Interactive GoT Fan Fiction: The Invasion

Stigz_52 · March 2018

Alright, so this vote has come to a close. Storrold will tell Amathe his story. I hope you guys liked the introduction to this new PoV, he's certainly an interesting one in my opinion, given that he's physically unlike any other PoV in the story so far, but he will play a large part in the story to come, so look forward to that.

I haven't posted for over a week now, and I do apologise for that. The reason for that is I've been starting university, so I've just been getting the ropes for how things work, including attending boring lectures and getting manageable amounts of homework from my tutorials, however I admit I've been prioritising that a little. However I am going to juggle it around so I can try to manage a part a week for both the Invasion and White Night, so expect a new part for WN at some point this week. Of course, that also means I have a part ready for here, well, even better: two parts. They go to York and Wyllam, and I'll give you a recap since we haven't seen them both in quite a while.

Having travelled the harsh journey through the Mountains of the Moon to find his nephew, York finally arrived at the Redfort where he was greeted by some unwelcoming soldiers. This led to a bit of a issue as York and the men engaged in a fight, which was quickly ceased by the arrival of King Robar. Robar took York in to catch up on lost time, and then ordered his uncle to find and retrieve Robar's sister: Andrea, who had been taken captive by King Grafton way back at the start of the story, who fled Gulltown when Robar's army laid siege to it. York now travels with the company of Marsh Coldwater, a member of Robar's kingsguard, for Runestone, where Ramses Stone (the bastard brother of Robar) will send York on his way to Andalos.

Wyllam meanwhile suffered a great ordeal over this chapter, having needed to escape Gulltown with the remaining Royce and Shett forces after it was levelled by a mysterious entity. Their great conglomerate of people slowly marched for safety, but was half consumed by this evil entity, taking the shape of a dreaded storm, while the remaining people were guided to safety in the caves on the mountains by Wyllam. Here they were found by Marvion Corbray, who escorted them all to Heart's Home, and later had them all executed and Wyllam tortured under King Qyle's orders. Wyllam was eventually set free by an unknown saviour, who was framed to be the Andal knight: Darren Tyrner. Wyllam would be later caught by his torturer, Rylan, after drowning in the frozen river. Rylan would threaten to take one of Wyllam's eyes out for the trouble he caused them, but before committing the act he would be shot by a masked rescuer. This hooded man would be revealed as Paytan Hunter, and he would take Wyllam back to Strongsong, his home. This part begins with their arrival.

Stigz_52 · March 2018

York

The Bridge of the Moon was a painful but relieving sight for York’s old eyes, bringing their journey to a conclusive end. Worry had struck him on their ride, after passing the ruins of Gulltown, and the carnage of First Men corpses on the roads, the state for Runestone looked to be grim. Alas, tears of relief and sentiment flooded York’s vision as he saw his old home still in one piece, and the battlements armed.

He flicked his gaze to the silent Marsh Coldwater, whom his nephew, Robar, had ordered to accompany him on his mission. York couldn’t compliment the company of the man, he was mute and emotionless, but York had lived years in isolation, so silence was nothing new to him. Marsh held a stern gaze as his eyes stared at the conglomerate of towers and walls which made Runestone, impenetrable to all but one entry, the Bridge of the Moon.

Before long, the oak portcullis slowly lifted and out ran a dozen guards armed in light bronze attires with tabards displaying the sigil of House Royce. The men took precaution as they approached York and Marsh, armed with spears and surrounding them, York could feel his horse tensing up with fear as she felt provoked by her surroundings. “Easy,” York whispered, brushing his steed’s neck as he dismounted and signalled for his companion to do the same.

The head of this ‘welcoming’ guard approached York with heavy footsteps. Unlike his comrades, he was suited in bronze from the neck down, leaving only his distinguishable face for York to gaze upon. It took York a moment to recognise the face of the man who he had last seen when he was a boy, but when he identified him, a small smile came to York’s lips. “Mack Moore,” York greeted as he approached the armoured captain.

He barely recognised the man, who was fully bearded and wore his long brown hair in a half-pony style. He had the eyes of his father however, Lord Marric, who had been a close friend of York ever since they were young. To think now he is dead, York remarked grimly, glancing at Marric’s legacy now standing before him, the head of Runestone’s guard.

Mack turned his gaze to Marsh Coldwater, who had dismounted his horse and began to walk her with the reins in his hand. “Welcome back, brother,” Mack greeted as he placed a hand on the mute’s shoulder, to which the man nodded to Mack in turn. York scratched the back of his head awkwardly as he awaited recognition from the boy he practically saw as a son. It came, but not as he would have liked.

“York,” he grunted, unsheathing his blade and approaching him with slow steps. “I expected you’d have died in those mountains,” Mack admitted with a tone that sounded of disappointment. York raised an eyebrow to this, but nudged it off as a degree of his isolation from society for so long. He chuckled, running his hand along the nose of his horse. “I’m a tough fucker to kill,” York stated in warmth, but Mack only kept a cold glare on him.

“My father gave his life to support your campaign,” Mack grumbled, lifting his sword and hovering it over York’s shoulder, the cold metal lifting the hairs on his neck. “Sellsword companies from all across Westeros were hired, spears and shields were purchased in bulk for your war of vengeance, and he lost his head for it. I was only a child, you took everything from me!” he shouted, grabbing York by the shoulder and tossing him to the ground.

“How was it just that you get mercy? What did you lose?!” he screamed, clutching his longsword in both hands as he lifted it to strike. A sorrowful frown fell upon York’s old face as he looked up at the boy who had seen York as an uncle in his younger years, and now he couldn’t think of any man he would want to see dead more than himself. York had lost more than the man could have imagined, but he was right, he was fully responsible for Marric’s death. It ate him from within, had I have known before they exiled me… York thought hopelessly, and with a final righteous thought, he looked up at the man before him.

“I loved Marric like a brother, and because of me, his son grew up without a father,” York mumbled, picking himself up from the ground and pulling himself onto his knees. He did not look to plea for his life or mercy. “If it’s justice you seek, then swing your sword,” York muttered, giving the boy a firm glare before lowering his glance, waiting patiently for his retribution. Mack’s hands tightened around the hilt of his blade, and began to shake as he was caught in a mind of decision. Do it, kid, York wished, releasing the tension in his body as his gaze fell to Mack’s feet.

The cold breeze that drafted along the bridge watered York’s eyes, or at least that’s what the old man blamed it on as his vision became to blur. As time dragged on, he feared the boy would let him drain of his dignity and strike when he was most humiliated, but to his surprise and chagrin, the sword landed with a thud in front of him as it was dropped to the ground. York quickly lifted his wet gaze to Mack, who held an ireful glare on him.

“Death is too kind for you, old man. Live your final years tearing yourself apart,” he spat, summoning his guards to help York to his feet. Without any further discussion, Mack took his sword, and his leave. His men looked at York with a mix of concern and pity, but none of them dared say a word. York lifted his arm and wiped the tears from his eyes, and it was only then that he spotted the silent Marsh Coldwater sheathing his sword. He was prepared to protect me, York thought, perplexed, wondering why any fool would even attempt such a stupid thing. Likely because my nephew ordered it, he reasoned, giving the man a nod.

York turned his glance up the bridge, where Mack disappeared through the gates to Runestone, and out walked another familiar face, this one along the same age as Mack. The Bastard of Runestone, York thought with neglect as he thought back on Edd’s foolish night rides, he had constantly warned his brother that a bastard would be forced upon him if he kept up his behaviour, and he was right.

Ramses Stone, like his half-brother, took after his father in reference to his looks. He possessed the loose curly dark brown hair of his half-brother, but his grey eyes were noticeably darker than Robar’s. He was a handsome young man, clean shaved and smooth faced, appearing more like a boy than a man. He may have been the older of Edd’s two sons, but in maturity, Robar was certainly the eldest and wisest. He had made a fine king.

He wore a simple attire, consisting of a boiled black leather tunic beneath a faded maroon vest. His hands were hidden in leather riding gloves, and his shoulders coated with a black fur cloak. By his hip a bronze short sword hung in its scabbard, his left hand resting on the pommel of the weapon as he approached York and his company.

“Uncle,” he greeted in a neutral tone as he arrived at the scene, flicking his glance to the guards as he observed the situation. “I hope my men didn’t cause you too much trouble, all of us are on edge with this war,” Ramses explained, but York only raised an eyebrow. Your men? He thought laconically as his eyes glazed over the soldiers that were in King Robar’s army, not Ramses’.

Regardless, York did not make a fuss of it. What position was he in to do so? In these times, he was perhaps even lower in the house hierarchy than his own bastard nephew, and he wasn’t sure if that made him despise the boy more or less. York took hold of the reins of his horse and approached Ramses, still towering the boy with his height and strength, and it was clear he felt some unease with his coming. In the corner of his eye, York spotted the guards growing tense with his approach, grasping the shafts of their spears and following him with watchful eyes.

“This has been quite the welcoming home,” York grumbled at his nephew, before pushing past him. Marsh Coldwater followed his example, leading his horse behind York. Ramses and the castle guard quickly followed after, the Bastard of Runestone meeting the pace of York as he trudged towards the gates of Runestone. An awkward expression coated Ramses face as York turned his bitter gaze to the boy.

“I shall go prepare the hall for your visit,” he mumbled, gulping at the finish of his sentence, to which York grunted, “You do that.” The boy ran ahead of the welcoming party and through the gates of Runestone, no doubt clenching his cheeks to keep the shit from staining his breaches, but also to hopefully start putting some order into line. Nice to see some things haven’t changed after five years, York thought bitterly, wishing he could have died this day.

-

The Great Hall of Runestone was nothing short of magnificence, standing high and proud with great stone pillars connecting the far roofing with its foundations below. Tapestries and paintings hung from the walls, including the generations of family portraits dating back to the times of the Long Night. The hall was warmed with the burning stone hearths that were continually fed by the servants, and those same servants ran to York as he arrived with a platter of bread and a bowl of salt.

York reluctantly followed the welcoming ritual to appease the nobles of the hall, and then proceeded to his nephew, who sat contentedly on the bronze throne that had been the seat of kings before his time, and now it was disgraced by a bastard. “You look comfortable,” York observed with condescension, crossing his arms as he looked up at the boy with dark eyes. A weak smile touched Ramses’ lips, followed by an awkward laugh.

“I am doing as instructed, as Robar told me to do!” Ramses exclaimed in his defense, leaning on the edge of his seat as he opposed his uncle, who only scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You never could follow your brother’s example even if it meant the end of you,” York sneered, approaching the throne. “Even as children, you always thought you had some sort of birthright because you were older. You never quite understood what it meant to have a tavern whore mother. You are no prince,” York muttered, making Ramses crumble in inferiority as York loomed over him.

“Has Robar sent you here to replace me?” Ramses gulped, to which York chuckled and shook his head. “Like he would trust me to rule over Runestone again,” York muttered, now lowering his gaze at the bronze throne that he had once yearned for so much when his brother was king. Perhaps he had more in common with his bastard nephew than he wished, but that didn’t make him like the boy anymore than he already did.

“No, I’m here to retrieve your half-sister for the King,” York informed him reluctantly, making Ramses’ eyes widen as if he had sorrow news. “She’s not here,” he stated with a worried tone, to which York smirked. “No shit?” he questioned him with sarcasm thick in his tone, making the boy frown at him as he rose from the throne. He had grown, that was certain, standing only a few inches lower than York.

“What do you want, Uncle?” Ramses muttered, pushing past him and taking to the food table, forcing York to follow him. The table was coated with exotic fruits imported from the east and south, along with sliced ham and a broiled turkey. Ramses’ delicate hands helped himself to some ripe grapes from Redwyne, the finest supplier of all of Westeros, while York took for a more primitive approach that caught Ramses’ attention.

Digging his fingers into the oily white meat until they secured around a bone, York lifted the whole bird of the table and took a large bite out of it, flashing his nephew a meaty grin as he dropped the roast back on its platter, causing a mess for the rest of a table. “I want a ship to sail me to Andalos,” York stated plainly, “and for you to pull your shit together before a tear you a new asshole, bastard. Is that clear?” York added harshly, making Ramses nod.

“Would you like to leave now, or in the morning?” Ramses mumbled, to which York stopped for a moment in thought. He had only just arrived in Runestone, his old home, and he was about to sail into the enemy homeland. I may not ever return, he thought grimly, and the rest would be appreciated too. However York knew he could also rest on the ship, and getting Robar’s sister to him was priority.

[Leave now] [Stay the night]

-

Wyllam

The crumbling stone keep stood high by the glacial river that Wyllam’s forefather’s had laid their foundations on when settling in Westeros. While it brought the weary young Belmore great relief to see his family’s ancestral keep, it also brought him worry and concern as he barely recognised it with the condition it was in.

Originally, Strongsong had two entrances into the castle; the Eastern Gate and the River Gate. While the Eastern Gate still stood reasonably intact, the River Gate was worse for wears. The gateway had crumbled with the intensity of several impacts from catapults, and the bridge leading to the gate had collapsed into the river. Stone bricks and wooden beams now resided by the water’s edge, where few folk also sat, coated with grime and shock as they scavenged through the rubble.

