wills it I guess

Rolled 42 (1d100)

>>651729
Swab the decks.
When the fog rolls in at night over a becalmed sea, sit up in the bow and play some eerie tunes, channel Leonard Cohen.
Stitch a couple of pillows together and draw Kinvara on it in red ink. Cuddle it.
Teach Bronn, Chiggen and the crew the game of charades. Surely a game of light and dark is beloved by R'hllor.

>>651735
Harambe, go back to your cards, you're shit at dice.

>>651749
Supporting because it is original

Rolled 79 (1d100)

Rolled 3 (1d100)

rolling for pregnancy

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Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>655398

Rolled 54 (1d100)

>>655398
Stopping Demi's roll

Rolled 34 (1d100)

Rolling for how often Will gets blacked

Rolled 3 + 2 (1d7 + 2)

Rolled 16, 68, 9 = 93 (3d100)

Othello's luck

Rolled 11, 43 = 54 (2d100)

Groleo's luck, Viserys's Volantene fleet's luck

Rolled 60, 99, 20 = 179 (3d100)

Summer Sun, Joso's Prank, Saduleon

>>656589
>>656602

oh shidd xDDDD

Rolled 57 (1d60)

To those of you about to die. We salute you!

>>656744
....holy shit...

Fugg, roll me a constitution check.

1d100, best of 3.

>>657751
Nat 1 here I come

Rolled 5 (1d100)

>>657751

Rolled 10 (1d100)

>>657752
>>657751
forgot to roll

Rolled 30, 48, 85, 79, 14, 63 = 319 (6d100)

First three are Raina, second three are Plague.

Rolled 93, 63, 80, 54, 42, 61 = 393 (6d100)

>>657758

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>657751
Rolling

>>657762
why don't you roll 4 your character and I'll roll for the npcs, k thnx?

>>657753
>>657756
>>657763
5, 10, 12 /100 for constitution. How did we not hypothermia on our first day?

I'm guessing we either forgot to bring citrus fruits and died from scurvy or our asshole got torn and infected.

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You spend the next two days of your journey on the Summer Sea, singing and playing your lute to sooth the spirits of your concerned, religious crew as the atmospheric indications make you aware of your ever increasing proximity to the Smoking Sea. On your boat, all the sailors can feel the presence of that demon-haunted peninsula.

You also teach many of the men how to play charades to keep them laughing and smiling at their bawdy pantomiming instead of fearing the howling winds that come from the east to assail their spirits at night. You even set up candles around your ship, forcing them to burn bright during the night both to test and stretch your powers as well as to keep the men docile, sure that R'hllor is on your side. The night may be dark and full of terrors, but only the Light keeps that shit at bay. Each day you assure the men of this with a gathering and a prayer at the stern of the Argo.

You spy Viserys's Volantene galleys trailing far behind, calmly sailing in the wake of the waters you have disturbed. Far to the front you spy the swan ships of Othello, proudly strutting as they make their way forward, leading you towards your army. Even if you wished to escape, you'd never be fast enough to outrun those swan ships. Only by sailing straight into the Smoking Sea would you escape – and only then because they would be fools to follow you. Better to escape some other time. Or who knows? Maybe you'll arrive in Westeros to find Stannis slain. Regardless, the time is not ripe to make a move. For now you shall serve if serving merely means doing what you were doing before with added company and a slight change in destination.

Each successive night, the tossing and turnings of the waves get more tumultuous and the sky darkens worse and worse with thick storm clouds, as coarse and black as King Robert's bushy Baratheon beard.

By the third day, the boat rocks with such intensity and the smell on the waters becomes foul as the stench of ash and brimstone assaults your senses, driven into the sea from the shore of that blighted coast you sail beside. It sickens you and many others aboard the Argo. Even a few of the more veteran sailors who have worked through the deadliest of storms in other parts of the world find themselves vomiting their breakfasts out over the railing. And you are no stranger to such activities. You find yourself weak and weary, anything you eat coming back up a scant few minutes later as your upset stomach roils horribly in protest.

Raina professes the opinion that you should go below deck and rest, instead of stay up here with the crew, but you disregard her advice. Only once two sailors die on their feet, another falls over the side of the boat and breaks his neck against the hull, while a fourth goes mad and dives into the sea, swimming in a crazed rush towards the shores of the Fourteen Flames, does Raina finally convince your bodyguards to put their foot down and force you to rest.

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Chiggen stays below deck, standing watch outside Vel– WILLIAM'S! – cabin as he recuperates his strength. Bronn patrols above deck alongside you, sneaking in a quick pinch or grope whenever he gets the chance. You smack his hands away – you want to keep things at least semi-professional lest Vvvvvv – VILLIAM – discovers your relationship and decides that pisses him off too, despite the fact that the two of you are no longer fucking and haven't been for a long time and will never again oh my god no no no gross fucking gross shit disgusting gross.

You still can't believe a shitty QM is the man you let take your virginity. At least you can only go up from there, right?

In the absence of Billy Shakes' astounding and commanding presence, the weird Captainy Sea guy ably takes charge in his stead, keeping the men moving and doing their duty despite how creepy everything's getting.

. . .

On the fourth day of your journey things take another turn for the worse.

It starts to rain.

And not the good kind of rain. Spring showers where the water drizzles beautifully down the window while you hold a cup of hot cocoa between your hands as you lounge with your cats. No, this rain is hard, pelting and manages to add to the muggy heat of the environment. Things become wet and hot as the men work themselves practically to death, fighting the howling and raging wind that causes the canvas of the sails to whip and crack erratically. The second it seems they've completely counteracted the pulling effect of the wind that seeks to draw your ship towards the eastern shore that everyone believes is bad juju, the wind's direction randomly changes and the men have to fight again to keep the Argo on course. It is a taxing effort and physical issues abound among the crew.

