[CKII:AGOT] THE NORTH REMEMBERS (Updated: 06/12/2013)
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Important: This does contain some spoilers for those who have not finished watching Season 3 of HBO's Game of Thrones, or alternatively finished reading 'Steel and Snow' from ASOIF. Anything after is just an invention of myself or the game.
Welcome to THE NORTH REMEMBERS, an AAR using the fantastic CKII: AGOT mod.
Characters (Updated: 04/08/2013)
Please feel free to leave a comment and rep if you enjoy. Thanks!
Last edited by RoyalNobody; December 06, 2013 at 03:23 PM.
Hoarfrost “Little Giant” Umber had a sore arse. He’d been sitting on the pinewood chair for well over an hour and had begun to regret not fetching a cushion, but he had not wanted to seem soft in front of his bannermen. His bannermen. It still felt strange calling them his bannerman. In his mind they were still his fathers men, but his father was dead now. Donnis Umber had never been particularly robust. Instead of strength Hoarfrost's father had been intelligent, more so than any Umber had any right to be, or so his uncle had claimed, and that had proved more useful than strength when the Starks of Winterfell had fallen.
When the wolves failed the north fell into ruin. Supported by a Southron army the Boltons had tried to seize power, but their army had dissolved when their leader, Roose Bolton, had perished to sickness. The Southron army had abandoned the cause and retreated back south, seizing Greywater Watch and closing off the North. Next had come Stannis Baratheon, who had tried and failed to harness the North. Only a handful of lesser Lords chose to follow him and his Red God and so he too had scurried back South. Divided, the Northern Houses returned to old rivalries. There had been as many 'Lords of the North' as there had been men with keeps, and all the while the Ironmen had continued to rape and pillage their way inland. Hoarfrost knew the Stark rulers only from tales, but he missed them all the same.
Where his father was short, wiry and learned; Hoarfrost was tall, muscled and simple. He’d learnt to dislike books at an early age and had slept through most of his Maester’s attempts at tutoring. Instead he had spent his childhood tearing through the pinewoods and across the fells of the Last Hearth, leading his younger brothers and friends in wild, mock battles against the children from the surrounding villages and towns. When he turned eight Theodan, the castles Master at Arms, had begun his training with sword and shield He had been a quick learner, and his shoulders had grown broad, his arms wide and his belly flat. It was then that the name 'Little Giant' was born, for while he had always been tall, he now became huge. His father, wearisome of his headstrong son, had become ever more distant. Finally, when Hoarfrost had attended one of his fathers councils and suggested they should besiege Kings Landing, he had sent him to Last River to 'bother the Umbers of Ashkeep instead.' Hoarfrost, ever faithful, had done just that. Only, his nuncle Lord Brun Umber, had laughed when Hoarfrost had confessed just why he had been sent, and had agreed that an assault upon Kings Landing would be a welcome change from the tedium of his fathers rule. Hoarfrost had promised him then, that when he was Lord of Last Hearth the Umbers would burn Kings Landing to ash. Brun had laughed again. Now he was Lord of Last Hearth and he would keep his promise. Maybe he shouldburn this chair first for practice.
“I, Medger, Master of Felbar, promise that I will in the future be faithful to you Lord, never cause you harm and will observe my homage to you completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit. This I swear by the old gods.” The words were spoken solemnly. The man was knelt before Hoarfrost, his head lowered and sword drawn and lain across the floor before him. Hoarfrost leant forward and took Medgers’s hands in his own. “I Hoarfrost, Lord of the Last Hearth, vow that you shall always have a place in my home and at my table, and that I shall ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear this by the old gods.” Hoarfrost had already accepted three more such oaths. One had been from his cousin, Wendel Umber, who was Lord of Seal Shore. Wendel was only a year older than Hoarfrost but had none of his recklessness. He was a thin and wiry man, much like Hoarfrost's father had been; but he had already proved a capable ruler and had somehow revitalised the market at Fisherkeep so that, even on the brink of winter, traders were still coming to buy seal skins and furs. His nuncle, Brun Umber, who was Lord of Last River, had been the second man to swear his fealty and had been grinning broadly the entire time. The fierce but graceful Lady Lyanna, Lady of Aylesvale and Aylestor Keep had followed, her face a mask and eyes stone. She had always unnerved him, but ever since his nuncle had suggest all she needed was a good tumble, Hoarfrost had not been able to look at her quite the same. Finally had come the ageing Master Medger, who had shuffled before him and taken what seemed a lifetime to say his words. Hoarfrost would have liked to have hurried him, but even he understood the importance of an oath. While an oath might be nothing but words in the south, in the north an oath was a mans bond. To mark the occasion he had made a special effort to seem lordly. He had donned his least stained leather gambeson which was held to his waist by a knotted leather belt. A thick brown fur cloak hung heavy from his broad shoulders, and he’d even washed the mud off his boots. The Umbers were not ones to judge on appearances, but Hoarfrost had decided it best to at least be seen to make an effort.
