"A Flayed Man's Got No Secrets" A "Stark" AAR

[Unbowed]

I have always wanted to start and AAR, and this weekend is the perfect choice to begin, before my tests begin next week and the Christmas Break that follows soon after. After this first update, the next will probably be some time next weekend, unless I manage to play some turns and scribe what happens. If so then it could be sometime mid-week, but it all depends on my schedule. So here we go, my first AAR. (It'll mostly be told from the views of Roose Bolton and his squire, Froist.)

.......Introduction......
Snow crunched underfoot, the light covering barely noticeable against the grey, stone backdrop; crimson flecks drawing away any detailed attention.
Hmm, all this slaughter for what, a pretty view of those worthless fingers, bah, I’ve seen more value in tales told by wet nurses. It still rankled, being sent to this inhospitable backwater castle, where a few rebellious brigands held refuge, while Jon Umber, that foolish oaf, tore down the causeway towards the Twins, as if all the realms problems could be solved by brute strength and a fool’s honour. The Boy Lord had much to answer for, and Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort expected them; and if not, well, the House’s words were well known in the north. It had been a few months, and the entirety of Westeros had sparked into a crackpot of turmoil and betrayal, Lord fought Lord, King fought King, wolf fought lion. And yet what had they gained. The loyalty of a few more frozen keeps? The admiration of those fawning green boys? No. In truth they’d capture Barrowtown, and Widow’s Watch, prize catches in no mans eyes.

It must be said though; Widow’s Watch did hold some certain pleasures. The loose heads of the bandit band stood almighty beneath the oncoming dawn, carrion birds already marking their prey. Women and deserters from the Night’s Watch still had to be dealt with however, and that task was most choice to the Lord Bolton.
“Froist, line them up, tell them the Lordship wishes the pleasure of their company, and a chance to repent for their sins before the kingdom. And please Froist, be quicker this time, sometimes I wonder if you’d move faster with no legs” His voice dripped with warning, and the pitiful squire was sent scurrying towards his assignment.
Hmm, at least that fool provided me with some entertainment. When he arrived, the remaining outlaws stood in varying degrees of emotion. Some women shuddered in hysterics, while the deserters from the Night’s Watch barely blinked in the gaze of those pale, seeing eyes.

“You have been presented here today to repay the debt you owe to the House Stark for the crimes you have committed. If I had my choice, all of you would be hung, drawn and possibly quartered, but our loving Boy Lord has asked me to provide mercy in the face of such disobedience, and I must of course act out his commands.” He gestured towards a woman, the girl barely keeping the joy from her face. When she reached him, he spun her around to face the other traitors, and opened her throat before them. “That is all the mercy you shall receive from me, and let it be a warning to your kind” He discarded her body with a look of faint disgust, and stepped back before the seeping blood stained his mole skin boots, a prize from the plunder. His guards soon stepped forwards when he had set back on his way to the keep, and the sounds of swords plunging and muffled cries filled the crisp, frozen air. Froist scrambled to his side, ghostly white from the ordeal, words struggling and stuttering from his lips.
“M-M-My Lord, the bandit leader awaits you in the solar.”
”Why thank you Froist, I will deal with him in the way befitting a devious traitor, with more care for his own hide than that of his men.”
”You’re going to flay him Milord?”
”No, I intend to offer him a captaincy.” The tiny smile adorning his lips sent the boy fleeing once again, as Roose continued on to his solar, and the captain that lay within.

.......From the Journal of Froist, Squire to Roose Bolton.....

The North has bestirred itself readily, and the Lords of Summer need beware. Already the stirrings of rebellion have been quenched by the noble Lords of the Winter, and the Boy Lord has united the North against the Lion’s of Lannister. After the liberation of Barrowtown, wherein Lord Robb struck down his foes with a contingent of knights and noblemen of the North, he hastily rode to rejoin his force of foot and men-at-arms, before the siege of Flint’s Finger was completed. Now with the rebels vanquished, Robb rests with his horde, planning his next move with care.



Roose rests here, at Widow’s Watch, with the majority of Stark’s army. The Lord was supposed to leave the majority of his foot for the Lord Umber to marshal down the causeway, but injured at this slight, he ordered me to burn the commands, and we made haste towards the fleet at White Harbour. Widow’s Watch could not withstand Lord Roose’s might.



Jon Umber is slowly moving down the causeway, soon to be upon the Twins and the “Late” Lord Frey. If the doddering fool of a giant is not granted passage, Robb has allowed him to take the castles by force, no matter the cost. The Riverlands must be liberated, or the ways to North will be opened bare.