You watch as another man collapses, falling from the center mast he was climbing to land flat on his back, splayed out and unconscious. You curse the moment – a frequent occurrence this day – and rush to his side, blood pouring from a gash in his head and sinking into the wooden deck, dripping below onto who knows what. With Bronn's help, you drag the frazzled youth, too scrawny-looking, considering the intensity of the work he was thrust into this day, and drop his sopping wet form upon a table. He is non responsive and despite your best efforts – which unfortunately is not much considering the meager medical equipment you were able to acquire in your many travels this past year in fantasyland – the boy passes away perhaps a minute after he is brought below deck.

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You're soaked to the bone, but the wet clothes do not weigh as heavily on your shoulders as the . . . was it twelve? Yeah, twelve, you think. Twelve men just this day. An even dozen. You've saved maybe three or four of the people that have undergone this strange affliction, brought upon them by crippling exhaustion. It almost seems a sickness or a disease and there were points today you feared it very well may be some sort of plague or something, communicable and deadly in such packed together conditions. If things don't get better soon, you're afraid of what might occur for the crew.

Not to mention Velo is still as sick as a dog in his personal cabin. You checked on him early this morning and found him shivering with at least a 100 degree fever. Today he is well and truly sick. Not just exhausted and beset with sudden death like most of the other dying men you've encountered today. You did your best to make him as comfortable as possible, bringing him meals and wine to his very grateful thanks. But . . . you just really hope the ship pulls away from this Doomy area soon because shit is becoming horrific and the unexplained nature of it all sends a shiver coursing through your body.

“So,” Bronn speaks, drawing you out of the moment of silence you were granting the poor sailor. Looking up, you watch the rough and rugged fighter pick his fingernails with a dagger, nonchalant about the dead man in between you. “Chiggen says it doesn't look good for our dear employer. What are we doing if he keels over?”

“He won't die,” you dismiss the thought, waving away the grizzled dilf's doom saying. “Not to sickness after everything else he's been through.”

“Well what if he does?” Bronn asks anyway, shrugging. His eyes still possess that cold aloofness.

You sigh out, refusing to answer.

“The way I see it,” he mentions to break the silence, casually re-sheathing his killing implement. “With him gone, that would make you the second most wealthy person on the ship. Well, other than me and Chiggen when we take all his stuff for ourselves.”

“Well at least you're honest,” you sarcastically comment, rolling your eyes.

“Bloke's got no heirs. He'd want us to have his ship and his gold. I'm being honest here, Raina," he emphasizes. "Chiggen and I 've been talking. We're concerned about our next move if shit gets worse.”

The killer sits himself casually upon a crate of some trade good or other that would probably sell for dozens of gold dragons in the right merchant's hands.

“If William dies, what are the three of us doing? I'd like to hear your, uh . . . what do they call it, counsel. On this matter, m'lady.” He lazily feigns a bow.

>What do you say? (write-in)

http://pastebin.com/xtxXkPuM

>>657966
>Fuck if I know, Bronn. We'll cross that bridge when get there, if we get there

>>657966
If Will does die...properly this time. I say we take what stuff of his we can and get the fuck out of her. Set up somewhere away from Westeros, if Will ever had a goal that was truly his own it was too escape or Prevent the long Winter.

If he dies, we buy the men out and get the fuck out of here. I'd suggest finding somewhere too settle down in Essos personally, but you. You could start your own private army see where that takes you.

One last thing Bronn, Will knows alot more about the world than most people the one thing he knows better than the future is the past. If Will is close too deaths door we need him too tell us all we can. The only other person i'm aware of who could know what Will knows is that man calling himself Mannis.

>>657966
IIRC Raina was complaining about being in Westeros and wanting to go home. In that case the only option I am aware of is ... plague the meme vulture.
On the other hand if she wants to stick with Bronn he will want to keep bring a mercenary and we need to pick sides that we can easily come out on top with. I am drunk and not a lorefag so don't fucking ask me.

Oh also, mills are a thing. Permanent magnets are presumably a thing, copper wire and could can't be too hard for a good blacksmith to make. We could sell and maintain hot water systems and electric ovens for river adjacent nobles, set up a shitty electrical museum tourist attraction thing. Make speakers (but probably not amps).

> dat character sheet
So many variations of the 8. Likes rugged men but was ruined by a pansy bard.

>>657966
If he dies, we will find a red priest to perform him his final rites.

>>658047
Also, we are on a ship and the crew absolutely love him with religious fervor.
The captain might take all his shit for himself.

>>657966
I'd marry you :D

>>657966
"If he does die we continue to find the Khalese. Once we do I'll see where my options lie. You two are free to do as you like."

>>658031
>In that case the only option I am aware of is ... plague the meme vulture.
Well there is Othello, this Allant guy with Dany, and Mannis that she knows of.

>>657966
Well, the way I see it, there's three lordships going on. One for each of us.
One for the dragon eggs.
One for Daenerys Targaryen
One for Viserys Targaryen

Once each of them has an accident, we return to Stannis with news of the deed being done and we can retire.

>>658232
What plans do they have to get home?

>>659001
Well I meant that more in they are anons that she knows of that can potentially help with that.

Alright I guess I'll just write whichever options sound the most in character

>>660337
Maybe have her mention too Bronn that her and Will we aren't from here...they come from a very different world.

Roll me 1d100 +5, best of 3. This is a dexterity check.