“The Andal’s will pay for this,” Wyllam grumbled as he tightened his frail hands around the reins. His saviour nodded, riding by his side and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Once you have recovered your strength,” Paytan promised him, a solemn look on his eyes. Wyllam scanned his eyes over his father’s people, they were broken, lost. He gave Paytan a nod before following him through the Eastern Gate, where they were met by a host of guards.

Wyllam recognised the commander of the guard to be Bondarien Stone, the younger bastard brother of Lord Ethon, and Wyllam’s uncle. He was an older man, just like Wyllam’s father, but unlike Wyllam’s father, his uncle had taken well to age. Bondarien held a robust figure, his brow heavily wrinkled but his silver eyes holding a stern and powerful look on them. His greyed hair was a medium length, swept back and receding, while his silver beard still held the magnificence that Wyllam always marvelled about as a child.

Without even acknowledging his nephew, Bondarien approached Paytan with heavy footsteps, a hand on the head of his mace. “Hunter,” he grunted, pulling the shivering Andal off the back of Paytan’s horse. “My brother allowed you to hunt, and he didn’t mean Andal’s,” he grunted, throwing the fearful boy to the ground. Bondarien turned his gaze to Paytan, who now dismounted his horse with a firm look on his brown eyes.

“Would your brother be better appeased with the return of his son?” Paytan remarked dryly, flinging his bow over his shoulder. Bondarien raised an eyebrow, to which Paytan nodded over in Wyllam’s direction, Bondarien’s firm glare following its path. Bondarien’s stern eyes studied Wyllam for a moment, but once he recognised Wyllam through the filth and starvation that consumed him, his eyes widened.

“Gods, Wyllam…” Bondarien mumbled with shock, placing one foot in front of the other as he made his way to Wyllam’s aid. “What has happened to you?” he asked in a tone that expressed his grief, but also revealed his ire. Paytan also came to Wyllam’s side, assisting Bondarien as they helped Wyllam off his horse and steadied him as he found his balance.

“I found him in binds by the river, the Andal’s about to take out his eye,” Paytan informed the commander, making Bondarien scowl as he turned his glare back to Aidin, Paytan’s prisoner. “Savages,” Bondarien grumbled, leaving Wyllam’s side to plant his boot into Aidin’s rib. “Put him in the darkest cell we have, Ethon will decide what to do with him,” he barked, and his men obediently followed his orders.

Once they were gone, Bondarien turned to Wyllam, taking his place by his nephew’s side. He lifted Wyllam’s weak shoulder over his arm, turning his gaze to Paytan. “I’ll have the women tend to him, you inform my brother of what you told me,” he ordered, to which Paytan gave him a solemn nod, but turned a concerned glance to Wyllam, who only nodded to him in return. He would see Paytan again soon, he was sure of it.

-

A dozen hands belonging to half as many women attending to him as Wyllam lay uncomfortably in a tub of hot water, his unhealed wounds oozing in the dirty water which had become contaminated alone with the filth that had been washed from his flesh. Doing what they could, the girls stitched what wounds they could, while removing what was too far lost, such as the frost-bitten fingers at the end of Wyllam’s left hand, resembling the stumped finger that Wyllam now also had on his right hand. He gulped, feeling crippled and useless as he stared at his feeble hands with watering eyes.

When the women had tended to the majority of Wyllam’s wounds, they began to groom him. Firstly washing his hair and newly founded beard, and then trimming and unknotting his hair. By the end of their hard work, Wyllam came out the tub a different man than the one he went in, but in truth he was still the same man; broken, ruined, much like the state of his home. All from the Andal’s, he thought his fingers, or what few of them he had left.

The girls wrapped a white gown around Wyllam’s shoulders, tying it around his waist with a purple sash. He was presented with a mirror, of which he barely recognised the man that stared back at him. He was gaunt, having been starved during his time in Heart’s Home’s dungeons. A long filthy scar ran down from his beneath his right eye to his upper lip, pausing, and then resuming down his lip to his jawline. However half of this was covered by his thick brown beard, which had been groomed in a manner that tried to hide his wound.

Wyllam lifted his gaze to his hair, which had been long and unruly before, but now trimmed short and combed back. There was no doubt, he looked presentable and handsome to the foreign eye, but Wyllam could see through his own eyes, his own lost silver eyes, he was a broken man.

He flicked his gaze over to the girls who looked at him with patient but worried glances, ones which he put at ease with a small nod. “Thank you,” he mumbled in courtesy, receiving a bow from all of them, and serving as a dismissal to them, as each quickly gathered their tools and rushed out the door, leaving Wyllam to his own, dark thoughts. He lifted his hands to his eye-level, his lip quivering as he looked at his remaining seven fingers. He had never thought of how precious something so minor could be, but now he felt as if it were useless to have his left hand at all.

Before long, the door to Wyllam’s quarters clunked open, and in walked a face that Wyllam barely recognised. Like himself, this man had also come worse for wears, his old silver eyes trembling as he studied Wyllam up and down, and a small shuddering smile appeared on his dried lips. “My son,” he mumbled, almost in tears as he rushed to embrace him. Wyllam could barely muster the strength to hold back a shriek of pain that surged through him as his father held him, and an instant look of apology flashed over his father’s old eyes.

“You’re alive,” he rejoiced gently, grasping Wyllam’s arms and staring into Wyllam’s wet eyes. “Yes,” Wyllam uttered in response, but he did not feel it. In part, he wished he was dead, but he did not dare hurt his father with such dark selfish thoughts. Wyllam’s eyes flickered to the door, where he spotted Bondarien and Paytan standing outside with relieved looks on their eyes, but something nagged at Wyllam, turning his gaze back to his father.

“Where is Lexia?” Wyllam questioned, removing his father’s grip from his shoulders. A frown touched Ethon’s wrinkled face as he took a seat by the tub, staring into the murky water for a moment. “She left with the Northman and Cedrick Redfort to find you,” Ethon revealed, turning his gaze to Paytan, “that’s why Lord Harlan’s son is in my custody, in case anything were to happen to her…” Ethon mumbled. Custody? Wyllam thought strangely as he furrowed his eyebrows.

“A Northman?” Wyllam queried with visible concern, something which Paytan apprehended to. “Jarden Frost, my Lord,” he clarified, to which Wyllam raised an eyebrow. “My Lord?” he begged a pardon, turning to his father for clarity, to which a heavier frown fell over his face. “Leave us, please,” he pleaded, making his brother roll his eyes, pushing Paytan and shutting the door to Wyllam’s quarters.

“What’s this all about?” Wyllam questioned, although now his voice held a sterner tone, perhaps the strongest it had been in days. Ethon sighed, lifting his gaze from the dirty bathwater to Wyllam. “I’m dying, Wyllam,” he stated bluntly, making Wyllam raise his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” he blurted, approaching his father with a concerned look on his eyes. Ethon placed his old frail hand on Wyllam’s shoulder as he knelt down to his father’s eye-level.

“I’m getting old,” Ethon stated with a nonchalant tone, flicking his gaze around the room, “and I’m becoming unable to protect my people. Strongsong needs a strong leader, a man to lead them back to hope and prosperity,” Ethon mumbled, his feeble hand caressing Wyllam’s cheek. “You are that man,” Ethon finished, but Wyllam shook his head. “I can barely stand, how do you expect me to lead?” Wyllam exclaimed, bringing a small smile to Ethon’s lips.

“With wisdom that comes with years of leadership, and love that comes from the fathering of children,” Ethon stated, making Wyllam furrow his eyebrows. “What are you saying, dad?” Wyllam asked, prompting Ethon to stand himself up, using Wyllam to balance himself. “In order to lift our house from its ruins, we need to forge alliances which will benefit our people and strengthen our defences. I will do my part in restoring our home, but you…” Ethon halted a moment, thinking of a way to mask his words, but he only sighed and shook his head. “You must choose which house to align ourselves with in order to bring us back to our former glory,” Ethon explained, making Wyllam sigh.

“Father, this is hardly the time. We’re at war,” Wyllam reminded him, to which Ethon nodded. “All the more reason to find strength when we are at our weakest. Soon you will lead your army down the river to fight the Andal’s with Robar, and you must decide which family you want at your side when you do it,” Ethon stated , “I have consulted with two houses, both who have agreed to align themselves with Strongsong through the bond of marriage,”

“High King Sigemund Sunderland, the King of the Pirate Kings, and the ruler of the Three Sisters. While perhaps ruthless, he holds great strength on the sea, and has kept the Three Sisters untested from the Andal’s so far. He is considered a legend among his kind, reputed to have slain a sea dragon, wrestle a kraken and have been swallowed by a great whale,” Ethon claimed, making Wyllam stare at his father with doubt, to which the old man shrugged. “He has offered the hand of his only daughter, Modthryth,” Ethon concluded, making Wyllam frown.

“What’s she like?” he asked, a touch of concern in his tone. Ethon sighed, looking at his son sternly before answering. “There’s a charm to her that I’m sure you will find through marriage,” he mumbled in response, making Wyllam sigh. I suppose I’m not much better now, he thought melancholically, nodding to his father to continue.

“Or there is Lord Roran Reed, ruler of the Crannogmen. He is sworn to the Stark’s, but his loyal to those that earn his trust and respect. He and I go back, and he has offered the hand of his daughter, Brigitte,” Ethon informed him, “she’s quite the beauty, from memory,” he added, making Wyllam roll his eyes. “Where Sigemund can provide raw strength, Roran has numbers. The Crannogmen have defended the Neck for thousands of years, however their tactics are understandably suited to their homeland, while the Sistermen know how to fight on any battlefield,” Ethon stated, crossing his arms.

“My opinion, Lord Roran is a trustworthy man, and he will provide a greater number of men to support you when you call for his aid. However it is without any doubt that Sigemund would be a stronger ally, if you can learn to see past the looks of his daughter. Roran is a loyal man, but he is sworn to the Stark’s, not the Belmore’s. Remember that,” Ethon lectured, to which Wyllam nodded.

“I do not expect you to make a decision now,” Ethon added, but Wyllam shook his head. He knew time was of the essence, and action needed to be taken directly. The question was, which was the better choice? Not only for the war effort, but for his house as well. The Sistermen had kept the Three Sisters free of Andal’s for the last hundred years, even if some of their methods were brutal. What choices are we left with now? Wyllam thought in comparison however, acknowledging that Robar would likely have to make similar barbaric choices if he were to take back the Fingers. Meanwhile, the Crannogmen may not be the best warriors for this war, but if Wyllam’s father could trust Lord Roran, maybe he could too. So long as he can follow through on his allegiance when the time comes.

[Accept Sigemund’s offer] [Accept Roran’s offer]

LiquidChicagoTed · March 2018

Ah, two very interesting parts. Seems like it has been forever since we've last seen York, but the recap was as necessary as it was nice here. And Wyllam is really growing on me. Perhaps not quite a favourite, given the massive number of PoV's the story has, but he is at least one I really like

[Stay the night]

This comes from someone who has never particularly been fond of ships, I tend to get sick all the time XD Really though, I think this is just one more day, no big thing if he loses it. Given how long the journey to Andalos will be, one day more or less is unlikely to be of much significance, but it could very well be good for York to have it. After all, he will be gone for a long time and it is not quite sure if he will even return at all, given that his journey is bound to be a dangerous one.

[Accept Roran’s offer]

Eh, what, I was never a fan of these marriages XD At least I'd like for Wyllam to meet these lords at least, or even the daughters. Thing is, Sigemund sounds like a far more interesting character, but the main argument against Roran seems to be his reliability and here I gotta say, I am really not sure if Sigemund can be trusted all that much more. So, at least on paper, Roran gives me a much more trustworthy impression, so I gotta pick his offer.

Stigz_52 · March 2018

This comes from someone who has never particularly been fond of ships, I tend to get sick all the time XD Really though, I think this is just one more day, no big thing if he loses it. Given how long the journey to Andalos will be, one day more or less is unlikely to be of much significance, but it could very well be good for York to have it. After all, he will be gone for a long time and it is not quite sure if he will even return at all, given that his journey is bound to be a dangerous one.

I like your argument here, but it sounds like it's in support of the choice of staying the night instead of the choice that you picked? Correct me if I'm wrong, but yes, York certainly could appreciate some time of rest in a familiar setting, albeit it takes time away from his crucial mission.

Eh, what, I was never a fan of these marriages XD At least I'd like for Wyllam to meet these lords at least, or even the daughters. Thing is, Sigemund sounds like a far more interesting character, but the main argument against Roran seems to be his reliability and here I gotta say, I am really not sure if Sigemund can be trusted all that much more. So, at least on paper, Roran gives me a much more trustworthy impression, so I gotta pick his offer.

Ah Sigemund, I can't exaggerate how excited I am to bring the Sistermen into the story soon, and if not through Wyllam then it will certainly be through other PoV's. There's definitely a lot more to him than what has been mentioned in this part, but of course, the same goes for Roran as well, who we only briefly met as an unnamed character back in Torv's early storyline.

LiquidChicagoTed · March 2018

I like your argument here, but it sounds like it's in support of the choice of staying the night instead of the choice that you picked? Correct me if I'm wrong, but yes, York certainly could appreciate some time of rest in a familiar setting, albeit it takes time away from his crucial mission.