With Medgers oath finished he shuffled back to his seat upon the dais, and a silence fell over the great hall. Not that the hall was particularly great. The larger the hall, the harder it was to keep it warm in the depths of winter. So Last Hearth, situated as far North as the North went, had a modest one. A fire-pit sat to one side of the hall, a spitted boar sizzling over it. The hounds had encircled the hearth, but a brave boy tasked with turning the spit was keeping them at bay with a half-scorched stick. Rushes had been strewn across the stone floor in an effort to hide the filth beneath. Benches and tables were crowded together, and had upon them bread, cheese, meat and enough casks of ale to drown a small army. Aside from the fire, the hall was illuminated by hundreds of tallow candles speared upon several rusty chandeliers. Beneath, the hall was so full that the men filled the benches knee to knee, and the few serving women were struggling to actually serve anything. They were all men of worth. The leaders of men and the fighting men who followed. The men who Hoarfrost would need if he meant to keep his promise.Hundreds of bearded, weathered and scarred faces were staring back at him. They were men from Seal Shore and Fisherhall, men from Last River and Ashkeep, Aylesvale men sworn to Lady Lyanna and his own men of Last Hearth. They all looked grim, made hard by the cruel land which they called home. Which he called home. .
He turned to face the room. They were expecting him to begin the feast. Hoarfrost was rarely nervous, but as he stood he felt his stomach tightening into a knot. “Some of you know me already, some of you don’t. Those that don't all y'need to know that I'm not me father. He was a decent enough man, but had no taste for war.” Hoarfrost saw a handful of men nod, but most simply seemed somewhat confused that Hoarfrost was wasting time talking when it could be better spent drinking. “The Iron Islanders have taken all the West. The Southerners control the Neck. An all we've done is collect taxes, grow soft and dream of when the wolves used to rule.” Some men looked guilty, while others frowned at the implication they'd grown soft. "We're Umbers, and we were always loyal t' the Starks, an I mean to keep to that." "The wolves are all dead," a Fisherkeep man shouted from across the hall, "How are we supposed to keep loyal to something that don't exist no more!" There was a murmur of agreement. Brun Umber stood up suddenly, his face full of fury, but Hoarfrost checked him. "The Starks are dead, aye, but is that all our fathers and grandfathers fought for. A name. When the Lannisters took Ned Starks head, when they imprisoned his daughters, when Theon Turncloak slaughtered his sons, when the Freys betrayed the Young Wolf and murdered him, his mother and our fathers and grandfathers and uncles and brothers, they did it to us. They did it to the North!" Hoarfrost was shouting now, his face fierce with anger. "The Starks are dead, but as long as there are still true Northerners, we'll never give up the fight. We will-" he roared, as a handful of men growled their support. "We will throw the Ironmen back into the sea! We will take the heads of every Southron who did harm to the North!" Men cheered now, and some beat their fists against the tables. "We'll butcher the Freys..." The very mention of the Freys caused the hall to erupt and every man was suddenly on his feet screaming for their deaths. "... take the head of every Lannister..." The sound became deafening, men roared their hatred and hammered their fists upon the tables, sending food and drink everywhere. "... we'll raze their keeps to the ground, and take their Iron Throne for scrap!" The thunder of the hall must have been heard in every corner of the castle. Hoarfrost had dreamed of this day, but his dreams could not compare to how good it felt. How real it felt. Men drained their ale and howled their support. Brun Umber had climbed upon one of the benches and was bellowing "Umbers, Umbers, Umbers to war!" Even Lady Lyanna was smiling a wicked smile. Soon every man in the hall was roaring the challenge, "Umbers Umbers, Umbers to war!" Hoarfrost clambered up onto a table and stabbed his own horn of ale into the air, "Umbers Umbers, Umbers to waaaaar!"
Last edited by RoyalNobody; March 09, 2015 at 03:35 PM.
Well first off I know just about nothing in regard to the Game of Thrones universe, so a few things didn't make that much sense to me. Otherwise I thought it was a good start, and I will definitely follow your aar as it progresses. My one suggestion would be that perhaps you could use a larger font size. Just my personal preference.
I've updated the OP with some character portraits, and also cleaned up the formatting somewhat. Next update is dependent on when the mod creators release a fix, as the Old Gods update has messed up the mod.