Rodrik Cassel has taken the seat of Moat Callin with a band of free riders and hedge knights, the best the realm could offer following the major military movements. By no means the choice picks of combat, the sell swords and glory-seeking scoundrels should hold the Neck, if the war ever moves that close to Winterfell.



Rickard Karstark has been given the command of the vanguard, hanging back from Lord Umbers army to await the final late comers to the cause. With over one hundred knights and nobles, the wrecking ball of the North is said to be a terror to behold. The Lord Bolton only hopes that one as ancient as Karstark can hold his courage (and his bowels) against the coming terror of the Southron armies. Karstark may not arrive before Umber has opened up the crossing; perhaps preserving the cavalry for later heroics.



Finally Brandon Stark has taken up residence in Winterfell, supported by maester Luwin and his wise counsels. However a black illness has taken the stronghold by storm, and it is said even the Starkling has become stricken. We all hope the young one can stay safe, of Robb’s heir will soon be crow food with his father.



With the Northern economy in such a foul state, Lord Roose has told me that this war may be over far too soon, unless mighty men such as he take advantage of the opportunities at hand. I have never seen him so full of life as after the siege of Widow’s Watch, and the Lord grows restless awaiting orders. Unless Robb quickly makes his commands known, he may have another rebellion on his hands, and the Lord of the Dreadfort is not wanting for power. We can only hope the strength of the North can hold, as winter is coming; in more ways than one.

[stormbringer951]

Your faction icons are slightly screwed? It should be showing the Direwolf on the banners? Other than that, very good. I especially like the way you've narrated it in the diary. Keep it going, as nobody else has yet!

[Unbowed]

Hmm they were fine before, perhaps I made a mistake when I re-installed my Westeros folder. Do you have any idea what may be causing it, and if it's possible to fix without starting a new campaign?

Also, I might have the next update finished tonight, as my plans have been cancelled. I have such an interesting storyline planned. You have to love the Lord Roose.

[Unbowed]

...The Retainer...

Slink. That’s what they called him, and that’s what he did. As a boy, he’d slink into the bakeries of The Dreadfort, acting to all the world a knight claiming his prizes. Now his view on knights had changed. It seemed the whole world was beginning to shake when the hundred strong column of knights and noblemen came pouring into the camp, like a river of liquid silver; or wolves ranging in a pack if the direwolf banners were to be adhered to. The Boy Lord was coming to sup with the peasants, the peasants who happily shed their lifeblood for some cause unbeknownst to them. Men like Slink barely knew who Eddard Stark was, let alone how his life came to end. It was in injustice, and yet no one seemed to complain, and Slink did have something to be grateful for.

So long he had served as a retainer to Lord Roose, and so long he’d despised the service, crunching bones and souls beneath the flayed man. When the chance had come he’d done what he always had, slinked. Slinked straight into Karstark’s camp, and straight into the vanguard.

What a fool I am. He’d thought the huge array of horses and their armament would be holding the neck, should the Lion’s come roving, and yet no sooner had he arrived had the entire force set off down the causeway, starbursts, giants and direwolf banners fluttering in the breeze. He’d settled into the company of some mangy free riders and their hedge knight leader, ser Ryman of the Neck, a dolt with far more brawn than brain, and yet little enough of either.

The thin rains had been falling for about a week now, on the camp below Seagard, and the place became toilsome and dull; wine and riches falling scarce among the company. Karstark may be a great lord and a mighty commander, but he has no idea what it’s like out here, on the fringes of an army. On the fringes of death. Campfire gossip was all the riders had anymore, the drunken ramblings of men over-indulged in wine, food and raiment, despite the sayings that the northmen did not partake in such pleasantries. When it comes down to it, all these foolish lords and knights and noble beings are the same. It’s us, the grit and the grime that hold everything together. And I’d love to see them prove me wrong.

The fire was burning dangerously low however, and his companions would not take kindly to a cold bed and an even colder breaking of their fasts. He hastily shovelled more timber onto the blaze, and set the goose he’d hunted along a stream roasting on a spit above it. It’d be scarcely shared, but it was the best the Riverlands had to offer. Talk had spread of the forces surrounding Fairmarket, and the Lannister ships hovering off the coast of Seagard. But the arrival of Robb Stark would provide more supplies, and even more gossip.

The men laugh in their cups at him, and his molly-coddling lords kept it hidden. Only Lord Roose saw the truth in it. He’ll run the North down to the South, and straight into a Lion’s Den, as no more than a few ragged sheep. Sure, he’d had some minor success in wiping out the rebels at Flint’s Finger, but he held more faith in the rumours of the Smalljon actually leading the force through the gates. A man barely grown should not be in battle.