Ah, damn, you are right. My bad, my bad. You have seen nothing, definitely not me picking the wrong choice, giving an explanation for the one I actually wanted to pick and not realizing my mistake throughout the entirety of writing my reply, that would be just absurd

Ah Sigemund, I can't exaggerate how excited I am to bring the Sistermen into the story soon, and if not through Wyllam then it will certainly be through other PoV's. There's definitely a lot more to him than what has been mentioned in this part, but of course, the same goes for Roran as well, who we only briefly met as an unnamed character back in Torv's early storyline.

In that case I am glad to stay with Roran, if we get to see Sigemund through some other storyline. Sounds like a guy I want to see in the story for sure. And we saw Roran before? Man I gotta reread the early story, there is a lot I don't fully remember anymore, mostly such smaller details.

Stigz_52 · March 2018

Ah, damn, you are right. My bad, my bad. You have seen nothing, definitely not me picking the wrong choice, giving an explanation for the one I actually wanted to pick and not realizing my mistake throughout the entirety of writing my reply, that would be just absurd

Oh of course not! Nothing at all Happens to the best of us

In that case I am glad to stay with Roran, if we get to see Sigemund through some other storyline. Sounds like a guy I want to see in the story for sure. And we saw Roran before? Man I gotta reread the early story, there is a lot I don't fully remember anymore, mostly such smaller details.

Oh well regardless, we'll see both Roran and Sigemund having their fair share of input in the story regardless of which choice prevails, just of course, one of them will be more involved in the Belmore's affairs than the other Yeah, Roran we got a very brief introduction to when Torv was taken prisoner after using a weirwood to light a fire, which he was taken down to Greywatch for testimony, thus where he met Rolland Reed and such It's been a while, and I've got me to blame for writing at such a slow pace, so I understand that there's a lot of gaps for you and others, probably why others don't bother coming back

Tales-from-Telltale · March 2018

[Stay the night]
One extra night of rest shouldn't hurt. It could be beneficial for him.
[Accept Roran’s offer]
Sigemund sounds far too unpredictable. I'm sure Roran would provide enough troops if his daughter was in any danger. Even if she wasn't, she might be able to convince him to send many troops, if their needed.

CM3434 · March 2018

[Stay the night] Ah I don't figure it would hurt for York to stay one night.

[Accept Sigemund’s offer]

I don't see this choice winning but this Sigemund sounds like a really intriguing character and while we will get to meet him through other storylines, I feel the chance to see him at his daughter's wedding will probably be too good to pass up As far as the reliability goes, it looks like it could be shaky either way so I think I am going to with this choice.

Stigz_52 · March 2018

Alright, well let the voting be closed! York will stay the night and Wyllam will accept Roran's offer. Well, while I was expecting the first vote to be this outcome, I admit I'm a little sad that Sigemund won't get to pop up in Wyllam's storyline, but nonetheless I'll get to play with him in other storylines, so all is good! I can announce that Wyllam's marriage with Sigemund's daughter would have been entirely political however, while with Brigitte, well there's some chance for Wyllam to learn to love

Anyway, the next part is ready, and it goes to Darren. The last time we saw our atypical knight was in probably one of the most intense scenes to have occurred in this chapter yet: the trial by combat between Darren and Marvion Corbray. This battle ended in Darren's favour, with him plunging Lady Forlorn through Marvion's side, however Darren came out quite wounded from the fight and fell unconscious when the battle concluded. This new part takes place after he has regained consciousness!

Stigz_52 · March 2018

Darren

Excruciating pain ripped Darren from his poor rest, and his eyes widened as he grimaced with each conscious breath. His right arm lunged out, clutching to whatever was beside him, while his left arm refused to leave his chest, being held to his torso by the same bandaging that circulated around the deep gash on his shoulder. He let out a yelp of sheer agony as the pain surged through his shoulder and down his side, also provoking a crushing sensation from his chest as his breaths aggrieved him.

He barely noticed the soft touch of a woman’s hand caressing his cheek as whispering in his ear with all the pain that surged through him, but slowly, her honeyed words soothed him, even if they could not relieve the immensity of his suffering. They held him still, paralysing him to his bed as his eyes fell onto her, and to both of their surprise, a flicker of a smile touched his dry cut lips. Kira, he wanted to greet, but his tongue would not speak the words.

She had developed into a beautiful young lady, with a head of hair that represented the exotic folk of the Valyrian Freehold, and eyes of a lilac shade that were both alluring and paralysing at first sight. Her soft hand brushed over him, a smile on her soft pale lips. What surprised him though was her attire. She wore his armour from head to toe, save for the gauntlets and helm.

Darren tried to utter something, but she instantly hushed him, placing a finger on his lips and her other hand on his uninjured shoulder, easing his grasp on the railing to his right and freeing its grip. “Relax, you are alive,” she assured him in an attempt to comfort, but there was something wrong. Her voice. Darren took hold of her hand with his right, and clenched his eyes shut as he hoped that he was wrong, and that his sister did indeed stand before him, but when his eyes opened again, he was left disappointed.

What was Kira had faded away into a woman with a much larger stature, donned in her own steel armour with her pale blonde hair tied back into a ponytail which fell over her shoulder. Her eyes were a deep blue, like that of the day sky, and soon Darren came to recognise her face. Tamarra, he thought, releasing her hand and letting out a sigh as he shut his eyes again, partly disappointed, partly in fear of what he now remembered of his sister. Jorrhen, that bastard, he reconciled, clenching his fists and trying to sit himself up, but Tamarra quickly put an end to that ambition.

“Easy!” she jeered, scowling at him as she held him down. He reciprocated her glare in turn, shrugging her hand off his shoulder and gritting his teeth. “Do not try to stop me, woman,” he muttered with a warning tone, to which Tamarra only rolled her eyes. “You’re in no position to argue with me, Prince-Slayer,” she stated nonchalantly in turn, causing ire to run through Darren’s blood as his fists clenched.

“What do you want?” he seethed, sinking back into the feather mattress with Tamarra’s guiding hand. “For you to rest, firstly,” she said plainly, making him groan. “And then?” he asked, his tone impatient and cold, making her frown. “Then, to come south with me, to the Gates of the Moon,” she added hesitantly, to which Darren rolled his eyes and let out a painful dry chuckle, something he quickly regretted.

“I’m done serving Andal kings, the lot of them are as unfaithful to their own kind as they are to the savages we are taking these lands from,” he muttered, but Tamarra only shook her head. “Artys is no king, and he is not like the vile king you have served,” Tamarra stated with a hopeful tone, but Darren wasn’t persuaded. He had little interest in bending the knee to fight another man’s war, or to raise his children only to kill them.

“I doubt any Andal will trust the loyalty of an oath breaker,” Darren grunted, which encouraged Tamarra to place her hand on his. “You are no oath breaker, Darren Tyrner. You fought in the eyes of the gods, and they saw fit that you live. You did not break your oaths, and my brother will acknowledge that,” Tamarra assured him, but Darren only furrowed his eyebrows. “Your brother?” he queried, to which Tamarra flashed him a small smile.

“Artys,” she clarified, making Darren raise an eyebrow. “Ser Artys is the only Arryn of the west?” Darren recited dryly with some confusion, making Tamarra chuckle. “Aye, the only Arryn,” she emphasised, making Darren sigh. “So you’re a bastard then,” he concluded, and she nodded in confirmation. “Good for you,” Darren stated nonchalantly, making Tamarra roll her eyes.

“I wasn’t seeking your sympathy, Ser,” she muttered, to which Darren scoffed. “I’m hardly a knight, lady. Go tempt the real knights of Qyle’s court,” Darren grumbled with a subtle plea for peace, something he didn’t expect her to pick up on. She arose from her seat, releasing his hand and walking to the door before stopping a moment.

“I came to you because unlike the rest of them, your heart is true. They told me you came here to make a new life for you and your sister, and that everything you earn you send east to her,” Tamarra claimed softly, her gaze lowered and her hand on the knob of the door. “We can only prosper together, and we must all unify with Artys if we are to do that. Join us, help us defeat the savages that have bided their time here, and when the war is over, I swear my brother will divide the lands equally for all those who faithfully served him,” she promised, turning her gaze to Darren now.

“Have a think about it,” she pleaded, and without awaiting a response, she took her leave. The door clunked shut behind her, and for a moment, the silence that flooded into the room was unnerving for the injured knight. What little appreciation Darren found in his peace was lost with the coming of his troubled thoughts. They drifted to Kira, heavy with worry and wonder as to her whereabouts, and whether she was safe. She needed him, that much he knew, and he regretted having to leave her alone in that dying city.

Perhaps Tamarra was right. The First Men had unified under one banner, and their feats had forced the Grafton’s from Gulltown, along with the sacking of any peaceful Andal colonies along the way. Are we any better? Darren thought dryly, thinking of all the ‘alliances’ that had been formed, only for the First Men to be betrayed, or for the Andal’s to manipulate the First Men to turning on each other. Darren could barely decide who the worse of the two races were; neither won any favours for him.

Minutes dragged into hours, and the sun had been obscured by the dark clouds that loomed overhead, beginning to downpour on the white castle of Heart’s Home. Darren found himself staring at the window, watching as the droplets accumulated together, only to fall into a great puddle. He thought of each of those droplets as those who plagued the Fingers, all of them fighting to occupy space, all of them falling into a deathly abyss where they would all meet again. He wondered if his dream was not hopeless, and if the First Men would prevail and force the Andal’s out for good.

The thoughts were interrupted as Darren heard the door to the room fumble and then open, in walking a figure which made his blood boil. A forlorn expression coated Qyle’s face as he took a seat by Darren; who’s expression was burning with a raging ire that followed Qyle’s every movement. The King of Heart’s Home could not bring himself to look at his old friend, instead, he only stared at the floor, clasping his hands and inhaling deeply.

“Did you do it?” he finally asked, his voice timid and melancholic, “did you free that savage from the dungeons?” he clarified, making Darren send him a filthy glare. “What do you think?” Darren growled, making Qyle lower his head in shame, a punishment that was not nearly enough for what he had done off the word of a weasel. “I’m sorry,” he finally mumbled, an apology which was not expected, and certainly not accepted.

“You’re sorry?” Darren scoffed in mockery, to which Qyle shed him a teary glance, but it was not enough to win Darren’s pity. “You fucking stabbed me in the back. All the years I served you, all the years!” Darren barked, wishing he could wrap his hands around the bastard’s neck. “It meant nothing to you, nothing! You threw me under the carriage with the first accusation against me, and then let the ‘gods’ decide my fate. I once thought highly of you, Qyle, but you’re nothing but a fucking craven, too weak to wield that ancestral blade which I was forced to open your son with,” Darren seethed, his hands clenched into tight fists to the point where he could feel his nails digging through his skin. He didn’t care.

“You ruined my fucking life,” Darren spat, turning his gaze from him. “I hope it was worth it,” he muttered, and in the corner of his eye he could see the man beginning to weep, his head cradled in his soft hands. Darren spared him no sympathy, but he did not torment him further, even if the gods knew he deserved as much.

The soft whimpers of a broken man plagued Darren’s ears for several minutes, while he stared daggers at the polished ceiling above him, the face of Marvion Corbray flashed across his eyes. He recalled the times they had sparred together, and when Marvion had even gone as far to call Darren a brother when they arose victorious from the Siege at Snakewood. Then things changed, and Darren became more involved with Jaime while Marvion took on the responsibilities of the kingdom; and now… Darren shut his eyes, holding back the tears of guilt and anger that welled up inside him. He could not show weakness now.

“I know I will never be able to regain what I have lost with you, Darren, and that will forever be one of my greatest regrets,” Qyle mumbled, raising his head from his hands and staring out the window. “There is a ship waiting in the docks bound for Andalos. Go find your sister, and when you return, you will be the Lord of Snakewood. You will have the land and prosperity that you have been trying to build for yourself and your sister, this I promise you,” Qyle vowed, placing his hand over his heart, but Darren only shook his head.

“I don’t give a shit about your promises or false gifts. They won’t save you from me when I’m strong enough to wield a sword,” Darren promised him, to which Qyle gracefully nodded with some acceptance showing in his wet eyes. He knelt by Darren’s side, unsheathing a dagger from his belt and placing it in Darren’s good hand. “If it is my life you want, take it. I will gladly give it,” Qyle stated with a tone that was assertive, the first strength he had shown since he entered the room.

Darren clutched the dagger, staring at the blade as it pointed against the skin of Qyle’s throat. Darren lifted his gaze to Qyle’s, a pleading look on his eyes as he awaited his fate. A deep grumble sounded in Darren’s throat, he clenched the hilt of the dagger tighter, glaring into the man’s eyes before letting out a painful roar and dropping the dagger. Qyle let out a disappointed sigh, tears welled up in his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he begged, but Darren only shook his head. “Death is too sweet for you. Dwell on the death of your son for your remaining days, Qyle; gods know that when Robar comes, nothing will stop him from cutting open your throat now,” Darren cursed, making Qyle’s lip quiver as he abruptly arose, turning to the door before halting. “When that time comes, I want you as far away from here as possible. Find your sister, Darren, she needs you now, and you need her,” he mumbled before leaving with haste.