Originally Posted by Templar Knight
Well first off I know just about nothing in regard to the Game of Thrones universe, so a few things didn't make that much sense to me. Otherwise I thought it was a good start, and I will definitely follow your aar as it progresses. My one suggestion would be that perhaps you could use a larger font size. Just my personal preference.
+rep
Thanks Templar Knight, I've increased the font size. I'd definitely recommend watching the series or reading the books if you have time.
Last edited by RoyalNobody; August 06, 2013 at 07:34 AM.
Wow, mate! Amazing first chapter. Really great read.
+rep, looking forward to more
Thanks ccllnply!
Still waiting on a fix for the mod. Next chapter is ready to go, and is still essentially part of the introduction so doesn't need an in-game section. My only concern is that the fix might not be saved game compatible, so I'd have to start again. If that's the case I'll have to engineer a new game to reach a similar scenario, and fiddle with the saved game file to include the same characters. Fingers crossed that's not going to be the case.
Last edited by RoyalNobody; August 06, 2013 at 07:33 AM.
I'm looking forward to your new update, and I hope when the mod updates it will be save game compatible. Having to restart due to a mod updating is always slightly frustrating.
Oh, and I see you increased the font size on your first part, my eyes would like to extend a huge thanks to you for that. haha
Had a Goodbrother sat upon the Seastone Chair instead of a Greyjoy then they would never have invaded the North. Goodbrothers had too much sense for that. They would have sailed south and conquered the greenlands, where the land was plump, the towns wealthy and the women soft. Instead Gorold Goodbrother was in a land of bleak, empty moors, treacherous bogs and pine forests, where a man might walk for days and never seen the horizon. All the while surrounded by its grim peoples, the men big and simple, the women tough as old boots. Gorold might have liked the North had its people accepted his rule, but Northerners were a stubborn breed. So he had marched ten thousand Ironmen into its heartlands where they had looted, raped and burnt their way through the Rills and Barrowlands. Balon Greyjoy was no longer King and Gorold Goodbrother, King of the Iron Isles, no longer wanted the North. He would take their wealth, cripple their strength, and return to the sea, where the Ironborn belonged. They had left a trail of destruction, laying to waste every village and town they had come across. Even Barrowton, the ancient seat of House Dustin, fell before the fury of the Ironborn reavers. They left Barrowton a smoking ruin and hurried further north, eager to throw the Glovers out of Winterfell and plunder its riches, but a weeks march from its high, grey walls the storm had come.
Gorold had once thought himself cold upon Great Wyk when the seas had been raging and the winds biting, but that was a summers memory in comparison the cold of the North. The snow had been savage and unrelenting, and no amount of furs or fire had kept the freezing damp from creeping in. He had contemplated turning back and sheltering from the storm in the ruins of Barrowton, but the handful of Northern guides he had forced into his service had assured him the storm would not last. Gorold was no fool and, predicting treachery, had tortured one of the Northmen to find the truth of his words, but the man had sworn honesty even after they had taken his toes and fingers. So they had marched on. They had made good progress in the first few days, as the snow was not yet thick upon the narrow, muddy trail that threaded its way through the Godswood. Though as it thickened it buried the roots and potholes that littered the path, and the carts pulling their food and plunder lost their wheels and tumbling into the snow. The army slowed. A weeks march became two, and still the snow persisted. The horses were the first to die. Even the shaggy island ponies, which could endure every hardship of the Iron Isles could not last the unforgiving North. With food growing scarcer by the day, the passing Ironmen would fall upon the corpses like vultures, hacking and clawing at the frozen flesh with knives and bloodied fingers. When Gorold had realised his folly he had demanded the Northern guides be found and brought to him so he could give them a slow death, but they managed to evade his men and, even the one he had crippled, managed to somehow escape. He had been so infuriated that he had beaten the thrall who had brought him the news to death with his bare fists.
It was not long before they turned upon each other. When they began to realise the hopelessness of their situation, they had begun to fight over what remained of their food and, when they had exhausted that, they fought over the frozen corpses of the horses and mules. One such altercation saw forty two dead when Harlaw and Blacktyde crews clashed over the rotting carcass of a mule. In response Gorold had led his own crew against the culprits and butchered all those who resisted, the few who surrendered were stripped naked and abandoned to the mercy of the cold. There were fewer fights after that, but Gorold knew the fragile peace would not last and so had abandoned Winterfell and marched instead for the shelter of the nearest keep. They left a trail of dead in their wake, some died of starvation, some in petty fights and some just surrendered to the cold, until finally his remaining Ironmen stumbled their way to Torrhen’s Square. The Tallharts had been absent, and the small garrison they had left behind had been no match for the Ironborn, despite their condition. When the keep fell they had found a host of refugees sheltering within. Most were smallfolk who had fled the Ironborn reavers, though an unlucky few had simply been travelling and had come to Torrhen’s Square to escape the storm. The Ironborn showed no mercy and the screams of women and the wailing children filled the castle. The men were slaughtered outright, and only those few who could persuade the blood-crazed Ironmen they could be ransomed were spared.