Rolled 24 (1d100)

>>660588

>>660588
gimme a 1

Rolled 75 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>660588

Rolled 71 (1d100)

>>660594
>>660588
forgot to roll again lel

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“Fuck if I know Bronn,” you admit, sighing out and shaking your head. You can't tell if that's sweat or rainwater running down your face and dripping onto your lip, but you lick it off all the same. “Can we just cross that bridge when we get there?”

He chortles darkly. “Bridge seems to be coming up soon and there might not be much time to cross when we're there. Just a plan, love. All I'm trying to make.”

“Well then . . .” you purse your lips, thinking. “Take the stuff of his we can – the dog and horses as our #1 priority . . . followed by Plague.”

The sellsword recoils. “That loon? Ugh." He shakes his head for a moment. "Fine, sure. We'll bring him with us.”

“Then we give the sailors a severance pay. Meet the Khaleesi and then from there hopefully she'll bring the dragons to save Jon Snow from the white guys and then . . .” then you go back home, hopefully. “And then we live the rest of our days somewhere nice.”

Bronn squints and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Alright, so when you say 'white guys', what do you -

Bronn is suddenly no longer across from you on a level plane, but in fact practically beneath you. The change in position is sudden as the deceased sailor's body slides off the table and slams into what was once the far wall of this particular cabin on the Argo. Various crates and barrels tumble, slide or crash into the oppostie wall as you feel the pull of gravity at the same moment you recognize the sound of a lurching, groaning, creaking of wood. You hold your ground, the floor now suddenly a steep incline. You gasp out, sure that the ship is about to capsize. Bronn stumbles into the far wall, but manages to brace himself from the worst of the loss of his balance.

A moment later you feel the ship rocking THANKFULLY back in your direction. You clench as you prepare for the pendulum to start swinging the other way, so to speak, but luckily it only does so slightly, most of the supplies and accouterments not sliding back much towards your side of the room.

The lowborn swordsman, knees bent and arms prepared for anything, waits a few moments for things to come back to absolute calm before standing back up.

Your heart is rattling your ribcage in what feels like a plea for escape. “Shit!”

The two of you exit the lower floor cabin and make your way back onto the top deck to see what THE FUCK that was all about. At first you're surprised at what you momentarily glimpse to be a red dawn sky. Your surprise comes from the fact that it has been night for only a few hours. The sun shouldn't rise for quite some time more.

File: Smoking Sea.png (106 KB, 350x191)

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Up top, you realize the source of the blaze in the sky. To the west it is still an inky black, with some scant stars still visible. But to the east the sky pulses and glows a dull red – as if it was a bloody bruise upon the skyline. The moon, much larger and unnaturally close, appears monstrous and swollen. Reddened cracks run along its surface as if the celestial body was about to burst like a bloody pustule on some fetid piece of skin. You realize as your eyes drift downwards that the coast is closer than it has ever been before during your nigh unholy trip. You can make out rivers of red and columns of smoke, motes of ash floating through the air as the greatest dose of brimstone smell yet assaults your senses. Men around you scream and cry in dismay as they rush about in panicked impotence, praying to R'hllor or some other god as mayhem and madness seem to rule the seas this night. Bronn grabs you by the arm and drags you out of the way of the many sailors streaming up from beneath the decks to survey the situation for themselves after you all nearly drowned.

Huh. You stopped like a awestruck turkey at the sight of rain. Reclaiming your senses with a shake of your head, you stalk forwards towards the bow of the ship where Captain Semar wrestles with his vessel's wheel – assisted by the helmsman and a burly Dothraki sailor.

“The Doom seeks to claim us this night!” Semar declares, yelling as he pushes with all his might, in combat with the wind attempting to guide your ship on a collision course with the craggy, demon-touched landscape. You swear you can see the malevolent, evil wind, a black shimmer like a ripple through the night air.

“Look!” a young boy squeaks, drawing your attention to the ships follow close behind your own. While Joso's Prank and Summer Sun successfully claw their way further out to sea away from the shores of Ancient Valyria, the ship which harbors this section's commander – Saduleon – is sucked into the perverted water currents of the Smoking Sea much more intensely than your own plight.

You gaze helplessly as the ship pulls past you with preternatural speed and crashes into a rocky spire that juts up out from beneath the ocean on the fringes of the coastline. The loud CRACK signals the end of the Saduleon's life. It breaks in two like a cracked egg, wooden splinters exploding out in bursts of deadly shrapnel. The ship is certainly doomed to sink beneath the roiling waves. But you spy dozens upon dozens of men diving off the crumpling vessel and into the sea, tiny specs of life against the backdrop of horror.

>Help the Captain with the wheel
>Save those poor, shipwrecked souls

>>660703
>Save those poor, shipwrecked souls
Captain knows what he's doing.

>>660703
>Save those poor, shipwrecked souls

>>660703
>>Help the Captain with the wheel
Fuck this, survive damn it

>>660703
>Help the captain with the wheel

>>660703
>Help the Captain with the wheel

>>660720
And not a damn proxy

>>660703
Beseech Lord Kek for guidance

>>660733
well too be fair you are offering repeating digits

>>660736
Ok changing too support this. Grab that wheel and scream for kek to guide us

>>660703
>>Save those poor, shipwrecked souls

>>660708
>>660714
>>660733
>>660792

Save those poor unfortunate souls

>>660715
>>660719
>>660720

Help the captain


Saving the poor unfortunate souls has won.

Roll me 1d100, best of 3.

Rolled 19 (1d100)

>>660844

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>660844

Rolled 39 (1d100)

>>660844
Ill save us

Well that was unsurprising. We're no deckhand. hopefully we won't get in too many people's way, or caught in the rigging and have a limb crushed against a mast.