The tension that had been building in Darren’s chest was let out all at once, a burning anger released through a cursing shout which left him in severe pain and gasping for air by the end of it. I should have killed him, Darren thought immediately with regret, rolling onto his side to see the dagger still on the floor. He cursed himself for even considering to show the man mercy, but he did not have the strength to do anything about it now. All he had was the mind to plague him with thoughts.

In part, he hoped that the Andal’s would fail, that they would all fall to the army of the First Men, but then his thoughts drifted to Tamarra. She had stuck her neck out for him on two occasions now, and perhaps her promise was genuine, but even if he could trust her, could he trust this Artys Arryn? And could Artys trust him? Gods, he knew he could barely trust himself.

Yet against all of this, there was the underlying factor of his sister. He worried for her deeply, and the fact that he had never even gotten to see her letter brought fear into him. What if she wrote for help? He thought with concern, already feeling the urge to get up and find her. He needed to know she was safe, he needed to find her… but then what? They would be back to the beginning, all of these years spent for nothing. Maybe Darren would have a chance to start over again with Artys, or maybe his time in the cursed Fingers need to come to an end.

[Accept Tamarra’s offer – Join Artys] [Find Kira]

LiquidChicagoTed · March 2018

Ah, what a great part! I must say, even though this chapter has been going on for so long, Darren's confrontation with Qyle is a favourite of mine. That utter asshole deserves to be called out on all the crap he has done and I believe his pain and regret are genuine. And he deserves every single bit of it! Darren is right, he has thrown a man utterly loyal to him, a friend who saved his life, under the bus for very weak accusations, pitting him against his own son to be certain that he'd die and for what, because some spoiled shit told a complete and obvious lie? If he was genuinely fooled by Jorrhen's claim, then he is a stupid man and if not, then he is even more stupid, because Darren was basically his best man and he himself created a situation where he'd either lose his most loyal knight or his son and heir. Now he has lost both and I cannot muster even an ounce of pity, because this is so well deserved.

[Find Kira]

Hmmmmm, come on, you knew I'd pick this option XD I must admit, Tamarra's offer doesn't sound too bad. Serving Artys, that could be quite something. The problem is, we know what kind of a situation Kira is in right now. Involved with Lorrhen, this could end badly for her and I feel like she might need the help of Darren to get through this alive. One way or the other, I am glad Darren gets the hell out of there before Robar's men get into battle with the Corbray forces. Qyle is a piece of shit and one way or the other, I am pleased as long as Darren gets out of there. It could be a good idea to find Kira though, to make sure that she manages to leave Andalos before that city collapses entirely.

Tales-from-Telltale · March 2018

[Accept Tamarra’s offer – Join Artys]
If Darren joins Artys, perhaps his forces could help him rescue Kira, in the future. Going alone to find her, especially in his current state, may prove to be too dangerous.

CM3434 · March 2018

[Find Kira]

Stigz_52 · March 2018

Alright, well there was some different opinions here which was nice to see, but the voting has closed. Darren will decide to find Kira. This is definitely a more interesting decision for Darren's storyline, although maybe less for his character build, as he'll be avoiding all the reputation he's now gained with defeating Prince Marvion in the trial by combat.

I have kind of gotten started on Kira's part, but I admit it's a bit of a difficult one to write given on the lack of characters in royal Andalos, so I'll have to do some brainstorming before then, but there's also another contributing factor which has been nagging at me. As you guys know I'm writing two stories consecutively, albeit slowly, and I'm quite fine with doing that. However, in comparison to WN, there are much less readers here which makes votes a little more difficult and waiting to close votes a little longer, while WN overall is much faster and larger in these aspects. I don't have any ambition of throwing the Invasion under the bus again, but with my long absences I can't ignore that it's really killed the fanbase for it and in result has made me less determined to continue writing it.

Of course, I'm not just going to stop writing the story all together, but I'd like some input from you guys since I'm feeling at a bit of a loss here. Do you guys still want me to write this, or should I focus more on WN? I don't want to be wasting people's time, although, you guys are reading this on your own accord so it's not my fault if you are doing that However I don't just want you guys to follow the story out of loyalty rather than interest, so let me know if you want me to continue with it or not. It's up to you.

LiquidChicagoTed · March 2018

Hm, I know what you mean. First of all, I love the story and it pains me immensely that it doesn't get the recognition it deserves. It has always been special to me, the story, the characters, that is spot on and has only gotten better. The sheer level of effort you put into this massive world building, the quality of writing, that is spectacular and seeing the story grow has always been amazing. Nothing has changed about my excitement for the Invasion, you know I have probably always been the most vocal supporter. As such, I don't know where most people have gone. Maybe it is the long breaks, really the only reason I see. I can understand why this is disheartening for you, it even is for me and I imagine it is only worse for you. I love the Invasion, I don't think this will ever change and as such, I would never say you should stop writing it. You're not wasting my time here, quite the contrary, as every new part is a joy. At the same time, I would love to see the story growing again. Maybe I have an idea or two on how to help you out here, I'll get to that in the PM (and no, I haven't forgotten, it is just the terrible PM back log from hell I acquired that has kept me from being as active in our conversation as I would like to be )

Tales-from-Telltale · March 2018

I like both of your stories and will continue to read both.

CM3434 · March 2018

Hey Stigz, I'm a bit late to the conversation it seems but I still want to chime in and say that I definitely want to see you continue writing the Invasion moving forward. This really is a high quality story with a unique cast of characters all bringing something important and even though I haven't gotten to go back and read all of the parts from before I started reading, I still enjoy all of the PoV's here! Overall though, this really is an enjoyable story and I will happily stick around to read it if you are willing to write it Also, I apologize that I am slow on replying to the PM pertaining to the story as well, unfortunately I haven't had the chance to give detailed answers like I want but I will make sure to reply as soon as I can!

Stigz_52 · May 2018

Hey guys, it's been a while, and as I explained on White Night, my absence has been mostly due to university and other life problems which I've been slowly plotting through. Fortunately since I've finished all my assignments finally I've had some time to get back into writing before exams next month, so I've got the new part ready. I admit I struggled to write this part to begin with just due to the sheer lack of characters in Andalos, however I'm pretty happy with the end result, even if it is a little shorter than previously anticipated. Anyway, it's a Kira part, and here's a recap:

Injuring her leg after escaping the Father's Sons, Kira bumped into the Lorrhen and his guards in a dark alley, who gracefully protected her and took her back to Lorrhen's estate for treatment. Lorrhen later introduced himself and proposed an offer that she would be given the chance to live in luxury and safety from the rapist thugs they had evaded, so long as she could relay information back to him. She decided to accept this offer, and it meant she would become a handmaiden to Princess Celia. Lorrhen supplied Kira with medicine for her leg and sent her on her way, being escorted by Celia's sister: Elayna, to meet Celia. On the way, Kira had a stumble to which she later found her vials had been smashed, and among the broken shards of glass was a small piece of paper with Elayna's name on it. Taking this as a summons, Kira was left in decision as to whether she should find Elayna, or remain with her fellow handmaiden: Jade. The pain of her leg quickly returning to her, you guys decided for her to seek out Elayna, and this part picks up where the last left off.

Stigz_52 · May 2018

Kira

A cold sweat rushed over her as she began to feel the pain return to her leg, throbbing up her thigh and striking at her hip at each moment she put weight on it. She gritted her teeth in an attempt to hold back the urge to yelp, and already she could feel herself becoming so vulnerable. Her vision began to hopelessly wander, and her balance fell reliant on the stability of the adjacent marble wall.

She had only managed to escape out of the hall adjacent to the chambers of Princess Celia where she had left Jade, a touch of remorse caressing her heart. She found herself exhausted and poised against the wall, her lingering strength fighting to keep her on her feet; she had no time to think of the timid girl. She had never felt so dependent in her life, and it frightened her. Lost in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by nothing but the occasional roaming guard, she was helpless. Yet she knew what she had to do.

Kira inhaled a deep breath and tried to calm herself, then pulling the crumpled note from her sleeve and glancing at the name displayed on it. Elayna. She knew about her, she had to, leaving her name behind on the broken vials was no coincidence. Yet what did she want? What did this mean for her? Kira felt hesitation crawl over her as she reminded herself of Lorrhen’s warning, but what other choice did she have? Lorrhen was not here, and if she did not get more medicine…

She bit her lip as another painful throb coursed up her leg, yet this one was greater than the others before, and successfully evoked a muffled yelp from her sealed lips. She immediately clamped her mouth shut with her hand, clutching onto her leg with the other. She had to go, she did not know the way, but she needed to move.

One foot in front of the other, Kira stumbled forward with a weak determination that swayed her from side to side, her vision spinning with each step. She managed to make it to the end of the current hallway before needing to stop again, this time being involuntary. She collapsed to her knees and crumbled to the marble floor, her cheek slapping the pavement beneath her as a final yelp forced itself from her lips. Her head spun, her vision darkened and her hearing faded. She thought she could hear footsteps, but everything went silent, and all was dark.

-

She felt the damp rag wiping down her brow before anything else. Not the pain, not the comfort of the bed that embraced her, just the soothing wet cloth that massaged her forehead. It was only when she opened her eyes that everything swamped her, and the pain returned, yet oddly tamed unlike earlier.

Kira squinted her eyes as her vision adjusted to the lighting of the room. Above her stood a young woman, somewhat beautiful, but concealed under her heavy robes. A seven-pointed star hung around her neck, dangling in Kira’s face as the septa concentrated on the monotonous task ahead of her, only halting when she heard Kira groan.

“Hush now, be still,” she ordered, placing a hand on Kira’s shoulder as her eyes turned to the handmaiden. “I am Septa Sofina,” she laconically introduced herself, “Jade brought you to me, she said she heard you scream, and found you unconscious on the floor. How long have you had this leg wound?” the septa interrogated, but Kira only shook her head hopelessly, unable to process what was going on.

“Where am I?” she mumbled, to which the septa sighed, removing the moist towel from Kira’s head. “You are in the royal infirmary. Only the most urgent matters are sent to me, and you are certainly not one of them,” Sofina hissed, working her way down Kira’s body to her leg. “Now, how long have you had this injury for?” Sofina asked impatiently, making Kira furrow her eyebrows in conscious thought.

“A few days, a week maybe,” Kira mumbled, making Sofina sigh. “You are unfit to serve the princess. I’ll do what I can for you, but Celia will have to find herself a new handmaiden,” Sofina stated nonchalantly, turning to her tool bench to examine some papers. Kira’s eyes widened as she processed her words, instantly sending the energy through her to argue. “No, I can’t!” she muttered, but as she tried to pick herself up she felt an instant jolt sting up her leg. She gasped as she fell back down, making Sofina roll her eyes.

“You hardly have an option, Valyrian,” Sofina whispered, pouring a liquid into a small bowl which she then pressed against Kira’s lips. “Drink, it’ll get rid of the pain,” Sofina ordered, but Kira shook her head defiantly, albeit weakly. Regardless, it was enough for the impatient septa to accept with ease. She put down the cup and grabbed her first tool, turning her glance to Kira for a slight moment. “Let’s see how tough you fire bloods really are then,” she smirked, and Kira sent her a bitter glare as she gritted her teeth, but before the septa could begin a voice in the distance intervened.

“Septa Sofina,” it called, and their footsteps sounded louder as they approached. “I’m sure there are other patients that require your expertise, the Qorgyle perhaps?” the voice suggested, which Kira identified as a male, perhaps in his early thirties. Sofina muttered a curse under her breath before turning to meet the mysterious figure. “I’ve already told you, Rami is beyond saving. That psychopath should be put down,” she spat, but the man only chuckled at her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Do whatever you wish, so long as his brother believes that we are doing our best, he will continue to provide for us,” the man stated cunningly, making Sofina roll her eyes. “Have it your way,” she grumbled, turning back to her tool bench. “I’ll take it from here,” he assured her, to which the septa showed a moment of hesitation before nodding and taking her leave. Kira gulped worriedly as she listened to the septa’s footsteps fade into the distance, until she only heard the heavy breaths of the man before her. Her body tensed as he came into view.

He was a stocky young man, a few years older than her she presumed, but certainly appearing older with his elegancy. He wore a fine silk shirt with a leather vest, while his blonde hair was worn short, along with his beard. Kira glanced momentarily into his blue eyes, but there was something unnerving about them, something familiar. She turned her gaze away, clenching her fists out of his view.

“Lady Tyrner, isn’t it?” he inquired, not waiting for a response. “The newest handmaiden to my sister-in-law,” he remarked, chuckling to himself and taking a seat on the side of Kira’s bed. “I am Lord Ruban Maeson, husband of Elayna,” he introduced, to which Kira raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, causing him to sigh. “Not quite the talker, are you?” he toyed, but Kira proved him right with more silence, making him frown.

“Unfortunately for this to work, I need you to talk to me,” Ruban explained, “you see, I’m interested to know just how you came into Celia’s service. Or more to the point, why,” Ruban stated, causing Kira to furrow her eyebrows. “I am a gift, from Lorrhen,” Kira mumbled unconfidently, evoking a small chuckle from the man. “Ah, the Plum Merchant. He is a prosperous man, but simple minded, certainly not the sort to plant a spy in the royal family,” Ruban mocked, but Kira fought hard not to give away their secret, for whatever use it was.