But it was more than that; the men were beginning to become suspicious. An endless line of Jeynes and Sybelles’ and Meeras’ had been presented, yet more and more were turned away before the Young Wolf. More so, “noble” men continually begged for adoption, or places in his personal guard. Men with, less than reputable affiliations so to speak. It is hard to follow a man blindly that the common riders do not respect, and far easier to follow someone out of fear than that respect. It was no small wonder he’d served the Bolton’s for nine years, far longer than he’d intended. The return of ser Ryman and his companions interrupted his musings, and his gaze drifted towards the group. In more hospitable surroundings he would not suffer such a group of curs, even though it felt more homely than any knights column he’d travelled in. Up jumped green boys with wooden swords the lot of them.

“How’d t’ watch go lads?” Common courtesies were never far from Slink’s tongue; he far preferred the role of humble servant.
“Boring enough for us fellows, a knight from Deepwood got an arrow in the neck, some Lannister archer or another, and that was about the highlight of the morning for me.” Tornwood was a small lords fourth son, seeking glory with his blade, but more oft than not discriminating those of lower class, despite being so barely above them.
“We did catch the slimy cutthroat though, and gave ‘im another mouth to roar from” Moar, or boar as he was sometimes called, was a tourney rider of some little renown, too common to be any challenge for any true knight, and his always in tow companion Jeoring was even worse with a sword, blade or lance.
“But that’s not what’s got the camp talking Slink ‘ma boy, that old lord of yours, Roose right? Well we’ve heard from some ravens letter that he’s taken the entire foot of North, and sailed it right down below the fingers, and no one knows where he’s going. I reported it to the Lord, and the Smalljon burst out of the hall proclaiming him a traitor for all the world to see. That boy kept his composure, but he’s just as angry. That Bolton had best clean up his act ‘ma boy, or the North’s gonna’ come crashing down round his ‘ears I tells ya’.”

What is Roose doing with a ship sailing south? Maybe it was a better idea to stay with Karstark, before the Dreadfort Lord sails himself into oblivion. From the dawn a trumpet sounded, before an uncountable number more took up the resonance. Moar and ser Ryman turned pale, and some passing knight started screaming commands at all those still to ride.

“Men, the Mountain that rides is near upon us, TO ARMS MEN, TO ARMS!” Ryman turned to his comrades in distress, eyes wide.
“We have no foot, how can we fight with no foot.” Slink drew his sword and mounted his horse bareback, the way his father had shown him.
“That’s ain’t fer us t’ decide!”

.......From the Journal of Froist, Squire to Roose Bolton.....

The past two years have been full of event, and I have scarce had the time to finish my journal. Lord Robb has continued to avoid marrying and producing his noble sons, and master continues to berate such folly. If a man is too foolish to wield his sword off the field, he should never use one on it either. He is turning the men against the Stark, I can see it, and they barely hold respect from him anymore. However, at the Lord’s table I have noted Stark’s movements, leaving his foot at Flint’s Finger in the hope of reaching Karstark all the quicker, to show the Lannister’s the clenched and mailed fist of the First Men. He sits upon the borders of Tully Land, with Gregor Clegane’s mighty host soon to fall upon the horses and hopeful valour of our Boy Lord.




All of this is possible only due to Umber’s defeat of the Lord Frey, who chose his side along with the army of his seed. The Lord Umber reported a vast wealth of Casterly Rock gold bullion, a sure sign of the betrayal towards Riverun. He sits upon Lord Frey’s seat, with almost all the eldest Frey’s slaughtered outside the gates. The Lord’s of the Crossing are hostages of the Northmen, and the giant they call Greatjon. The gold fetched a pretty price of around three thousand dragons, a gift the council decided would be better spent upon our failing treasury than the war effort. It is said that the Greatjon seems even fiercer now that blood had wetted his blade, something that endows him with even greater leadership skills, no matter what the master says.


By unbowed at 2008-11-30

The Tullies sit in a perilous position, Fairmarket under siege from Lannister forces. Karstark’s outriders found the city garrisoned by a skeleton crew, and noted that unless our Winter knights join the fray, the township will most likely fall, and the Tullies crippled by it’s loss. More grave however is the loss of Riverun to the Lannister’s. We had not known of the strongholds plight until it was far too late, and it is said that Edmure Tulley’s body now adorns the Cullis Gate. Dark news for dark times.