Rolled 20 (1d25)

Rolled 29 (1d100)

80+

So, everyone is dead?

>>660949
You'll find out when I write stuff tomorrow after i sleep.

File: rowboat in chaos.jpg (160 KB, 900x585)

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“Captain Semar, drop the anchor!” you find yourself . . . commanding?

The men surrounding you look at you like you're daft. “Why?” the seadog demands as he and his two allies study you for signs of madness.

“We have to save those shipwrecked sailors!” you implore.

Bronn laughs. “The fuck we do. We need to save ourselves.”

Semar shakes his head. “You seek to steal lives from the Red God,” he mutters.

“If it was us dashed upon the rocks,” you counter. “You'd want someone to save you.”

“And I'd expect,” Bronn spits, drawing your attention back to him. “They'd do the same as we're about to: save themselves.”

“No man whose seen the shores of Valyria lives to tell the tale!” the young boy from before points out.

“Any man on this ship with eyes has seen its shore, boy!” Semar scolds angrily. “The girl may be right about anchoring. We aren't beating this storm as it is. I feel it in my gut. We guide her into shallower waters and drop the anchors, wait until the seas becalm themselves.”

“And if they don't!?” Bronn shouts over the wind and the rain.

“Then we die! I'd be a piss poor captain to willingly smash this ship to pieces when I've only had it for such a short while.” He cackles madly like a man resigned. “Perhaps with the dawn . . .” the salty seaman trails off, before looking to you. “What you wish to do while we pray for better weather is your business. You'd be a fool to leave the ship, but if we survive this I won't bemoan one lost skiff.”

. . .

In shallower waters, it seems the storm seems to have lost some of its gusto. You can safely – relatively – venture a rescue party. It takes quite a bit of convincing and searching to find the five volunteers you do. No level of cursing, cajoling, pleading or implications about the craven attitudes of the crew could sway them. Only the five most devout worshipers of R'hllor agreed to aid you in your seemingly futile task. Their fearless attitude fueled by faith in His protection.

Bronn refuses to help, calling you an idiot dying for nothing. But still.

“Hope you make it back,” he offers as your team of six rows the creaky little dinghy off into the water. You give Bronn a half wave as he and the Argo drift away.

You work the oars, paddling the inky black waters, streaked with dissolving ash and cinder. At your advice, you've all tied red cloths around your faces as makeshift face protection against whatever natural gases or black lung causing particles may be floating in the air. You also recommend the sailors to hunch over and stay low on the off chance poisonous gases are still present, lurking a few feet above sea level.

Your small six man team makes good time . . . despite your inability to keep up. You feel exhausted halfway to the wreck of that giant behemoth of a cog, broken and half-sunk beneath the waves.

Roll me 1d100 +5, best of 3. This is a will save.

Rolled 20 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>664244

Rolled 91 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>664244

Rolled 35 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>664244

Rolled 24 (1d100)

gimme a meme roll

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The other rowers relieve you of your duty, ushering you to focus on rescuing survivors instead of work yourself to death failing to row a goddamn boat.

The stench of ash mixes with the aroma of rotten eggs – sulfur. Closer to the shore you spot steam wafting off where the tides roll into the cracked, rocky coastline of the chain of volcanoes that make up the shattered peninsula.

As you immerse yourself in the horrific crash, screams of the sailors assault you from every direction. Praying and crying for salvation as they tread water and the scant few who can't swim sink to the bottom of the depths, gurgling their last breath. You stifle your disgust and steel yourself to help as best you can.

The first man your tiny boat approaches alarms you as you grab his hand and pull him up. He feels warm and hot. Not speaking a lick of English or . . . Westerosi, you guess, you figure the best way to discover what's going on is haphazard experimentation. Dipping your hand into the water, it feels like you've sunk your hand into a hot tub. Nearly scalding levels of heat. Examining the survivor in the red light of Valyria's night time skies and you think you spy some elements of light first degree burns on his exposed forearms.

You rescue as many individuals as possible, sometimes being forced to dunk both your arms into the drink to grab floundering, weakened sailors. Your lifeboat soon becomes crowded with survivors, perhaps twenty in all – scared and shaking.

You thought the hard part of this trip would be the excess of survivors you would be unable to take on. But in a stroke of . . . something, most of the sailors were dead by the time you arrived. Either sunk beneath the waves or floating upon the waters, unnaturally bloated and deceased.

As some of the survivors volunteer to take up an oar and put their strength in rowing you away from that cursed land to the sanctuary of the Argo, you sigh out and inspect your hands. They're reddened with what appear like faint sunburns to anyone ignorant of the trials you just went through. Out of the corner of your eyes you spot distant movement. Looking back to the shore, you squint as you swear you see . . . what look to be dancing shadows, undulating like tiny black specks on land. You're either hallucinating or . . . you aren't. Either way, you aren't keen to stay here any longer. You look away from the alarming sight and focus on getting back to somewhere that isn't creepy, hot and horrible!

File: Shipwreck.jpg (841 KB, 2000x1468)

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Back on the Argo, you are forced to wait in abject fear as Captain Semar delays your departure for hours. Only once the first rays of sunlight hit the boat the following morning does he finally nod his head and shout orders to the crew, whipping them into a frenzied retreat as you lift your anchor and speed back into your planned route.

. . .

The next day of travel is surreal. If it weren't for the fact that your crew has shrunk by thirty or so hands – and even more familiar faces, considering you received 'reinforcements' from the Saduleon – you'd swear last night had been a horrific nightmare.