The handful of valuable captives were shepherded into Torrhen’s Squares great hall and were protected from the anarchy gripping the castle by a half dozen sober men. It was there Gorold had come upon them. He was weary, cold and wanted nothing more than to retreat to the chambers he had had claimed as his own, where a warm fire and soft bed awaited. Instead he had slumped upon an extravagant oaken chair which was thick with intricate carvings of pine trees and boasted the Tallharts words, Proud and Free, upon its top rail. That was another thing he meant to add to the list of things he hated about the North. Pine trees. Aside from the chair the hall was akin to every other Northern hall, and was unimaginative in appearance and practical in design. It was rectangular in shape, with a number of benches lining either side of the central hearth. A fire had been lit, but did nothing to warm the drafty hall, which stank of sweat, leather and dried vomit. Jack One-Penny, Red Errad, Garwin the Mute and the Oddr Pyke sat sullen around the nearest bench, grumbling, and grunting in Garwins case, about having to remain sober. Torwin Stronghammer and Black Sagramor made up the last of Gorolds men within the hall and stood in the centre of the hall, towering over the three remaining captives. Gorold beckoned them.
They were family by the looks of them, a father and his two young daughters. The father was plump and had a round, honest face with dark brown hair and dark eyes. His daughters trailed a step behind him and both had his brown hair and dark eyes, though one had inherited his plumpness while the other had not. They were both homely but had a frailty about them that pleased Gorold, who had grown weary of the stubbornness of Northern women. They reached the dais, and the man hunched over in a crude bow. His daughters seemed momentarily startled by the sudden display of ‘courtly’ etiquette, until one hastily copied her father while the other attempted a curtsey, but resulted something more akin to a squat. Gorold might have laughed had his mood been better, but he was cold, tired and had the suspicion his time was about to be wasted. Whoever the man was he was not noble, and would be worth no ransom. More than likely the man had spun a tale to his captors that they would be richly rewarded should they spare his life and his daughters innocence. When this farce was over Gorold would be sure to give him a slow and painful death, and then take his daughters to his bed. At least it might improve his mood.
“My Lord,” began the man, but whatever speech he had planned was ended abruptly when Torwin stepped forward and drove a fist into his flank. The man yelped, doubled over in pain and then collapsed to his knees. One of his daughters gave a shrill cry and tried to reach her father, but Sagramor placed a huge hand upon her shoulder and forced her still. Gorold smiled and leant forward. “Who am I?” he asked softly. “Y- Your Gorold G- Goodbrother, Ki-.” The man stopped suddenly as he realised his error. “Please forgive me, your grace.” “Why is he still alive?” Gorold suddenly asked Torwin, who shrugged. “They said he had some information or something, y’grace.” “Information?” Gorold examined the kneeling man, who was wheezing pathetically as he clutched his bruised waist. Gorold smiled, then suddenly erupted in a deep, booming laugh. “What information,” he managed through his laughter, “what information could you possibly offer that I do not already know?” The man made to speak but Gorold was suddenly on his feet and his face was no longer smiling. Now his eyes were wide and full of hatred, his face reddening with rage, his lips curled back in a terrifying snarl. “That the Bolton whore is planning to throw the Glovers out of Winterfell, and seat her whelp as Lord of the North? Is that your information?” Gorold shouted. He had always been prone to bouts of extreme rage and violence, and his men were grinning as they recognised the signs. Gorold was completely oblivious, the world was now just him and the soft, snivelling worm who had wasted his time. “That the Glovers plan to abandon Winterfell and crawl back to Deepwood Motte? Is that it?” The man had begun making a mewing sound and Gorold found himself standing over the man. “Is it that the boy Umber is trying to build an army out of snow and ice in that frozen waste he calls home?” Gorold gripped the mans lank hair, and could not resist the urge to drive a fist into the mans plump face. “Maybe its news from the South?” He paused, as if allowing the man to finally speak, but when the man opened his mouth only blood spilled out. Gorold punched him again. “Does this look like the South? No. Thats because I’m not in the bloody South! I’m a in this cold, snow covered piece of crap called the North! So what bloody use is news from the damn south!” The mans face was now red with blood and his daughters were wailing once more. “Shut up!” howled Gorold, “shut up, shut up, shut up!” The girls were cowed by his anger and sobbed as softly as they could. Gorold took a deep breath before turning to Torwin, “get this worm out of my sight. I’ll finish with him tomorrow, and take his daughters to my chambers.” “N- No, please. P- please your grace!” managed the man, struggling to lift his voice over the cries of his daughters, but Torwin was already dragging the him from the room. The daughters tried to reach their father, but Sagramor simply collected one in each huge arm and carried them towards the back of the hall, where a small door led to the upper chambers. The man began to shout desperately, but whatever he had meant to say Gorold did not hear, for Torwin slammed a fist into the mans belly. Gorold released a short burst of laughter before noticing his grinning men. “Go get drunk,” he barked, and they cheered. Gorold turned and followed the screams of the daughters. He might give the man the mercy of a quick death tomorrow, for he had at least improved his mood. Then he heard the words. They were muffled by a mouth thick with blood, but Gorold heard them all the same. Three words that could change everything. Three words that would bring the Northerners into line. Three words that would win him the North.