By unbowed at 2008-11-30

The strange illness in the North has vanished amongst the summer snows, and the heir to Winterfell has staved off the maladies groping claws. However the countryside seems bare, and the streets empty of life, a high price this disease has claimed upon our northern stronghold. We can only pray it shall not spread and ravage our homelands.

Finally, my fate has been far fouler than any of the others. My master has heeded no advise, no warning and no wisdom. We have sailed from Widow’s Watch, in treason against our lord, and left but few men to guard the Lord Bolton’s new seat. Long ago the Fingers passed us by and we were seen, and still he does not worry, he does not fret. He merely laughs, and talks of the Lords of Winter as pitiful lambs, readying for the slaughter. When the winds come howling he says, we men of the Dreadfort must brace our legs and keep to the old ways, or perish. I don’t understand his words, but the looks upon our force are at times grave, and other times awed.


By unbowed at 2008-11-30

And now, after the chilling winds, the quaking seas and the monstrous storms, Roose’s schemes come clear. We are at Dragonstone, a land we have never seen, other than through the words of fables and stories oft told. I do not know why we are here, just that we are, and that we are readying for battle. We have landed. We have laid siege upon the Lord Stannis, or so he is called. I dread to think what will happen when the Young Wolf hears where the foot he so vitally needs has landed. I dread more the mind of my master.


By unbowed at 2008-11-30

..................................................


Phew, two in one night. Any comments and critics will be warmly accepted, and I aplogise for not having Jon Umber's battle for everyone to see, but I made a mistake and it seems all the pictures have vanished. Oh well, the next battle should be far more glorious anyway.

And I know the story sections are very long at the moment, but I need to introduce the main characters now and get them into the action early. I decided against keeping it just the squire and Roose, as now I can explore the entire map so long as an army or agent of some sort is there, instead of relying upon the squires apparent ability to know everything. So now some sections won't have squire parts, unless narration is desperately needed.

I hope you all enjoy it, because I did.

[stormbringer951]

Xfire is quite good for keeping track of pictures as well, if you need them.

[Unbowed]

Grrrrrrrrr my save file corrupted, after about 35 turns! All that work.....-grumbles incoherently for about twenty minutes-


Hmmm, now I'm slightly confused as to what I'm going to do however. I could start the campaign again, completely from scratch, thinking up a new beginning storyline, which would be incredibly annoying, or play as consistently as possible to the first save, and begin again from the exact same position. Neither way is perfect, but that's all I can really see. Your input would be helpful people; I don't intend to just leave this AAR, as I had so many possibilities running through my head, it would almost be immoral.


EDIT: I found a saved copy amongst my backed up medieval files. Hoorah! I've never been happier with my memory stick than I have been today.

The next update will come sometime tonight or tomorrow, depending on whether I find more comfort playing Westeros Total War or my bed tonight.

[Unbowed]

The Battle of the Hamling Field



The descending sun bathed the entire field in it's ominous red glow, a seeming crimson mass enveloping the horizon before the mailed fist of the Starks. That's no trick of light...that's the Lannister's. Ser Gregor's damn foot, the hill before the mountain. Ser Ryman had been dragged off to serve in some contingent of knights surrounding Robb himself, a position not lacking in honour; lacking in safety was a different matter entirely. So here sat Slink. Flayed man on his chest, direwolf over his head, and a raging behemoth lion in front of him. He was surrounded by more lickspittles and ambiguous men than he ever had been, Ryman somehow aqquiring him command of the sellsword companies. These men are more like to slit me from ear to ear than those red fools over the field, and they think exactly the same of me. It was a strange irony that the task of the most danger was to be given to the men of the least loyalty, but perhaps that was the plan; they were disposable.

The ponderings were cut short, the horns were sounded. The war was beginning.



The vanguard arrayed itself into three forces, three manuoverable forces of horse, armour and northern valour. The left wings command fell to Rickard Karstark, according to the Boy Lord a man aged enough to know wisdom from folly, and unclouded by foolish lust. Yet the mutterings had spread that fierceness was needed amongst the front lines when falling upon a spearwall, and that all Karstark was worth in heated battle was a pompous pin cushion, or at most a pretty captive in fetters. There was no doubt he was a reasonable commander, but Rickard was old.



The centre stood as the strongest of the three forces, Lord Robb himself riding at the front of the lands mightiest and most renowned knights. With direwolf and the furious tempest of north man behind him, the southron men had best beware. Heh, I can see them wetting their breeches already. The lion's of the west, I think motley would suit these children better than that distateful crimson.



Captain Harrys Marbrand, a green cousin of Addam, heir to Ashemark, took command of the Lannister force, and signalled the charge against the Stark's. A green boy, who's never earned his spurs. Robb should devour him, even if the army falls.