Viserys's lead Volantene galley catches up with your own section of ships and the prince himself inquires as to what occurred. Apparently it was smooth sailing for him, he admits with a satisfied smirk.

When he learns of the loss of the Saduleon and the fact that Groleo is without a doubt dead, bloated and floating on the Smoking Sea if not washed up on the shores of that incomprehensible landmass, he tuts as if he had discovered his wallet was stolen.

“Well, this section does require a commander,” Viserys admits tapping his chin. “Tell your . . . Lord Shakespeare – when and if he survives his current bout of illness, that I am putting him in charge of the Summer Sun and Joso's Prank. Lucky him, I guess. He's been promoted.”

Bronn and you exchange looks. The sellsword leans over and echoes the Targaryen's words in a mocking, hushed whisper.

“Lucky us, indeed.”

>What does Raina do for the next week at sea? (write-in)

>>664427
Pay a guard to watch over Will and make sure he isn't killed by a crew member for his shekels.

>>664427
>seducing as many sailors as possible

>>664444
Quads wills it.

>>664453
This

>>664427
Femdom Bronn, you know he is a secret sub. (You'll have to get some if the sailors to teach you to tie good knots.)
Embroidery.
Suck lemons.
Dine with the captain.
Take your frustrations out on plague.

>>664444
This

>>664427
>>What does Raina do for the next week at sea? (write-in)
Try to keep Will alive.

>>664771
>>664444
these

>>664771
Dislike

Rolled 69 (1d100)

>>664427
Ok folks a compromise. Have Bronn and Chiggen guard Will and his stuff, meanwhile Raina goes down into the ship and offers herself too the crew, she can take 5 at a time atleast and refuses to come out until every single crew member has had a go.

>>665016
I'll support this
also check that 69

>>665016
Support the slut lyfe

>>665016
+1

Mills Quest in a few minutes.

File: Kingsroad.jpg (6 KB, 300x168)

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The past two weeks of travel have been relatively quiet. The flood of people passing the other way down the Kingsraod has shrunk to a trickle of bodies, all of them being respectful and giving your huge group a wide berth as they pass. These are Riverlanders and the sight of Goldcloaks – allied with the Lannister armies currently ravaging their lands and occupying their territory – has them scared and most likely hateful. But there's not much they can do about it as peasants and transients, so there is not much to fear from your position.

The Night's Watch recruits have made relatively unobtrusive company. Yoren, who leads their band, trails a few dozen yards behind your Goldcloaks. But when you make camp there is some co-mingling of your forces and just a few shared japes and drinks. Jace is slightly impressed that Yoren's cuthroats, rapers and orphans manage to keep up with the exact marching pace of his own trained guardsmen. When questioned, Yoren lays it out simply. If the difference between life and death is keeping up with your force, then that's what they'll do.

. . .

The man your fiance sent back to King's Landing has caught back up with your train. He assured Bywater that, as far as the Queen was concerned, the deed was done and there wasn't much cause to believe the helmet proved lacking evidence of the king's bastard's demise.

You wish Gendry would appreciate the lengths to which some of Ser Jacelyn's men went to protect his life. Yet the armorer's apprentice still sits sullenly, far from your own men and most of his compatriots in the Night's Watch. Angry and angsty because Yoren and the goldcloaks robbed him of his master craftsman quality souvenir. A pang of pity does fill your heart as you consider that perhaps the boy wanted some relic of his time in King's Landing before he was forced to live out the rest of his days in the cold, cold North.

Speaking of cold, the nights have grown chillier and the days shorter as Autumn begins to strip the various woods and trees you pass of their leaves. Mounds of red, brown, green and yellow leaves litter the sides of the rough, muddy road. Some of the orphan boys spend the scant few minutes of free time they have crashing and playing upon the brittle piles. Senelle makes an adequate bed warmer to stave off Autumn's kiss, but the fear of how cold it may just get at Harrenhal does keep you awake longer than you'd wish some nights.

You are now, as Ironhand informs, very near to the large, ruined castle. Most likely the lands you are traveling past this very moment are part of your domain. The lands aren't as burned and ruined as you'd feared, but they sure seem sparse of constituents. You need people to till the land.

The past two weeks you've also had time to get to know one person deeply – someone you've bonded with and developed a relationship akin to friendship.

Who is that person?

>Jaina Slynt
>Yoren
>Gendry
>Barristan the Bold
>Someone else? (write-in)

>>667632
>>Barristan the Bold

>>667632
>Gendry

>>667632
>>Gendry

>>667632
>Gendry

>>667632
Barristan the bold

>>667632
>>667646
Change to Barristan. Befriend old wise knight-bro.

>>667632
>Barristan the Bold

>>667632
>>Barristan the Bold

File: Barristan the Bold.jpg (164 KB, 900x600)

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Barristan the Bold. An old knight who you technically fought against during the attempted coup at the Red Keep the night of King Robert's death.

There should be no love lost between you two, considering the reason he is shackled in a cage next to a couple of genuine psychopaths is because of yourself and other Lannister loyalists who worked against him that fateful night.

But despite your trepidation, an urge to . . . attain closure overwhelms you, brought on by who knows what. Perhaps it is those constant long stares he gives you that seem devoid of any malice. Whatever the case, one fine night you find yourself strolling over to the wagon where the three prisoners from the Black Cells are bound.

Kurz – a poacher guarding the prisoners for the night – warns you that two of them are quite dangerous, but you assure him by patting your gilded, fancy crossbow that you can handle any of Rorge or Biter's bullshit.

The commoner shrugs with a sardonic laugh and lets you pass. As if on cue, your approach is met with a spitty hiss from the bald and doughy Biter. His sudden lunge startles you momentarily and sets Rorge to laughing, his thick, stocky chest rumbling.