“A wolf lives.”
Last edited by RoyalNobody; August 15, 2013 at 06:57 AM.
Mate I'm blown away by your writing. So enjoyable to read because it flows so well. Also that image you have in "Lore" for House Umber is awesome, can't wait to see more of them.
Some 40 years after the War of the Five Kings I'm excited to see which Stark remains. Surely Bran and Rickon couldn't have stayed in exile for that long
Mate I'm blown away by your writing. So enjoyable to read because it flows so well. Also that image you have in "Lore" for House Umber is awesome, can't wait to see more of them.
Some 40 years after the War of the Five Kings I'm excited to see which Stark remains. Surely Bran and Rickon couldn't have stayed in exile for that long
Originally Posted by Templar Knight
Great update, you really have a talent for painting mental imagery with your words.
Thanks guys, it really means alot!
Almost managed to play the game today, but Paradox released a mini-patch and so the mod once again doesn't work. Developers are working on a hotfix so shouldn't be long now. In the meantime I've updated the lore in OP.
Last edited by RoyalNobody; August 06, 2013 at 07:36 AM.
Even through his layers of leather and fur and mail Oryn Flint could feel the cold. A snow had begun to fall the day before, a persistent snow that had drained the colour from the world and bathed it in brilliant white. It still fell, but had become so faint it was barely noticeable. His breath fogged in front of him and faded into the mist that hung heavy in the bitter morning air. Oryn shifted, his arm growing numb beneath his weight. “Where are the bastards,” he heard a voice mutter. Oryn knew the voice, and glanced over his shoulder to see the big, red-bearded face of Eric, who was champion of clan Flint and the fiercest fighter Oryn had ever known. The pair were high up against the face of a mountain, hidden in among a cluster of fallen boulders. On a clear day they could have seen down the length of the glen beneath, but the mist had obscured much of their view. Even so, they could see far enough and it was only a matter of time before they arrived. “They’ll be here soon enough.”
Led by the Little Giant the Umbers had come seeking the support of the mountain clans in their war against the Ironmen. The mountain clans had no love for the Ironmen, but neither did they love the Umbers who, like the other Northern Houses, had always looked down upon the clans. The Starks had been different. They had always treated the clans fairly and so when the Young Wolf marched south to avenge his father, many had followed. Hundreds had gone, but only a handful had returned. The clans had no intention of being so forthcoming this time. Wull, Knott, Liddle, Norrey and First Flint had all turned the Little Giant away, but the Umbers had always had short tempers and simple minds. The Little Giant’s appeal turned into a demand and, when the clans had still refused, he had been enraged and ridden back to his frozen corner of the world.
He had not stayed gone for long. With five thousand Umber men at his back he had passed the Long Lake and crossed the Kings Road into the First Flints mountains. The Knotts and Liddles had rushed to join their strength with the Flints, and the Norreys had promised their support, but they were not the powerful clan they had once been. Even so, near four thousand prime fighting men had come, and now waited for the command to colour the snow red with Umber blood.
Oryn tensed. Through the mist emerged a ghostly rider. It was as pale as the palfrey upon which it rode and Oryn could barely make it out against the white of the snow. It stopped as suddenly as it had appeared. Eric stirred impatiently beside him, but Oryn waved a hand and he went still. The rider remained fixed, as immovable as stone. Oryn willed it closer, but still it stayed, just watching and waiting. When it finally moved it simply turned and seemed to fade into nothingness, absorbed by the mist from which it had spawned. Oryn felt a chill run up his spine. An age seemed to pass. So long that Oryn began to question whether he had seen the rider at all. Had it been some snow buried tree that had assumed the shape of a rider. Had it all been some trick of the eye, a figment of his troubled mind. He was about to seek reassurance from Eric when a sudden gust of wind tore through the valley, sending a shower of freshly fallen snow swirling and twisting into the air. Then, as if carried upon the wind, they appeared.