“No, I think the real infiltrator is you, Lady Tyrner,” Ruban theorised, standing from her bed. “The Freehold want to see all of Essos burn, it’s no surprise that they would send one of their own to scout out our position before blindly rushing in to finish us off. Yet I wonder why they would send such a foolish amateur rather than a professional?” Ruban reached into his breast pocket to reveal a familiar crumpled piece of paper, the name of Elayna written on it.

“At least, that is what my wife thinks. She left this for you no doubt to pry this information out of you, but I know better,” Ruban claimed, making Kira raise an eyebrow. “What are you saying?” she mumbled, to which he smirked. “Tell me, what is your father’s name back in the Freehold?” Ruban quickly questioned, leaving her at a sudden loss. “How about the dragons, how many does your family own, and what are their names?” he inquired, and before Kira could make up an answer, Ruban stopped her.

“I know you’re not a Valyrian, poor Lorrhen tried his hardest, but I can see through your character, Lady Tyrner,” Ruban exclaimed with a cocky grin, making Kira feel uneasy. He placed a hand on her naked thigh, letting out a sigh as he examined her leg. “Growing up in Southpoint must have been rough, and nearly being raped by thugs even worse,” Ruban stated, to which Kira snapped her leg back, instantly regretting the pain it caused her, but holding back from showing it. Calmly, Ruban lifted his open hands submissively as a white flag.

“I won’t cause you any harm, but you’ve been thrown into a dangerous game, and you’re going to have to learn the rules as you go,” Ruban stated, kneeling beside her. “While I know the truth, Elayna does not, and that is something which you will use to your advantage. I will provide you with your cover story, and you will lead on Elayna’s theory that you are a spy of the Freehold. Let her play her inquisitorial game,” Ruban proposed, to which Kira shook her head confused.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, to which Ruban smiled. “Do not take this as an act of generosity from my part, I have my own ambitions at play, and my wife needs a distraction while I enact on those plans,” Ruban briefly explained, to which Kira felt only spite towards the man. She was being used. “You will fulfil your duties to Princess Celia, and I will prescribe you the medicine that Lorrhen was going to smuggle in to you,” Ruban informed, “I will supply you with knowledge and experience of your ‘homeland,’ and you will convince my wife that you are truly Valyrian,” Ruban stated, making Kira’s lip quiver.

“And if I don’t?” she proposed defiantly, almost to Ruban’s amusement. “Well of course, I cannot force you to do this. You can serve Celia faithfully until she grows bored of you, and Elayna either learns the truth of you and sends you to the block, or grows to suspicious of you and sends you to the block. She quite the patriot, my sweet Elayna,” Ruban exclaimed with a smile, “or you can assist me, and in turn I will help you survive in this shithole until the end,” Ruban offered, but Kira raised an eyebrow.

“The ‘end’?” she queried, to which Ruban sighed. “One way or another, everything ends. If everything goes according to plan, it will end well for all of us, if not, I will guarantee that you get out of this in one piece,” Ruban promised, but Kira was still unsure. She felt in a position of complete hopelessness and vulnerability. There was only one flaw in Ruban’s knowledge that she could spot, and that was his complete disregard for Lorrhen’s intelligence, something which she herself could not even comprehend. She was not sure if Ruban could be trusted, but again, she wasn’t even sure if she could trust Lorrhen. Perhaps Ruban’s assistance would be beneficial, but was the risk of baiting Elayna worth it? She remembered Lorrhen’s warning.

[Accept Ruban’s offer] [Deny Ruban’s offer]

Tales-from-Telltale · May 2018

[Accept Ruban’s offer]
I think she should do this for now. She is in a vulnerable position, at the moment. Who knows what Ruban might do if she refuses. Anyways, this might be the only way for her to figure out Ruban's mysterious plan. Afterwhich, she can then decide for herself if she should help him or try to sabotage him.

LiquidChicagoTed · May 2018

Ah, I am so glad that the Invasion is back! Not only that, but Kira is back as well and this part just made the whole situation she's in a lot more intriguing. I mean, it has been super intriguing before, but now I feel like it has gotten even better. So, Kira is spying for Lorrhen, leaving Elayna suspecting she is spying for the Freehold, whereas her husband is playing both sides a bit, correctly deducing her true allegiance but keeping it a secret for his own goals. Now, that is an already complicated situation, likely about to get only more complicated once we learn more of their true ambitions and I dig it. I never expected this, but the court of Andalos has just become one of my favourite storylines in the entire story! I was already intrigued by it, but this part in particular brought it to a wholly different level. So, maybe not a new favourite storyline, but certainly among my personal Top 5, easily so, maybe even Top 3.

[Accept Ruban’s offer]

As Tales said, she is in a very vulnerable position at the time. I don't think Ruban will do anything bad, but Elayna is already suspicious of her and she might be the true problem here. So, Ruban can help with keeping her at bay for the moment and while his support will definitely come at a cost, I believe him when he says that he will at least try to bring her through this alive. Kira might not be in a position to look eye to eye with these chessmasters, but she is resourceful and I think with his assistance, she can find a way to get out of this alive. Lorrhen can help as well and what little Ruban said here makes me believe that while they are definitely not on the same side, they aren't necessarily enemies either. But Lorrhen and Elayna, they seem to be opponents in these court schemes and if she suspects that Kira works for him, she might decide to execute her. Kira needs a benefactor inside the palace itself and Ruban could very well be this man.

CM3434 · May 2018

[Accept Ruban’s offer]

Like the others have said, Kira really isn't in a position to say no here and at this point it is definitely for the best for her to take this chance since not taking it could be very detrimental to her later on.

Stigz_52 · May 2018

Well, the vote is quite clearly closed. Kira will choose to accept Ruban's offer. This is definitely an interesting choice, and a risky one at that, but certainly the alternative is just as risky. We will see where this leads Kira in the future

Next part is ready, and actually to my surprise I had written it months ago and never posted it. I've done some extensions to it, but unfortunately it is overall still a short part. It goes to Davios. The last time we saw the Andal invader, he had entered Princess Celia's chambers to try and speak with her, and hopefully find something that the two could develop into a relationship.

Stigz_52 · May 2018

Davios

She glared at him with dispassionate eyes, perplexing him as to how such beautiful emerald gems could hold such ferocious distaste for one gaze. He felt mortified under her piercing eyes, somehow weakened by them, and vulnerable. There was a tingling in the end of his bandaged stump wrist, and while he maintained a stern but calm composure, he felt as if he were crumbling apart from within. His heart beat was irrational, and he could swear he felt a trickle of sweat running down his brow, though his hair kept that concealed from her jabbing sight.

He stood himself upright, his back linear, and naturally he would tower any of those around him, but not Celia. She stood a few inches below him, and even though he was bigger in both height and mass, she was certainly the stronger woman in this aspect, and it made his insides churn with frustration and an oddly placed awe. He couldn’t manage to lock his gaze with hers, it was as if she saw right through him, her hand reaching through his chest and crushing his heart. He averted his gaze to her chest, where a golden seven-pointed star rested above her breasts, and for a moment he took some comfort with the symbol, but it was short lived. He received a harsh and painful slap to his cheek, sending his gaze to the floor.

“How dare you,” she spat with an ignorant tone, and as Davios touched his cheek he instantly shook his head, realising the motive behind the assault. “No, I wasn’t…” he started, but she cut him off with another raise of the hand. “Another word of it and I’ll call for the guards, Smallman,” she seethed, mocking him with her words. Davios bit his tongue in retaliation with himself, but his glare turned to something of ire, and he stood himself upright to loom over her with intimidation, but his attempts failed. “You don’t scare me, Smallman,” she muttered, turning her attention from him and approaching her window. She stared out it longingly, leaving Davios in a position of confusion and disarray.

“It’s Tallman,” Davios corrected her in warning, to which Celia only rolled her eyes, not bothering to spare her attention for him. “Is it? You seem like quite a small man to me,” Celia stated nonchalantly, her eyes fixed on something outside the palace. Davios furrowed his eyebrows, taking a step towards her, but her fixed gaze broke to give him a filthy glare, stopping him in his tracks.

“How do you figure that, Princess?” Davios muttered, to which Celia scoffed at his query, eying him up and down. “I can see through you, Davios. You’re nothing but a soldier, a man that follows orders but does not have the courage or strength to give them. My father is manipulating you like he does with every other of his subjects, and I wish no part in his devilish schemes,” Celia stated blatantly, turning her gaze back out to the more pleasing sight outside her window. Davios frowned, running his hand through his hair as he thought carefully on his words.

“I’m not being manipulated,” he begged to argue, but Celia only rolled her eyes to his ignorance. “Of course you aren’t,” she smiled, “my father just randomly assigns cripples to be his warlords. You’re as bad as Argos, and look where that got him,” Celia suddenly blurted, and for a moment Davios could hear some emotion in her voice, a lump that was stuck in her throat, enough to make Davios raise an eyebrow. “You loved him?” Davios connected, and Celia’s eyes instantly widened with initial shock, and later anger as he cheeks reddened.

“You overstep your place, dog,” she hissed, turning herself away from him, but Davios persisted in his manner. He had lost interest in attempting to make amends. “You loved him, and then he was struck down in the field by some bitch and I called the retreat to save lives. You think me a coward then, or perhaps responsible for your lover’s death, and now you are being forced to marry him,” Davios stated, and he watched as the anger built up in her welling eyes. She stood and raised her hand to strike again, but this time Davios was ready. He caught her strike by the wrist before she could reach him, and now the man stared intimidatingly to the weakened woman.

“You do not scare me,” he remarked, and released her after her gaze fell to the floor. She fell to her knees as the tears started streaming down her cheeks, gasping for air as she sobbed. Davios passed her neglectfully, looking out her window to the main docks of Andalos that stared out the bay to the Narrow Sea. He spotted the merchants and sailors attending to their ships, as well as the soldiers that patrolled the area, and he frowned. It wasn’t long ago that he stood on those docks, a letter in his hand and a mission awaiting him across the Narrow Sea. Invade Westeros. He had watched many good men die, and they had only heard of Argos Sevenstar’s death from those who retreated after he fell.

“He fought like a true warrior,” Davios recited their words, no particular reason as to why he did. “I never had the honour to meet him in person, but from the reports and the esteem of those who served under him, I’ve heard nothing but of a great man. His life came to an end too soon, and I made the decision to prevent more from falling after him. The Seven chose to punish me for it by taking my hand,” Davios muttered, turning his glare to his bandaged stump. He turned his gaze then to Celia, who watched him with bitter wet eyes.

“Avoid me, hate me or ignore me, but do not curse me, Princess. The gods have already punished me enough, and whether you like it or not, we have a mission to do,” Davios stated, turning from the window and walking to the door. As he pulled the handle he heard the weeps of the girl behind him, and guilt instantly overwhelmed him. He felt his heart scream at him for his behaviour, he knew it wasn’t the way of a man, but he had done it now, remaining could only worsen things for her.

He pulled the door open and exited his bride-to-be’s chambers with a heavy heart, a stern frown coating his usual solemn expression. He was hardly startled to be met by the innocent wide gaze of one of Celia’s handmaidens, patiently waiting outside with a small smile on her lips. Davios paid her little mind, pushing past her and heading down the corridor with haste.

He cursed himself. Not only for the position he found himself in, but for the actions he had come to regret. He had sailed to Andalos with the ambition of avenging his father and setting up a new life for himself in Westeros, and now he found himself being played the puppet by his frigid king and being forced to marry a woman who shared equally no interest in him. Most of all, he cursed himself because it was the gods will. If the Seven hadn’t willed it, it would have never been, so his curse would remain until the Stranger finally came to claim him.

Davios clenched his one remaining fist, feeling the ire consume him. He dreaded this, he felt alienated and used, and perhaps that was indeed the case. Regardless, Davios’ only salvation was to focus on the task ahead, and where others had failed, Davios swore to himself that he would claim land on Westeros. Be it for Noriphos or not, he thought additionally, before his train of thought was snatched away from him as something crunched underneath his boot.

He raised an eyebrow as he lifted his shoe to inspect the small shards of glass sticking out of the wet sole. Squatting down to further examine the broken glass, he noticed a pale liquid that wet the marble floor. He dipped his finger in mixture, lifting it to his nostrils where he inhaled it briefly. He knew the smell, it was poppy milk.

“Lord Tallman,” an unfamiliar voice called, and the sound of patted footsteps approaching him made Davios arise from the floor. He lifted his gaze to meet the slim coated body of another tall woman with similar features to that of Celia, yet considerably different in her appearance as well. Her hair was as dark as raven feathers, while her eyes were more akin to emerald gems, highlighted by the matching jewellery that she wore over her black dress.

“Who are you?” Davios grunted in response, yet with a little more polishing than an average soldier. The woman smiled clumsily, rolling her eyes and quickly shaking her head. “Where are my manners?” she quipped apologetically, “I am your future sister-in-law, Elayna Maeson,” she introduced, extending her open hand to him. Davios grasped it firmly, albeit gently for a woman of nobility, but still maintained a distant glare.