“Are we about to get one last fuck before we make it to the Wall?” the noseless brute asks.

“Shut up, cur!” Kurz admonishes. “Or you won't get dinner tonight.”

The brigand spits and growls, but all the same he shuts his trap and leans back in the wagon. You walk up to where the old knight sits and his head swivels to regard your form.

“Lady Towers,” he acknowledges with a nod of his head. “If I may humbly inquire, to what purpose do you honor a common criminal such as myself with your presence?”

Yeah, you're not really in the mood for that hoidy toidy shit right now and you've drunk enough dreamwine to make a faux pas or two around men whose opinions won't matter in the long term. Leaning a hand on the side of the cart you grace the imprisoned Kingsguard with a smirk.

“My purpose is to call off this fleeting courtship of ours. Every day I catch you staring at me longingly and I must inform you, Ser, that I am to be wed! This flirtation must end.”

It takes Barristan but a moment to catch on and his sad, blue eyes crinkle in mirth as he laughs at your attempt at humor. “I apologize Mira Towers. I shall avert my gaze from now on.”

“Perish the thought!” you protest. “Just be more subtle about it. Or else I will be forced to return to chastise you more.”

“Not the . . . harshest punishment I've suffered as of late,” he admits honestly after thinking upon your words.

You look at your feet, studying the mud that is caked on the underside of your boot. “Yeah,”

>I'm sorry this happened to you
>Do you hate me?
>Do you think me a traitor?
>Say the word and I'll have you out of those chains
>Are you excited to join the Night's Watch?
>Do you want wine, Ser Barristan?
>Something else? (write-in)

>>667957
>Do you want wine, Ser Barristan?
DO EEET

>>667957
>I'm sorry this happened to you
Also offer the wine.

>>667957
>Say the word and I'll have you out of those chains

>>667957
> Are you excited to join the night's watch?
If not then we need to get this nigger excited. We and Yoren can sting their praises in a duet, it will be epic!

>>667988
Mira ain't Will...though singing may cause Yoren too talk about Will...

>>667959
>>667962
These

>>667971
seconding

>>667957
>Do I remind you of Ashara Dayne?

>>667957
>Do you want wine, Ser Barristan?
>Say the word and I'll have you out of those chains

>>668045
>>668213
>>667962
All these

>>668045
This

>>667959
>>667962
>>668020
>>668213
>>668243


Wine

>>667962
>>668020
>>668243


I'm sorry this happened

>>667971
>>668024
>>668213
>>668243


I'll have you out of these chains

>>667988
You excited to join Night's Watch?

>>668045
>>668243
>>668276

Do I remind you of Ashara Dayne?

Everything with three or more will be said.

File: Ashara Dayne.jpg (212 KB, 1000x1414)

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“I'm sorry this happened to you,” you apologize to the man.

“It isn't your fault,” he answers.

“I was on the opposing side,” you point out.

“As were hundreds of goldcloaks. No, our endeavor was destined to fail. Although I do not regret my actions. I had a duty to the King as he still drew breath and I am saddened by his passing and that of his son. Is it true what they say? Stannis slew the boy with blood magic?”

You nod your head solemnly.

“A shame I have come to live through the passing of so many kings,” the old knight laments. “And I was unable to save one. Mayhaps it is best I am stripped of my duty. Do not feel sorry for me though, Lady Mira. I could have lost my head. At least I can die with a sword in my hands. From white cloak to black.”

He offers you a small smile. You find yourself tapping on the wooden side of the wagon as your wheels turn in your head.

“Say the word and I'll have you out of these chains,” you offer.

Selmy chuckles, but shakes his head. “I couldn't ask that of you.”

“Say no more!” you declare and turn round to find Yoren.

. . .

He sits nearby, feasting on a roasted rabbit leg around a campfire with a few of his men, fixing you with a questioning glare as you approach.

“What do you want?” he asks irreverently.

“Why is Ser Barristan the Bold in chains?” you demand, folding your arms across your chest.

The recruiter scoffs. “All criminals from the Red Keep dungeons have to be secured.”

“You really believe the man would flee his duty?”

“Not my duty to find out,” the Night's Watchmen retorts, spitting into the grass. “I have a system, m'lady. Doesn't rely on my trust in the individual.”

You sigh out. “Unfetter him and I'll make sure a shipment of swords and shields make it to the Wall.”

“Deal.”

. . .

The last few days have been a joy. You've been drinking with Ser Barristan nightly, exchanging some small banter and discussion about your lives. Barristan has many more stories than yourself – which is to be expected seeing as he's much older and anything you could tell him about your life wouldn't make sense with the presence of cars, smartphones and other devices that would reveal your true origins.

You learn of the Defiance of Duskendale, Robert's Rebellion from the perspective of a Targaryen Loyalist, the War of the Ninepenny Kings and much more of the famous knight's storied career.

“Tell me truly, Ser Barristan,” you lean back and look at him slyly, letting your mind wander into fits of fancy. “Do I remind you of Ashara Dayne?”

The old man chortles and shakes his head. “Gods no!” he declares.

You tsk and playfully smack him on the shoulder. “What is that meant to mean?” you inquire defensively.

He raises his hands in placating surrender. “I meant no offense. She was dark of hair with striking violet eyes. Moreso, she was a quiet, soft-spoken girl. Prone to . . .” he trails off.

File: Wenda the White Fawn.jpg (441 KB, 652x720)

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He body language changes from jovially tipsy like yourself to a more . . . morose melancholy. Uh oh. The worst type of drunk. He must catch the reflection of worry in your eyes, for he quickly switches the subject to something much more positive.