They emerged from the whiteness of the fog like phantoms. Assuming strange and twisted shapes as they shuffled into life. Oryn felt his stomach turn. It was like a nightmare, a tale told to frighten little children. Then, all at once, he saw the points of the spears, the shields and swords and the outline of bascinets. It had not been some ghostly apparition but a scout, camouflaged in sealskin as white as snow. Somehow he had seen them, and the Umbers now emerged, not in marching column, but in a great block of men, bristling with spears and swords and axes. A warhorn erupted from the enemy ranks, long and deep, and all at once the tranquility of the glen was ended. The Umber ranks exploded in a barrage of warcrys and warhorns, and they began to beat their swords, axes and spears against their shields as they edged closer to the empty ridgeline. Orin cursed his foolishness as he darted from his cluster of rocks and up the slope. He should have realised they had been spotted the moment the rider had turned back.
His legs were clumsy from inactivity and burned painfully with the sudden exertion, but he had grown up running the hills of his mountains and so reached the ridgeline quick enough. Beneath the land sloped gently into a shallow bowl where the clansmen had gathered. There were many more than four thousand, for the women and children had accompanied their men. Most were already surging towards the ridgeline, a seething mass of flesh and steel that did not wait for any orders but simply spilled over the ridge and flooded down towards the valley below. They howled and whooped their shrill warcrys as they sprinted towards their quarry. From atop the ridge their own warhorns began to answer the Umbers who, upon the appearance of the clans, had roared a great challenge and surged forward to meet their foe. Oryn was overwhelmed by the spectacle. He was as seasoned a warrior as any clansmen, having fought in countless small skirmishes against outlaws and minor clans, but he had never been in a proper battle. He felt small, lost in the chaos of warhorns and warcrys and steel clattering against steel as men ran to their deaths. Sweat and leather and fear filled his nostrils, and he wanted nothing more than to open his eyes and find it was all some bad dream. Then suddenly he was being carried forward, caught in the great press of men around him. Eric was beside him, his huge greatsword clutched in both hands, his lips drawn back in terrifying grin. Orin realised he had yet to draw his own sword, and hastily pulled it from its sheath. “Kill them,” he screamed, “kill them all!”
Oryn’s first kill was an easy one. The Umber had been struggling to draw his sword after losing his spear in a clansman’s stomach, and had been oblivious to Oryn’s blade up until it took him in the throat. The next had not been so easy. A huge man, breathless from his run, had almost landed a mighty swing with his axe that would have opened up his belly, but Oryn had seen the danger and succeeded in twisting his sword to clumsily parry the blow. Then, in a sudden crash of steel, the two armies met and the battle truly began. It was nothing like the stories. There was no formality. Just a huge crush of men cursing and spitting at each other as they killed and died. A Knott, his shield splintered, screamed as an Umber split his forearm. Oryn slashed wildly at a snarling face and the man cried out as his eyes disappeared in a explosion of blood. He was shouldered aside as another Umber slashed at Oryn, and their swords sung out as they met. A flash of red showed Eric was still beside him, howling with joy as he wielded his greatsword. It was chaos. Glorious chaos.
Blood had melted much of the snow beneath so now they fought upon rock, but the ground was so thick with the dead and dying that it did nothing to improve their footing. Oryn had no notion of time, only that his sword grew heavier with each swing. Still he killed. The sheer weight of the sudden attack was slowly pushing the Umber’s back, and Oryn glanced behind to see how much distant they had come. The women and children that had lined the ridgeline to watch the battle had begun to flood down the slope to loot the dead and dying, of which there were many. The very ground itself seemed to move as the wounded writhed in agony and cried out for their loved ones. A sudden cheer came from the Umbers and made Oryn turn back to the battle. He climbed onto a small knoll to see the Umbers were surging forward again. At their head was a giant of a man. He was bellowing something inaudible as he hacked savagely at the men around him. Oryn hefted his sword and began to shoulder his way through the rearmost ranks of clansmen, but something made him turn.
Something was wrong. The women and children still rushed to loot the corpses, which still lay thick upon the ground. The clouds had parted to let the midday sun burn away much of the mist, and snow was still thick upon the surrounding hills. There was nothing amiss. So why had he turned?Nothing made sense. The Umbers were not known for their smarts, but they were no strangers to war. Why then had they chosen to fight in this narrow valley where the relief of the land so favoured the defenders. Maybe they hadn’t chosen it, maybe they had simply wandered into the waiting ambush, but something within Oryn told him otherwise. How had that scout seen them in among the rocks. He hadn’t. He couldn’t have. It wasn’t them he had been looking for, but the ridge itself. They had known the clans were here, so why had they come. Was the Little Giant a fool? For a man to rally his people and convince them to follow him to war on the cusp of winter was no small thing. So the Little Giant was no fool. So why here. Then it dawned on him, and he realised all could be lost.