The forces charged, mobile wrecking balls of armour and steel bounding together with lances raised and screaming war cries. Winterfell! Karhold! White Harbour! Even a shout of Riverunn was bandied amongst the charge, but the clattering hooves soon overpowered it.



However, as the two armies devoured eachother, drawing swords and sheathing lives, Slink lead his small force behind the enemy lines, a different intent plain on his mind. Trebuchets, bows and catapults, cowards weapons. Lets see how they fair without them.



The world closed to just a few feet before him. A red spray hit his face. A man slashed at his leg; a sword through his visor was the only answer. Circling a foe, hacking at his helm. A quick parry, and his arm came off from the elbow, vile screaming filling his head for a time, before the next foe was found. Slink spun his horse. This skirmish is won, now the archers. He led his force into the back of the bowman, while Robb and his horse fell back from the main Lannister army, and re-grouped in a line of lance and beast.



Then Slink saw it, his chance. Harrys stood before him, readying a wedge to lead his lines against the unorganised vanguard. Slink saw. Slink charged. He struck out once. A man fell in a flurry of white steel and red fluid. He struck out again. His arm jarred from the force, numbed and useless. His force was slain by the superior knights. He saw Harrys, and he saw the eight knights still with him. I can do no more, this is over. Gods help my men, or at least the crows. Slink fled.



With the world blurred by speed, he barely noticed Rob's reformed charge. The entire cavalry force, depending on this single thrust. It was glorious.



Slink stopped atop a hill, and watched the battle develop into it's death throes. The old age of conflict as Bolton had once called it. It slows, and the amount of ground it covers is confined. It seems to be drawn out, and minutes stretch. There is nothing lonelier than the final stages of a fight, when your life depends on your arm, and its metallic extension.

That was when it happened. The lines of spearman shivered. Men began to run. Before long the entire foot was in rout, and Harrys himself was slain by some lowly squire. Victory was almost certain!



That was the deciding moment. The Lannisters fled, and Karstark took to running them down; casting them in chains. Slink rode towards his fellows, drunk on the victory. His bellows joined the cacaphony, red mist lifting from the mens eyes, and pure joy elevating everything. The Boy Lord removed his helm, stepped from his horse, before being mobbed by a group of boistrous knights, lifting him from the ground and crying to the heavens. The Boy Lord! The Young Wolf! The Lord Stark!. He had his first victory, Slink would not begrude him that. But at what cost, men lay slain everywhere. Half the nobility of the north seem to be dead or wounded. It seems the old gods will be all the more popular when this army returns.

Slink removed his helm also, and spied the body of Ryman, taken by an arrow through his visor. He should be feeling some sorrow, but men so green should not step onto a battlefield, as the rest of his company had learnt today. This was the game of men, not cravens. Starting back to camp, Slink sheathed his blade. And this will not be the last time I have need of it.



.....................................

I'll spell check it all later, but I thought it'd be better to post the update now, and rectify it later, than have to leave it til' tomorrow. I hope you enjoy.

[stormbringer951]

Are the epiphets "Jon Umber, of Last Hearth" etc. your work or is it in the existing release? I seem to forget...

[Unbowed]

I put them in for this AAR, just for the reason that if Roose has any children, they'd be different and more noticeable. After that I felt it looked a bit wierd to leave them out for the rest of the North (and Marq Piper who I tested it out on ). It isn't foolproof, and I'm a little concerned about the epithets running in the bloodlines, but on all my playtests (cough-two-cough) the King, Heir and Lord epithets were never overwritten.

I also didn't attach them to the biography traits, but created new traits for "Of House Umber", just to remind myself.

But just to clarify, I never intended them to become part of the mod proper, just something to play with and use for this AAR, to keep the bored modder demons away.

[stormbringer951]

If you could include them for the major houses of the books; Umber; Dayne; Florent; etc.... that would be quite good.

[Unbowed]

Ooooookie, I have some spare time coming up soon. If I concentrate fully on that I should be finished by tomorrow night. I don't know how it works around here, but I guess I'll post the .txt file in the developer forum?

Oh and you may need to clarify a bit on the major houses. I personally feel the Tarly's are quite an important house, but I have three friends who would stab you painfully in the heart just for mentioning it (much like Tarly himself). Though I am sure I can start on most of them, a few houses are a bit murky grey.

[stormbringer951]

Tell me which ones (in the dev forums ). Also, maybe room for a few new devs as a LOT of the old ones seem to be on leave and aren't around.