“Pleasure,” Davios mumbled, releasing her hand and awkwardly grasping his stump. “I presume you and Celia are getting along well?” Elayna queried, to which Davios found a lump forming in his throat as he tried to give a response. Instead he just gave an unconfident nod, which seemed enough to please the elder sister. “Brilliant, I am sure you will make a wonderful addition to our eccentric family, Davios,” she beamed with a bright smile, to which Davios hardly reciprocated the expression.

“Excuse me,” Davios pardoned politely as he tried to pass her, but she took a step in his direction, blocking his path. “I’m sure you are aware of the Grafton ship that sailed into harbour earlier, Lord Gerold will be accompanying you and Celia back to the Fingers, which I admit does concern me,” Elayna stated, although her bubbly personality had been eschewed with solemnity. Davios felt himself growing impatient as he listened to her words.

“Is that right?” Davios muttered, not really caring for her apprehension. Elayna shrugged, clasping her hands together. “Well yes, given his relation with your deceased father, I only fear you will forget your duties to our king,” Elayna stated, causing Davios to raise an eyebrow has he felt an immediate bitterness swell up within him. “What do you know of my father, woman?” he grumbled, taking a step towards her, but she held her ground with an assertive posture.

“Only that he was a trusted knight within Grafton’s kingsguard, and now he is no more,” Elayna expressed laconically, evoking a fiery reaction from the one-handed warlord, whose hand clenched into a fist. “You will not speak of my father, is that understood?” Davios warned her, but her response surprised him. She placed one hand on his shoulder while grasping his fist with the other.

“You’ve lived a hard life, Davios, and I respect that, but we are your family now,” Elayna reminded him calmly, “which means we are here to support each other, not quarrel amongst one another. We’re not your enemy, you need to accept that,” Elayna stated, but as he looked into her eyes he felt something off. Perhaps she was right, Noriphos had been warm and accepting with him, and her current behaviour assured him of such, but Celia…

The confusion angered him, but worst of all it divided him. Could the royal family really be trusted, and more importantly, could he trust them to support him when he was in need? He had never had that level of conviction with anyone other than his father, and now his future sister-in-law asked him to forget his past and embrace the present. He cursed her, the gods, and himself.

[Apologise to Elayna] [Walk away]

Tales-from-Telltale · May 2018

[Apologise to Elayna]
Probably his best option. It would best for him to get along with his future family. Especially, when his future family is the royal family.

LiquidChicagoTed · May 2018

My apologies for leaving my comment so late. I did like this part a lot though! Always liked Davios, but I think his return to Andalos really made his storyline so much better. His interaction with Celia here has been great. Really can't see them getting along anytime soon, but they are both nice characters and I find their talk almost a bit hilarious, that's how entertaining it is I must say, I look forward for more of them very much! That being said, consider him mentally bitch-slapped for calling Alara a bitch in this part

[Apologise to Elayna]

What Tales said is right. On top of that, we know Elayna has connections and ambitions and I really don't think she is a woman one should make an enemy of. While probably not as even remotely as dangerous to Davios as she is to Kira, she could still make his life hell and given that he'll already have a marriage with Celia to give him hell, I don't think he needs that.

CM3434 · May 2018

[Apologise to Elayna]

I definitely have to agree with the others here. Davios clearly has enough to worry about already with his wife to be, no need in potentially causing himself even more trouble within his future family.

Stigz_52 · June 2018

Alright, well this part can come to a close. Davios will apologise to Elayna! While this is certainly a safer option, it's incongruent of Davios' character, which certainly shows how the Game of Thrones is turning him into a more submissive player than what he naturally is Regardless, we'll see where this leads later on for Davios, but for now, I have the next part ready.

Ah, I almost forgot the Invasion has so few readers when I was writing this next part. Good thing too because it's moderate length! As of now I'm finished with exams, however I've got a Winter intensive course which starts up next week, so I fear I'll only be able to pump out only another part or two for WN and the Invasion before I head off for that. Safe to say though, once I have finished that I should have a much lighter semester, which results in more time for me to write and balance uni work, so expect more content, and dare I say, at a consistent pace! Anyway without further ado, allow me to recap you on Morgan.

Morgan Martell, the son of the legendary Golden Spear returned to put his father in the ground and begin his ambition to settle land in Westeros. However, aware that most of Westeros is already claimed by many Andal warlords, Morgan's eye looks south to Dorne, where no Andal has dared to settle before. Having consulted with his old friend and teacher, he manages to convince Septon Militar to spread word of his need for ships and an army to take to Westeros. This propaganda is seen by some Andal's as a threat however, and upon his entrance into the Pearl Kingdom, Morgan is detained and finds Septon Militar to be destined for the blocks. Taken to meet with King Noriphos, the neglectful Andal king proposes that he will allow Morgan the ships and men he requires, as well as Militar's life, to sail to Dorne, so long as when he claims the desert he would hand all sovereignty to him. You guys chose to agree with Noriphos' offer, and so this part picks up after it left off!

Stigz_52 · June 2018

Morgan

The son of the Golden Spear followed the crown prince down the magnificent halls of the Pearl Palace, yet the extrinsic details and lavish decorations took no interest to Morgan’s eyes. He had never had a taste for wealth, being spoiled with it as a child, his adolescent years introduced him to a life of adventure and exploration, something worth more than gold in his eyes.

However while his lifestyle was glorifying to him, he wondered if the costs of his recent decisions was worth it to extend his adventure to the unsettled land west. He had bent the knee to Noriphos, the ignorant craven king that sat so high upon his throne that he could not see the suffering and poverty that had fallen upon his kingdom. At least these were the accusations that Qarlon the Great and his supporters had struck on him, and had been the words that Morgan was raised by.

Yet despite it all, he had been persuaded to help the weak king, and in return he himself was helped. Bending the knee gave him ships, men, and a chance. A slim chance, but a chance in itself to settle land that no Andal over the last hundred years had been brave enough to try. The vast deserts of Dorne, Morgan remarked to himself, just the thought of the dry wastelands made his palms sweaty.

Noriphos had been a fool to leave his conquering so late, and had lost claim to all the fertile lands of Westeros, leaving only the North and Dorne completely untouched by the Andal invasion… Until recently. The First Men of the North were hardened by the harsh weathers, and Morgan assumed much of the same could be claimed by those who inhabited the hot deserts of the south. Yet while Noriphos tried to take the North by force, Morgan hoped he would be able to secure some land for himself by negotiation. For years the Andal’s had spilt needless blood with those willing to cooperate, and they built their foundations upon the crumbling stone and poisoned soil of the First Men’s mark. That was not Morgan’s ambition.

Morgan followed closely behind Prince Jarod, who walked painfully slow through his extravagant corridors, gazing out the tinted glass panes at a future that he would never inherit. The Pearl Kingdom would crumble to its foundations once the dragons reached Andalos, and Morgan suspected that Noriphos and his royal kin would have fled long before then to their new seat in Westeros. If I can cease it, Morgan thought bitterly as he stared at the back of Jarod’s head.

“I assume your discussion with my father went well, Lord Martell?” Jarod queried as he slowly strolled down the next hall, Morgan now feeling obliged to walk by his side. “For Noriphos,” Morgan muttered, but when Jarod glanced at him waiting for a response, Morgan gave him a firm single nod. “Yes, we came to an agreement,” Morgan informed him, albeit a half truth, and one quite forced at that. Jarod gave him a warm smile, clasping his hands behind his back.

“It gladdens me to hear it,” Jarod claimed, returning his gaze ahead of them. “I understand my duty to my father and his kingdom remains here, but in all honestly, I do envy you, Martell,” Jarod admitted, avoiding Morgan’s gaze as the young explorer eyed him strangely. There were many things Morgan wanted to say, to curse Jarod’s father for neglecting and dooming their people, to curse Jarod for his ignorance, but none of these topics would help keep his head fastened to his shoulders.

“You’ll have your grand share of adventure once I secure Dorne for you, don’t fret,” Morgan sighed, to which Jarod nodded. “No doubt,” he acknowledged, turning another corner and stopping at a door which opened into a large ambient room full of medical beds. Morgan raised an eyebrow at the setting, turning his gaze to Jarod, who remained solemn and otherwise expressionless. “You’ve brought me to an infirmary?” Morgan queried, to which a small smile broke on Jarod’s lips.

“My father never planned to execute your septon,” Jarod revealed, leading Morgan into the sanatorium, “rather he wished to plant that idea as incentive for you to support the right cause,” Jarod explained, to which Morgan rolled his eyes. “Of course he did,” he muttered, “what would have happened to Militar if I refused?” Morgan inquired, to which Jarod shrugged his shoulders.

“He likely would’ve remained here for the rest of his days. My father sees it as a just punishment that Militar should use his medical skill to treat men with honour, rather than men with greed that he previously served,” Jarod stated, to which Morgan reluctantly clamped his tongue in response, feeling somewhat alleviated as he spotted Septon Militar in the distance. He was stooped over a bed, his eyes hard at work as he treated the leg of a girl that Morgan could only assume was of Valyrian descent.

Jarod and Morgan made their way over, but were quickly intercepted by a face which Morgan immediately recognised. The man which had incarcerated them in the first place: Ruban Maeson. Morgan glared into the lord’s egocentric blue eyes, repulsed by his smug expression as he extended his hand to Morgan. “Lord Martell, I am gladdened to see you in good health,” Ruban expressed with an arrogant grin spread across his lips.

Reluctantly, Morgan took his hand and shook it firmly, eagerly freeing himself shortly after. “My father has issued a pardon for the septon. He and Morgan will join Lorias and Anderon on their voyage to Dorne,” Jarod stated informingly to Ruban, to which he nodded in return. “Of course,” Ruban smiled, though Morgan could see the deceit and irritation that stirred in his eyes. “Militar has just about finished attending to the wounds of your sister’s handmaiden,” Ruban claimed, leading them to the bed where the patient lay unconscious.

Morgan approached the old man, but stopped himself as he witnessed the gruesome cut that he was suturing closed on the girl’s leg, the last thing Militar needed was a distraction. Rather, Morgan took a moment to look over the patient, who was allusive to the general eye, but nothing compared to the beauty of true Valyrian women. “Who is she?” Morgan mumbled in questioned, glancing momentarily at Ruban Maeson, who sighed, crossing his arms.

“Kira Tyrner, poor girl. She was the handmaiden of the Dragonlord Cinthrigar, but sold to Lorrhen the Plump Merchant, and brought to serve Princess Celia,” Ruban stated in rough introduction, but Morgan raised an eyebrow to a name that he recognised. “Cinthrigar, eh?” Morgan queried, to which Ruban nodded. “You know them?” he asked boldly, to which Morgan only smirked. “My father killed their father, so I suppose you could say we have an understanding of each other. Did this girl serve Maegor? Or his sister, Cerys?” Morgan tested, to which Ruban surprisingly did not hesitate. “Cerys,” he answered firmly, to which Morgan only grinned to himself. This handmaiden was no servant of the Cinthrigar’s, nor a Valyrian at all. Cerys would never let another do her work.

When Militar had finished stitching the wound, he arose from his stool and let out a sigh of relief, dipping his bloody hands in a bowl of water and washing his face. “Morgan Martell,” he mumbled with a tone of shock and relief as he wiped his eyes dry and adjusted on the figure before him. Without another moment of hesitation, the two embraced, albeit briefly lived. “If that is all you have need of the septon, Lord Maeson, I will take them to their ship,” Jarod requested, to which Ruban nodded, placing a hand on Jarod’s shoulder.

“Of course, brother,” Ruban smiled, passing the two of them and attending to the unconscious girl at the bed. Morgan took a final glance at the handmaiden and sighed, he did not envy her position, and genuinely hoped that she could find a way out of this shithole as fast as he could. Mother show mercy, he found himself pleading, and with frustration he glared at the septon for his adolescent teachings before helping the old man pack away his tools and follow after the crown prince.

“What’s this about a ship?” Militar queried, “are they finally sending me back to Lorath?” he questioned, to which Morgan smiled and shook his head. “No, old man, Noriphos has given me ships to settle land in Dorne,” Morgan informed him, to which a small fake smile spread across Militar’s lips. “That’s good for you, son,” he exclaimed, awaiting to hear the good news which entitled him to return home. Morgan hated to disappoint him. “You’re coming with me,” Morgan added, to which Militar’s face scrunched up.

“Oh… What does a geriatric old fart have to do to get a godforsaken carriage back to his own damned home?” he grumbled, to which Morgan couldn’t help but chuckle, ushering him to follow the crown prince to the dockyards.

-

The gentle sound of lapping waves against the stone barriers of the Andalos wharf was a welcomed remedy for Morgan’s heavy heart as he stared out to the Narrow Sea. Exploration; it hadn’t always been his grand motive, in fact it was far from it when he set off on his grand pilgrimage. Those ambitions belonged to a girl that stole his heart in Volantis, and broke it when she lost her own to her jealous friend, a man who saw her as more than she felt for him. He plunged a dagger through her heart before taking his own life, and Morgan was left to discover the scene when he returned to their home, only to be locked away for her murder.