The fastest of the women and children had reached the bottom of the slope, but did not continued onwards to where the corpses lay thick and the loot was plentiful. Instead they began to scramble up the surrounding hills, desperate to escape the valley floor. The first soldiers began to appear along the ridgeline, and for a moment Oryn thought he might be wrong, and that they were Norreys late to the battle. Then he saw the deep blue, rippling in the biting wind and vivid against the grey of the sky. He could hardly make out the sigil from this distance, but he knew it would be three brown buckets. The Wulls. They alone of the mountain clans had refused to fight the Little Giant, yet now their warriors filled the horizon. “Behind us,” Oryn warned, trying to lift his voice over the sound of battle. A clansman ran passed, then another. Oryn turned, only now realising how close the sound of battle had gotten, and just had time to see the gloved fist before it crunched into the side of his face.
It was like being hit by a stone wall. The world became a blur, and Oryn was stumbling backwards, desperately trying to keep his footing. In the distance someone was laughing. Then suddenly, as his vision cleared and his head settled, the laughter was beside him. He turned to see the giant. The man looked younger up close, maybe only six and ten, but he still had more beard that face. It was thick with blood, some of it his own by the looks of the ugly gash above his left eye. Oryn could see the yellow of the giants teeth as he bellowed at the men streaming passed. “I want prisoners y’bastards! Don’t kill em all, I want prisoners!” He seemed oblivious to Oryn, who had collapsed on all fours. You may have won, but it’ll count for nothing if your dead. Oryn had somehow kept hold of his sword, and forced himself to stand up. His head was pounding, and his nose and mouth full of blood. The Little Giant, who the man must surely be, was still unaware of Oryn as he staggered closer. He was so close, only a few more steps, only two more steps, only one more step. “I’d rather y’didn’t do that,” the voice was deep and booming, “I don’t want to kill you, but I’ve grown pretty attached to living after all these years.” Only then did he turn to look at Oryn. His eyes were dark brown and mischievous, his mouth large and grinning. Oryn suddenly felt the exhaustion, and he let his sword fall to his side. The Little Giant was laughing again, and two more men, equally full-bearded were laughing beside him. It all seemed ludicrous, like some mummer's farce, and Oryn Flint, tears in his eyes, laughed.
Overview + OOC
Last edited by RoyalNobody; August 15, 2013 at 06:57 AM.
Re: [CKII:AGOT] THE NORTH REMEMBERS (Updated: 03/08/2013)
Jeyne Stone dreamt often of the world beyond her little island. She pictured herself in a land of high, green hills and snow capped mountains that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Streams, pure and clear as crystal, meandered down the mountains, and carved their way through the hundreds of wildflowers thick upon the valley floor. The sun was always shining, the skies always blue. Best of all there was no smell of fish or salt, only a crisp, cool breeze hard upon her face. Sometimes a herd of wild horses galloped passed, their manes brilliant and eyes wide with excitement, and all at once she would be among them, seated upon her chestnut draught horse who everyone called Shabby. Shabby only had one eye and had lost most of her hair from a lifetime of pulling ploughs, and so had been nicknamed such by the other stablehands. Though to Jeyne she was as lovely as the big destrier and the handful of palfreys that were the pride of House Longthorpes stables. You only had to look into Shabby’s remaining eye, as blue and beautiful as sapphires, to see that she was only Shabby because she had never run free. So Jeyne had taken to calling her Sapphire. In her dreams Sapphire had both her eyes, and had a mane more magnificent than any of the other horses. The pair would ride for hours. They never had a destination and never needed one, for they were free in her dreams, but then she would wake to find she was still upon her island, that Sapphire was still Shabby, and she was still Jeyne Stone, the stable girl with the grubby face and dirty hair.