“No, Mira. You remind me of . . .” he trails off again, rummaging in his aged mind, pulling the cobwebs off old memories. “Wenda the White Fawn!” he announces with authority.

“Who?” you ask, giggling. “Wenda the White Fawn?” you echo.

“Yes. She was a female member of the Kingswood Brotherhood outlaws. Talented marksman, like yourself. Although she favored the double-curved bow. Young and fair, like yourself.”

“Thank you,” you acknowledge the compliment, raising your sack to him.

“She also had quite the same . . . impish personality.”

“Oooooh, did you know her? Intimately?” you suggest.

Again the white-bearded veteran shakes his head. “No. All knew of her temperament. When she took highborn captives she had a tendency to . . .” he weighs the impropriety of what he is about to tell you in his head for a moment. “Brand an image of her namesake into their buttocks.”

You both burst into fucking treats as he finishes informing you of that odd quirk.

“Really?” you emphasize once you recover from your fit of hysteria.

He nods. “Oh yes! When we dealt with the Brotherhood, one of the squires, a, uhhhhh, Frey boy, I can't recall his name at the moment. You lose track of the Freys after a while. Was captured by her. We all got a good look at the outline of the fawn, as lily white as the poor boy's rump. I believe he must still have the brand to this day.”

“Not the most enviable battle scar for sure,” you say, reflecting. “What happened to Wenda the White Fawn?” you ask.

“Hanged with the rest of the outlaws,” Barristan answers tersely.

The damper that puts on your mutual moods is equivalent. You both take a long swig of your drinks.

“Ulmer took the Black,” Barristan notes like the useless piece of trivia it is. “What a world it is, that I shall find myself fighting alongside a member of the Kingswood Brotherhood.”

“At least you'll have a chance to serve a man worthy of your service,” you assure the former Lord Commander. “I hear Jeor Mormont – The Old Bear – he's a good commander. Honorable and loyal to his duty.” And you think he just may still live, if the rumors and whispers Varys would often speak of the North prove to not ring hollow. “You'll find yourself fighting on the right side for once at the very least.”

“I fought on the losing side. Small difference, but a difference all the same.”

“Please! You must have known that King Aerys was bad for the kingdom. He had men burned alive!”

File: Fire Beyond the Tree.jpg (89 KB, 1100x619)

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Barristan nods, his sack of wine sloshing as he accepts the truth of the matter. “Aerys was plagued with madness, this is true. But I had a duty to support him as a member of the Kingsguard. I had made a vow. Others may scoff at holding true to one's word, but when men can turn against their Lords and Kings and break their oaths for matters of personal assumptions, what is left to hold the fabric of society together? If I promise to uphold your safety and do not do so, then words mean nothing.”

“Some say words are just wind, Ser Barristan,” you point out, swaying slightly as you feel the wine hit you.

“If words mean nothing then all that is left is butchery and violence. Lawlessness. Chaos. Look around you, Mira. King Robert usurped power and beggared the realm for near two decades. I stood by him as my duty, but now with his death his sons and brother vy for the Iron Throne and why should they not? What does the line of succession matter when you can butcher babes to get what you desire. The wrong man triumphed on the Trident that day eighteen years ago, I truly believe that.”

As you prepare to respond –

“Fire!” a goldcloak shouts, warning your entire camp. Immediately the jovial, relaxed atmosphere morphs to a flurry of activity as soldiers prepare themselves. “Fire on the northern horizon!”

You stand up and look in the direction indicated. Sure enough a glowing blaze rises over the tops of the trees.

Suddenly your fiance appears from the ether, his iron hand gleaming in the crackling fires of your own camp. “Report! Scouts! Is it the Northmen? Riverlander insurgents? Our own forces?”

“Regardless, it's your lands burning,” Yoren states the obvious with a shrug of his shoulders.

Barristan sighs out. Resolved.

>Investigate
>Hold position here
>Something else? (write-in)

>>670583
>>Something else? (write-in)
Lock this site down and Investigate with a small scouting party.

>>670583
>>Investigate

>>670583
>Something else? (write-in)
Send scouts I guess or something?

Rolled 32, 72, 86, 62, 4 = 256 (5d100)

>>670583
> Investigate
Is Tywin still hanging out at harenhall?

Rolled 2 (1d3)

1 - Gregor

2 - Vargo

3 - Amory

>>671650
>Vargo
Looks like someone is getting raped

>>671650
Ayyyyy rape time

File: Black Goat of Qohor.png (32 KB, 537x168)

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“We need to send scouts out to investigate,” you tell your husband-to-be. He nods his assent to the idea and rounds up five of his outriders and scouts – the men who screen your forward movements already and are best suited to the task

“Move out and give me eyes on whoever is burning the lands around Harrenhal. Report back with the banners as soon as possible,” Jace commands.

'Yes, m'lord' erupts from multiple voices as the men gallop off into the brush towards the excitement.

In the meanwhile Ser Jacelyn begins ordering the men to set up your camp in the most defensible configuration he can construct with your limited fighting force. Yourself, your two handmaids and most of the supply wagons are guided to the back with the Night's Watchman in case your position is assaulted. A small group of fifty goldcloaks make up the rearguard and are to escort you back south while the rest of Bywater's men hold off potential attackers.

You, of course, snub this attempt at keeping yourself safe and warn Senelle to watch over Jaina as you plow forward into the throng of armed men preparing for anything from a swarm of barbarians to a cavalry charge.

Your fiance, to his credit, realizes the foolish impotence of chastising you for your decision and merely settles for setting his lantern jaw to a stern, stony frown, sidling his steed beside your own, fidgeting impatiently for the return of his scouts.