He ran a hand through his coarse hair that just touched his shoulders. She had always held a petty hate for lengthy hair, and Morgan had always made an attempt to keep it short for her, even though he hated it any other way than long. Yet his will to maintain it relinquished when she passed, and now as he wore it he was reminded of her, and the breaking waves and breeze in the air proved to remind him he was still far from forgetting about her, far from moving on. “I’ll come back for you,” he whispered, his voice carried off with the wind that breezed past his face.

“Lord Martell,” a foreign voice rasped from behind him, making Morgan turn his gaze behind him to meet the ruby eyes of three masked men. They wore black leather attires, each with matching helms in the shape of a cobra, forged from dark steel and gilded, each with rubies set into the eyes. It was a wonder how they saw at all. The three of them had differing builds, one specifically large while the other slim and small, the one that had called his name appeared to be the median of the three. Morgan eyed the three up and down before replying shortly.

“Who are you?” The three masked men took a step towards him, making Morgan reach for the handle of his sheathed blade, but the talker of the three raised his open palm in gesture to halt Morgan’s actions. “We are servants of the Basilisk,” he stated, only confusing Morgan, “brothers of the Serpent’s Venom, and are searching for someone on behalf of the Ghiscari Empire,” he explained, making Morgan raise an eyebrow. An awkward silence lingered in the air only for a moment before the speaker placed his glove hand to his chest. “Apologies, I am the Mamba,” he introduced himself, before turning to his companions. “These are Whiptail and the Boa, my brothers in venom,” he stated, to which Morgan let out a perplexed whistle.

“Morgan Martell,” Morgan replied dryly, and the one that called himself ‘the Mamba’ gave him a nod. “What do you want?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms as he stared deeply into the red gems that eyed him from their snake masks. “We are looking for two individuals, one man of Ghiscari origin and a girl of Valyrian beauty, going by the names of the Cobra and Vysela,” the Mamba elaborated, clasping his hands together, “do you know them? Or anyone which matches their description?” the Mamba queried, to which Morgan raised an eyebrow. Immediately his thoughts reached to the unconscious Valyrian girl in the infirmary, and he queried if she indeed was Kira Tyrner, or someone else. Andalos was an uncertain place, and for which, Morgan gave an uncertain answer.

“What do you want with them?” Morgan questioned, to which he received a silent hesitation from the Mamba, and he noticed the Boa shifting uneasily from one foot to another. The Mamba groaned, “The Cobra stole the girl from us, he has committed crimes against both the Ghiscari Empire and the Serpent’s Venom. We have been sent to retrieve him, dead or alive, as well as the girl,” the Mamba reluctantly revealed, to which Morgan slowly nodded. “Do you know them?” the Mamba repeated, to which Morgan frowned, shaking his head.

“Not of their description, I’m afraid,” Morgan stated dryly, and was rewarded with some further silence before the Mamba took a step closer to him, now in Morgan’s face. “The Basilisk does not take well to those that try to mislead him. His venom runs deep in us all, and at any moment…” the Mamba lifted his fingers and clicked them before Morgan’s eyes, “we are his to torment. Safe travels, Lord Martell,” the Mamba bid, turning to his companions, who turned and individually went in their own directions. Morgan gulped as he watched them depart, unsure of what he had just encountered, or what he had managed to get himself into. There was a sense of relief that he was leaving this dreaded place on this day.

“Morgan!” the old voice of Septon Militar grumbled, “You curse me to accompany you on your damned adventures, and then choose to talk to every new stranger in this doomed kingdom! You’ll be burying me before we even set sail,” he growled, pushing himself away from the balustrades of the ship and disappearing into the hull. Morgan sighed as he climbed aboard, a small smile touching his lips as the words of the old man rung in his head. He was glad he was alive, and even gladder to be gone of this place.

Noriphos had truly come through with his end of the bargain, supplying three fully clad warships, each holding near a hundred soldiers, and a dozen or more crewmen. Two of the ships belonged to Warlord Anderon Varner, a giant of a man clad in full steel-plating from head to toe, completely impractical, but enough to intimidate his men into line.

The third ship belonged to Warlord Lorias Roxton, and a fourth ship was captained by a Ghiscari slave master who had agreed to lend five of his lockstep legionnaires in support of Morgan’s conquest. That’s what the crew and soldiers had all sprung up to name it, the Martell Conquest, a branding which Morgan already hated.

While Anderon was a boastful and intimidating warlord, Lorias was cold and calculating, and equally as ruthless on his men. It was no doubt that both Varne’s and Roxton’s men had been trained to conquer greater lands than the futile soils that most of Westeros had to offer. It was little wonder that they both sprung to the offer when Morgan called.

Morgan ascended to the helm of Lorias’ flagship, where the man himself stood with a stern glare set across the Narrow Sea ahead. He had a long face, with short black hair and green eyes that displayed a troubled past. Unlike Anderon, Lorias took to wearing lightweight gear aboard his vessel, where the only metal that resided on him was a brass collar ring around his neck and a Valyrian steel sword sheathed to his belt.

“Lord Roxton,” Morgan interrupted, pulling the warlord from his trance, and gaining his cold glare of attention. “You can call me Lorias, I do not demand formalities,” Lorias stated, to which Morgan nodded. “I take it you’re ready to depart?” Lorias assumed, to which again, Morgan nodded. “Yes, I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome here,” Morgan mumbled, evoking a cold smirk from the warlord.

Lorias gestured to his crew to prepare cast-off, and another sailor waved a pair of flags in signal to the moored ships to prepare for departure. As Morgan watched the ordered crew rush around the ship to prepare to sail, he spotted Septon Militar arising from the lowerdeck with his hand tightly grasped around the forearm of a lanky young man. Morgan watched for a moment longer, and when he was convinced the boy was not supposed to be here, he quickly rushed down to meet Militar and suss out the issue.

Militar let out a groan of frustration as he tossed the boy before Morgan’s feet, spitting in his hair. “I caught this one snooping below deck, he looked like he’s up to no good,” Militar grumbled, to which Morgan found Lorias by his side, and slowly the crew stopped what they were doing to gather around. “Name yourself,” Lorias ordered, resting his hand on the pommel of his sheathed blade.

The young man gulped, climbing onto his knees and clasping his hands together. “Please, I’m just trying to get out of here, just like you,” he tried to explain, but received a hard backhand which sent him spiralling. “Your name,” Lorias barked, his tone impatient, and his men growing anxious. The young man gulped, again climbing to his knees.

“My name is Jorio,” the young man revealed, to which Lorias sighed, turning his gaze to Morgan. Before the warlord could say anything, the boy grabbed at Morgan’s trousers, looking up to him with pleading eyes. “I beg you, Ser, I’ll do anything. Clean your armour, warm your bed, fight by your side. Whatever you want, please,” he pled before being kicked to the floor by Militar. “What a waste of space,” the old man muttered, signalling for someone to throw the kid overboard, but Lorias lifted his hand in objection.

“That decision falls onto Lord Martell,” Lorias stated, returning his gaze to Morgan. Both Lorias’ gaze and Militar’s open opinion shouted for this imposter to be thrown off the ship, even if Lorias had the dignity to pass the authority over to him. Regardless, Morgan held no aversion to this kid, and could even sympathise with his motives, but allowing him to stay could risk his relationship with the men and his advisors. On the contrary, he could be condemning this boy to death if he abandoned him here.

[Take Jorio with you] [Leave Jorio behind]

Tales-from-Telltale · June 2018

[Take Jorio with you]

He could put him to work, like he said. That way his men and advisers might not be as angry. He could say something like you have to earn your place here or something. He could be useful; I think it is better than just leaving him behind.

alikir34 · July 2018

[Take Jorio with you]
He might be useful , however i think this choice could create some controverse among the crew, let's take him.

CM3434 · July 2018

[Take Jorio with you]

I agree with the others on this one. While Morgan's advisors might not be happy about it, I don't feel they will be mad enough to warrant any kind of serious backlash against him.

LiquidChicagoTed · July 2018

Ah, I don't think I ever said it, but Morgan has great chances to become one of my favourite PoV's in the end! His storyline is off to a nice start and he hasn't even reached Dorne yet. I can only imagine how much more exciting things will get once he's there, so yeah, I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of nice stuff coming up for his storyline, judging by how exciting the Andalos parts have been for him already

[Take Jorio with you]

Hm, Jorio does seem like a character I'd like to learn more about. That alone is already reason enough for me to take him. Tales also brings up a good compromise, so yeah, I'd prefer to do it like this.

Stigz_52 · July 2018

Alright, the voting is closed! Morgan will take Jorio with him! Hmm, it was strange to read the different comments here, but I do acknowledge that few of you have been active here since the beginning of the story, or ready the Invasion from the start. Those who have might have simply forgotten Jorio, but I won't comment on that too much more!

Ah the time has finally come, the time that I have personally long been awaiting for! Finally, my exams are complete, and now I have less of a heavy load of university this semester, giving me a lot more spare time to focus on writing both this story and White Night. It's safe to say I'm excited, and I plan to get Chapter 3 bloody finished in this duration, I hope But as I believe that actions speak louder than my hopeless promises, I present to you the next part. We have moved away from the Andal PoV's now to the Dornish PoV's, which begins with Jaremy Sand! Here's a recap:

The exiled bastard of House Brownhill, Jaremy Sand has been away from Dorne for nearly twenty years, and his time in exile as formed him into a hardened brute of a man just to survive. However his love for his childhood sweetheart has kept him from ending it all in his exile, and his dreams to one day return to her have recently come true, but not in the way he had hoped. Jaremy returned to Brownhill with a heavy and ambivalent heart, one which got him into trouble as he caused a fight in a local tavern, and came to face the wrong man: Tor Thunderstorm, and his trusty side-kick: Tywin Yronwood! Jokes aside, this fight left them to rot in the Brownhill dungeons, until Tywin had words with the King Brownhill and had Tor Thunderstorm released from his shackles. It was at this time that the king: King Edgar, noticed his brother tied up alongside Tor. Edgar had Jaremy released, cleaned and prepped for a meal with the family. This reunion however was not a happy ending for Jaremy's background saga, but rather a grim following as he discovered his long awaiting beauty: Elise, was married to an honourable General of Edgar's army. Outraged, Jaremy caused a scene which emptied the hall, and reduced his brother to a frustrated side he had never seen of Edgar, but he neither cared for. When faced with the decision to stay or leave Brownhill, you guys chose that Jaremy should remain, and this part picks off immediately where the last ceased.

Stigz_52 · July 2018

Jaremy

The polished floorboards of the Great Hall fixed the attention of the brute’s glare as he consumed and dwelled on his burning anger. His fists clenched, veins extruding, and his muscles locked and pinning him down onto his knees. He felt pain, but not physically. Physical pain could never hurt like this. No, he felt his heart within burst into a million pieces, and the shards pierce every little bit of him that was good, leaving only darkness and a taste for death behind.

Yet with this bloodthirsty ire, Jaremy felt his head ache with the rushing thoughts and memories that flashed over his locked eyes. All these years, the fighting, the determination to survive, all for nothing. Memories of her were the only vivid recollections he had of his past life, her and the incident that sent him away from Brownhill in the first instance. Ethan.

Rage channelled through him as the face of his other brother flashed across his eyes. That cocky, envious little shit… He hated that kid with a burning passion, but in his fit of primal fury he had committed a mistake worse than his own birth: he murdered him. A dagger through his throat, the image was as clear as if it were transpiring before him again. The shocked and fearful expression on Ethan’s face, blood gushing out of his neck wound and flooding from his mouth.

Jaremy’s eyes struggled to look at his hands, stained with the blood of his brother, the blood of his sister. Elise lay there right next to Ethan, concussed and bleeding from her head intrusion, but at that time Jaremy had thought he had lost her forever. That’s why he did what he did, he killed him for love! Those bastards in the council never cared, Edgar was never there, and that hag of a wife to his father did nothing but reprimand him because of his bastardry.

The sight of Jaremy’s hands grew blurred as he felt the tears well up in his eyes, obscuring his vision and running down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry…” he muttered in a gasp, looking up to his king and father, who looked back at him with a saddened but empathetic expression. “I know,” he mumbled, his old tone so familiar and comforting to hear. “I know,” he repeated a second time, but now his tone had changed, it was no longer his father, but the man that had ascended him. The blurred figure of his father transitioned into Edgar as Jaremy split out of his trance.

Jaremy lifted his hands to wipe away his eyes, pulling a grip over his weakened composure, but there was no denying he was defeat. He was broken, but he had not come this far to turn back now. Lifting his gaze to his brother, he fixed a firm glare on him as he pulled himself from the floor. “I love her,” he muttered, “I loved her from across the seas, I loved her when my hands were shackled in chains, and I loved her as much now as I did then.” Jaremy stated as he found his composure on his feet.

A large sorrowful frown coated Edgar’s expression in response. “She’s gone, Jaremy. You have to let her go,” he almost pleaded, but Jaremy only shook his head. “Ethan is gone. Father is gone. My friends are gone. They are all my mistakes, Edgar, but Elise will not be another,” Jaremy swore as he looked back to the floorboards, reminiscing on his past, acknowledging his mistakes. His fury would only lead to more destruction, not only to his family, but to further to himself. “I am nothing without her,” Jaremy mumbled hopelessly, but Edgar shook his head defiantly.