Her island was called Longsister and was one of three, Sweetsister, Longsister and Littlesister, together known as the Three Sisters. The island chain sat off the Eastern coast of Westeros, between the Northern port of White Harbor and the Vale of Arryn to the South. It was to the Vale of Arryn the Three Sisters were sworn, and so when the Southern army had marched to bring war to the North the Longthorpe’s, the Lords of Longsister, had been oathbound to join, but nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed on her island. The wind howled, the waves broke against the rocks and the gulls circled overhead, calling hungrily down to the fisherfolk and their catch. It was a damp and miserable place, but Jeyne might not have minded if it had felt home. She had been born upon Longsister, whelped onto some servant girl by one of Lord Humfrey Longthorpe’s brothers or uncles. Her mother had died in childbirth and Lord Humfrey had reluctantly agreed to raise the bastard baby, for Jeyne was brought to Starsea Beacon, the seat of the Longthorpe’s, and entered into the household as a housemaid. While her cousins learnt embroidery, she had learnt to empty chamber pots, wash clothes and sweep floors. She had been a lonely child. To the other servants she was an outsider, simply playing the role but never one of them, and to the Longthorpes she was an embarrassing mistake. Not that anyone would have noticed that mistake, for the island seldom saw visitors and, in the rare event some passing trader was forced into port, Jeyne had always been hurried out of sight. For fourteen years she played her part as a servant, but then it all changed.
Jeyne had been a plain child, skinny and long faced, and so she was largely ignored when she went about her duties as a housemaid; but as she had grown older, so too had she grown beautiful. Jeyne had never taken much interest in her appearance. Occasionally, when her chores took her to the upper chambers, she would steal a glance in Lady Longthorpe’s mirror, but Jeyne saw only a grubby housemaid looking back. To others though, it had become increasingly hard not to notice her natural beauty. She had wide-eyes, blue and vivid; thick auburn hair, high cheekbones and a delicate nose above fulsome lips. Jeyne was no fool, and had not failed to notice the lingering stares and the way the boys no longer called her names and tugged at her hair, but she attributed the change to simple maturity. Then, after the feast of Thomas Longthorpe’s sixteenth name-day she had found herself cornered by Thomas and one of his friends. They had tried to force themselves upon her, but Jeyne had broken Thomas’s jaw with a candlestick and left one of Lady Longthorpe’s silver forks imbedded in his friends groin. When brought before his parents Thomas had denied everything, explaining that it had been Jeyne at fault and that she had lead him on. It had been clear to all that Lord Humfrey doubted his son and Thomas had quickly focused upon his mother, sobbing about how Jeyne must be mad for she had been wild, ‘howling like a wolf.’ Lord Humfrey had always been kind to Jeyne, but the way he had looked at her then had stunned her into silence. He had been horrified, like the girl stood before him was some specter risen from the grave. Lady Maerie, sensing her husbands change in mood, had shrieked for her death but, after he had composed himself, Lord Humfrey had instead expelled from the household and sent her to the other side of the island to live and work in the meagre stables that housed the islands handful of horses.
It had been meant as a punishment, but Jeyne soon found herself falling in love with the horses and the work itself was a welcome change from the mundane life of a housemaid. Best of all was that for much of the time she found herself alone. No cousins to tease and call her names, no uncles and aunties to pretend she didn’t exist. She was not entirely by herself, for there were two other stablehands, but the two sisters only came a couple of times a week to help turn out the horses. Jeyne had been nervous when they had first met, scared that they would cruel like her cousins, but it was the stablehands who had been terrified. When they finally realised Jeyne wasn’t going to grow fangs and sprout wings just because her father was a noble that fear became mild curiosity and they had suggested that Jeyne return with them to Gimbleton. Jeyne, who only seen the town from a distance, had leapt at the opportunity. It was there, in the Fishhead tavern, that Jeyne had spoken to her first foreigner. He had been a trader bound for White Harbor with his two daughters, but had been forced into Longsister by foul weather. Jeyne spent half the night asking them questions, and the family had answered as best they could. The trader had even been kind enough to feint an interest in Jeyne, and she had told them her story. He’d asked about her mother and father, though Jeyne knew little enough. Only that her mother had been a Northerner and her father had been a Longthorpe, though which one Jeyne did not know; and that she was the spitting image of her mother. The trader had said her mother must of had Tully blood in her to birth such a beauty. Jeyne had reddened and wondered what a Tully was. In return the trader had told her about the outside world. Of the grand tourneys in the South, where Knights fought mock battles in dazzling armour. Of the lands even further south, where the men and women wore silks and had skin the colour of ebony. Then of the North, where the snows fell all year and the mountains stretched out as far as the eye could see. That night, when Jeyne had returned to the stables and the empty stall she had claimed as her own, she dreamt of the world beyond her little island, but she did not dream of Knights and their armour, or the men and women with ebony skin.
She dreamt of mountains and snow and the howling of wolves.
OOC
Last edited by RoyalNobody; August 15, 2013 at 06:58 AM.
[CKII:AGOT] THE NORTH REMEMBERS (Updated: 06/12/2013)
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My one suggestion would be that perhaps you could use a larger font size. Just my personal preference.
Originally Posted by Templar Knight