It is no longer than an hour before some of Jacelyn's outriders return. In the meanwhile the blaze has grown brighter still and takes up a wider swath of the skyline. Their return is staggered, the scouts trickling in to report one by one.

The first merely relays that he was forced to retreat due to riders through the woods hunting down fleeing smallfolk. Scared to be caught himself, he fled back to base camp.

The second rider spotted a village ablaze with a large contingent of armed men on horseback and foot raiding it.

The third rider is the one who finally gives you some information in regards to who exactly is conducting this act of terror. The scout himself saw a flag emblazoned with a black goat.

One growl from Jacelyn and your own recollections of the novels is all it takes to deduce who is raiding your lands.

“Bloody Mummers,” Jacelyn spits the answer out, voice filled with contempt. The Brave Companions to be precise. Tywin's mercenaries.

The fourth rider confirms the truth of your assumptions. He speaks of men small horses covered in black and white stripes. He speaks of a variety of cutthroats: Summer Islanders, men of the various Free Cities, Dothraki, Ibbenese – even spotted a man dressed in fool's motley, waving a flail as he danced through the carnage.

The fifth rider . . . doesn't return at all. He seems to have been delayed . . . or worse.

Lannister mercenaries are currently burning your shit.

What are you going to fucking do?

>Confront
>Wait it out
>Move past quickly and quietly
>Something else? (write-in)

>>672036
>Confront
DIPLOMATICALLY not Phisically

>>672036
>Move past quickly and quietly
let's not get raped

>>672065
>not wanting to get VARGUED

>>672036
>>Move past quickly and quietly
If they confront us, bitch do you mind we work for the same people

>>672036
move past

>>672176
also, not proxy if you have doubts

>>670583
>>Investigate

>>672036
>Confront
Tell them to stop burning our shit and mention beheading.

>>672036
> move past quickly and quietly
Confront the boss, not the mooks in full rape and pillage mode.
Didn't the Lannisters just give us this land?

>>672036
>>Move past quickly and quietly

Rolled 31 (1d100)

Jacelyn's army's sneaking roll.

>>674730
guess not then

>>674730
I knew we should hear thrown Yoren in the river.

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“We should move onward to Harrenhal, my lord,” you advise your fiance, gripping him by his chain mail-laden upper arm to emphasize the severity and sincerity of your words.

“The untold damage such reckless pillaging will do to our holdings . . . not to mention the evil nature of what they're doing to our people!”

“We'll speak to Tywin soon and inquire as to why this is occurring,” you offer as an alternative.

“My men will think me a –”

“Your men will live! Let's move, now! Push forward to Harrenhal tonight!”

“Fine!” he snaps at you, his urge to white knight the entirety fuckin' planet quite obviously distressing him.

Your forces quickly assemble themselves into marching order, packing up their tents and supplies and layering it all into the wagons.

“Best to stay with you I suppose,” Yoren comments off the cuff as your party makes it clear via their rushed actions that you are moving on ahead instead of resting.

Soon enough, your force surges back onto the Kingsroad, making their way North but a single man fewer. Not a peep or note of casual conversation is shared between the men. They all carry their fears and wariness on their backs, mouths shut; eyes and ears open.

The Night's Watch recruits struggle to maintain your quickened pace, but they do manage not to fall too far behind.

The Kingsroad proves to grow smaller and smaller, so rough and meager from a lack of traffic that it disappears completely for large swathes of the ground covered in your march. Still, Ser Jacelyn maintains his sense of direction and keeps the entire company focused on the task at hand without uttering a shout.

Soon the northern blaze you saw before from your original position comes closer, transmogrifying into a northwestern blaze. It grows brighter still and you can't be sure if that is just a matter of closing the distance or perhaps a worsening of the raiders' actions.

The winds bring the scent of smoke via intermittent bursts into your nostrils. You gulp down any sense of guilt. It's all just a book. Unimportant, unnamed characters destined to die regardless.

Right when you believe yourself to be in the clear, you hear the frightened shriek of a single female voice. Immediately, your procession halts and the soldiers draw their weapons, gazing into the darkness for signs of the distressed damsel's origin.

You spot her, followed by a dozen or so other smallfolk, cresting a hill on your left, rushing straight down at you, towards the Kingsroad. Some of them are half-dressed and a scant few carry pitchforks and cleavers – things you could barely consider weapons clutched like security blankets. Means of protection, if quite outclassed ones.

As the goldcloaks prepare themselves for the minuscule onslaught of panicked civilians, a group of riders crests that very same hill, hot on their trail.

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Many of these riders carry torches and there are perhaps thirty in all by your immediate count. All of them you can plainly see are armed to the teeth with naked steel. Brandishing swords, bows, arakhs and a variety of other weapons – both standard and exotic. Most of them ride zebras, although a few of them are mounted on regular horses. You notice in your quick snap shot of a look at them in all their raiding glory that the copper-colored Dothraki members of the band seem to be the ones primarily riding actual horses.

The civilians, upon seeing your group of warriors, merely alter their path to run askew of your position, probably extra terrified by your presence. Trapped like rats between two armed bands of potential marauders

The raiders, however, take a dumbfounded moment before slowing the mad dash of their steeds to fully process your armed force's existence.

The farthest one back is halfway down the hill. The closest one is, at this point, maybe thirty feet away from the soldiers on the Western side of your column.

“The fuck?” you hear the lead Dothraki raider remark in accented Westerosi, torch in his left hand, blood-soaked arakh in his right.

>Kill them before they can report back
>Demand an explanation for their behavior
>Something else? (write-in)