“Fuck that, Jaremy. I may have never been there for you then, but I am here for you now. You are my brother, we are bound by blood, you and I,” Edgar stated, but Jaremy only chuckled and shook his head. “The blood on my hands outweighs whatever shared blood runs through our veins,” he muttered, but Edgar again only shook his head. “I’ve made my fair share of fuck-ups, Jaremy,” Edgar claimed, to which Jaremy rolled his eyes.

“You didn’t ruin your family,” Jaremy muttered, and Edgar acknowledged that with a small nod but crossed his arms. “No, but I ruined this kingdom. You may have the blood of Ethan on your hands, but I have the blood of all my people on mine, and do not think you are the only one here that suffers!” Edgar reprimanded, pouring himself another goblet of wine. “Though there is one thing which separates the two of us, Jaremy, do you know what that is?” Edgar queried, to which Jaremy did not bother to answer.

“I accept the support of my peers, and work to achieve the best solution; for myself, and my people,” Edgar stated, to which Jaremy smirked. “Good for you,” he muttered, to which Edgar let out a frustrated groan. “Jaremy, if you are going to stay with us, you must stop perceiving us as your enemy,” Edgar claimed, to which a scoff broke from Jaremy’s lips.

“Oh, so I guess I should just hold hands and make amends then?” Jaremy muttered with a bitter tone, only to be infuriated more by a nod from Edgar. “Your crone of a mother despises me, your council dreads me, your general fucks my sister, and I’m sure the rest of your family fears me. What is there left for me to do here other than face the blocks?” Jaremy challenged, to which Edgar frowned, leaning against the dining table.

“You’re right, there are differences between you and the rest of us,” Edgar acknowledged, to which Jaremy just rolled his eyes. Putting it lightly, he thought to himself bitterly. “You claim to have come all this way not to be turned around, so I take it you will stay. However I plead, if you love our sister, you will leave her free of the past. I understand what she means to you, Jaremy, but she does not reciprocate those feelings for you anymore. Help me rebuild this kingdom, and you will earn the favour of the rest of them, I promise that to you,” Edgar claimed, but Jaremy doubted his word on this. Regardless, he knew that there was some truth in his words, and he knew he had to try. He had to try, if not for himself, than for Elise.

“Fine,” Jaremy muttered finally, and a look of relief appeared to flash over Edgar’s face, but only for an instant. It was replaced with a stern look that was pinned to the floor between them. “Father set this kingdom up so that we would never be wanting as far as an independent territory. You knew he never had a love for the neighbouring kingdoms and their politics, and he strived to make us strong enough to fend our own,” Edgar stated, to which Jaremy glared at him with impatience.

“He succeeded in excelling our finances with my marriage to Julianne, and our army has been nurtured by the support of the Wern’s for generations. Yet I feel all of that will be lost with the unsettlement of the surrounding kingdoms. Father never wished to act in these affairs, but now I feel we are left with no choice. If we cannot unite, we will be forced to take up arms against each other,” Edgar exclaimed grimly, to which Jaremy looked at his brother with anticipation of something he would not like.

“Where do you expect me to fit into all of this?” Jaremy queried, knowing he could not bear to hear Edgar drum on about the dire situation further. To this question his brother only sighed, lifting his gaze and glancing directly into Jaremy’s eyes, something which brought the bastard great discomfort. “I’ll let you think on that,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the table and walking across the hall where he stopped a moment a lifted his crown from the floor. When he arose, he paused for a moment as if to say something, but only chose to vanish out of the hall, leaving Jaremy to his thoughts.

-

The vast heat of the Dornish climate awoke the exiled brute from his restless slumber in a pool of sweat. He squinted his eyes as the light of the rising sun flooded into his vision, and slowly he sat himself upright. His hand reached the back of his head, where his fingers scratched at the itches that his clump of knotted hair had left on his scalp. Meanwhile, his gaze slowly travelled across his old room, hovering over his empty bed momentarily. Years of sleep amongst the earth had made the comforts of a feathered mattress almost unbearable to rest on, and alas he had slept on the cool stone floor.

A groan erupted from his throat as he pulled himself up, stumbling to the basin where he dunked his head into the pool of water, resting in the liquid void for a moment. It was as if all motivation had ceased from his very body, he felt weak and exhausted, like he would after fighting a battle or working the excessive labour demands that were expected in the Freehold. However missing from that fatigue was the physical soreness he would expect, and rather he just felt like something was missing, like a hole had sunk through his chest, leaving an endless void.

Basic instinct and self-preservation pulled him from the pool before he could even try to drown his sorrows, and alas he was left to look at the drenched sorrowful fool that glared back at him in the reflection. What had he expected when he chose to return to his old home? Was he so blinded with misguided hope? So arrogant to believe that the woman who held his heart so long ago would still await his return? All these queries surmounted to the same miserable answer, and if his pride didn’t demand he die a glorifying death, he would’ve dunked his head in the basin again and left it there.

Instead he was forced to do what he had always done. Live. He pushed himself away from the mirror and to the trunk at the end of his bed, which he lazily opened to reveal his tattered clothes amess within. He reached in and pulled out the old worn clothes, hauling his shirt over his head and pulling his trousers up to his waste. The heat of the day ripped any thought of slipping on his boots.

He was fastening his belt as he headed for the door, eager to escape this room of haunted memories. As he reached for the knob, a glint of light on steel briefly stole his attention. His eyes fell upon the prized Valyrian steel blade that had been gifted to him by his redeemer. For a first, the sword did not arise any memories of the death that it had caused, or the attraction it had warranted from numerous travellers and thieves.

Rather it awoke the old tales that his father told him about the great houses and their great swords. A great sword has a name, but a great man has the courage to use it as little as possible. These words had echoed in Jaremy’s thoughts since his exile, challenging his pride, testing his strength. He had shut it away, and as he saw himself as being as far from a great man as a slaver was kind to a slave, he had refused to name his blade.

He twisted the knob and pulled the door open, escaping into the open hall which overlooked the sparring yards of Brownhill. It should have been of little surprise that so many were up and about at this hour of the day, servants running errands, soldiers sparring in the courtyard. Jaremy felt lost within the chaos of royalty that surrounded him, and they saw this, their eyes screamed at the foreigner.

Eventually he moved passed the glances of those bypassing and made his way to the armoury, pulling the first sword he saw from the rack and approaching the sparring yards. His eyes glanced around the field, where soldiers maintained their focus on each other, occasionally glaring at the Bastard of Brownhill before returning back to their tasks. Any attempt of Jaremy’s part to approach an un-partnered duellist resulted in the soldier quickly finding something else to do.

He wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the sheer exhaustion which stopped him from unleashing the fury of his frustration, but eventually he moved himself to the straw dummies and began slashing at it. It wasn’t long before he grew bored, and his strikes weakened with each swing. “You’re doing that wrong,” a small voice yelled from behind him, causing Jaremy to turn with a furrowed brow.

Expecting an arrogant adolescent soldier to beat, he was startled to meet the gaze of a small girl. She stared up at him with large blue eyes as bright as the vibrant sky, and wavy black hair that fell down to her shoulders. She wore a plain red dress, and tucked under her arm was a book that arguably looked too large for her to be carrying around, but she seemed to have little struggle with it. Jaremy only rolled his eyes to the naive girl, turning back to the training dummy.

“What would you know about killing a man?” Jaremy muttered, to which the small girl quickly quipped an irritably smart answer. “That it is done best when you know how to properly swing a sword,” she wisecracked with a playful smirk on her face, but she received only a dismissive glare from the frustrated bastard. “Go bother someone else, child,” Jaremy grumbled as he put down his sword and glared into the straw face of his opponent.

“How did you get those scars?” the girl quickly asked, now appearing at Jaremy’s side as she stared at his bare arms. A groan churned in Jaremy’s throat as he turned his back to the girl, to which he heard a small huff of frustration before her small legs moved her in front of him, testing Jaremy’s patience. “Mummy says you’re a bad person, but I’ve seen daddy yell like you do,” she stated, to which Jaremy bit his tongue at the response he was growing the urge to give, relieving the tension in his spare hand.

“Leave, girl,” he muttered for a final time, but the girl challenged his order by taking a step forward. “Abrey!” another voiced called frantically, the voice of a petrified woman, one which Jaremy recognised to be the wife of his brother. She quickly rushed to the girl that Jaremy now recognised to be her daughter, and in the background Jaremy spotted his brother watching from afar. He sighed, wondering if he had set his own daughter up to this. Fool.

“Mummy I was just talking to-” Abrey began to explain, but her mother quickly snatched her away from Jaremy’s reach and into her arms. “What did I tell you about running off from your classes? You had me worried sick!” Julianne exclaimed in reprimand, securing a firm grasp around the small girl’s forearm and leading her away, not before she sent a filthy glare in Jaremy’s direction however.

A sigh erupted from the Bastard of Brownhill, who watched as the woman dragged her daughter out of the sparring yards, sending her on her way and then beginning to chastise her husband, who quietly pulled her aside. Wiping the back of his hand at his sweaty brow, Jaremy adjusted his grasp on the hilt of the dulled blade, but something caught his eye just before he could turn back to his lifeless foe.

The book which Abrey had clutched under her arm lay toppled open near his feet, the soft gust blowing at the pages. Jaremy knelt down and flipped the cover of the book, the title reading: Single Combat Forms of Andalos. Jaremy lifted his eyebrows as he began to flick through the pages, astonished that a child had the determination to read through something so bland.

He lifted his gaze to the edge of the courtyard, where Queen Julianne appeared to be unleashing a frantic fit at her husband, who did little to retaliate. Closing the book, he began to think that maybe the girl knew a thing or two about what she was saying, but that was all that Jaremy allowed himself to acknowledge. She was a child after all, and he would not let a little girl dictate whether his sword arm was magnificent or poor just because she read it out of a book. There is more to fighting than that, Jaremy was sorrowfully reminded, but his thoughts were occupied another memory of his father.

Jaremy had never been too interested in pouring over texts that his father had thrown at him, unlike Ethan who had excelled with him. Jaremy found himself to be a naturalist at fighting, and heeding his father’s lessons was always a second to his own, something which he sorely regretted. Lifting the book from the ground, he sighed as memories of his father flooded his mind. He would have begged him to read into the literature, but Jaremy had held his own for this long now, and he doubted the royal family would condone him stealing their books.

[Go and give it to Edgar] [Hold onto it]

Tales-from-Telltale · July 2018

[Go and give it to Edgar]

This may garner some good will with the family. It could be a step in helping him to improve his relationship with them. Also, I have a quick question. How does Elise relate to Jeremy and Edgar again? They kept referring to her as sister, but that can't be right can it. I mean Jeremy is in love with her.

Stigz_52 · July 2018

Also, I have a quick question. How does Elise relate to Jeremy and Edgar again? They kept referring to her as sister, but that can't be right can it. I mean Jeremy is in love with her.

As Jaime is in love with Cersei and countless other examples in the wack world of Ice and Fire. Yes, Elise is the direct sister of Edgar and half-sister of Jaremy, although I have deliberately left that ambiguous in my writing, as I can acknowledge it's hard to hold sympathy for a heart breaking man when all that's on your mind is that he's crazy about his sister Hope that clears things up though

LiquidChicagoTed · July 2018

[Go and give it to Edgar]

I feel like it has been forever since we've last seen Jeremy. So, I really must thank you for the update on his family relations in your reply to Tales, because it really means that this is some seriously complex stuff going on there. In fact, I'd say Jeremy has a really messed up family and I will make it a point to remember all of it from now on. Really though, I enjoyed this part greatly! I feel like we don't know too much about Jeremy yet when compared to, say, Alara, Dromon or Davios, who have been a part of the story for almost three years (because that is how long the story has been going on, crazy stuff ), but he is already pretty high in the list of characters I enjoy, because he is genuinely fun to read about whenever he appears and I don't only mean in terms of events shown, but especially in terms of his personality. I don't know what it is, I just find myself genuinely liking him in these parts, even if he is objectively a person with some pretty severe flaws.

Nitric · July 2018

Indeed, the story between Jaremy in his family is best summed up as complex, but that will become clearer as his story progresses. It no doubt feels like a super long time because it has been a super long time since we've seen him Unfortunately due to the large amount of PoV's of the Invasion, along with my lack of time to maintain a steady rhythm of writing, we really haven't seen a lot of characters from the Invasion for several months, pushing really back to the start of this year or end of the last, which is a scary thought for me. I've been considering putting some storylines on hold for next chapter just so I can make it more manageable for both myself and you guys who are undoubtedly forgetting the characters and their plots. Anyway, I'll get more onto this in a PM if you're interested. Otherwise, I'm glad you enjoyed the part, the next one will be Torrhen

CM3434 · July 2018

[Hold onto it]

I'm going to look at it a bit differently here and say this might be an opportunity for Jaremy to do something that his father would approved of in a way and he could always give the book back whenever he finishes it. As far as the part goes, I definitely enjoyed it! Jaremy has an unique backstory along with his parts in the story all being very enjoyable to where I am very excited to see where his story line will take him moving forward. I am very excited for all of these Dornish PoV's in general and look forward to seeing how it all ties in the rest of the story

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