A Song of Revenge and Gold: House Malroy Quest | Chapter XLVIII

Welcome to A Song of Revenge and Gold: House Malroy Quest. In which you take the reins of a House of storied glorious past since Aegon’s Conquering, but whose fortunes have taken a turn for the worse in the doom that Robert’s Rebellion brought. You are Brynden Malroy, second son to Lord Vamos Malroy and Lady Esemella Hayford and the last living heir to Steadhold and House Malroy. The year is 285AC, two years after the Rebellion and a year after your return to Westeros.

House Malroy is a pre-genned House designed around the idea of a story within the Crownlands of a House fiercely loyal to the Targaryens and their attempts to live in this new world after Robert’s Rebellion. Lord Brynden Malroy is as well pre-genned but will take direction from the players in his ways and how he develops himself further. This Quest will be moderately more story driven than others of its kind, but the development of the House and her lands will take just as much importance.

If you’ve played one of the many Quests within the ASoIaF setting the rules of the SIFRP system should be known. I will be using the Game of Thrones edition, as well as a few of the expansions namely OOSP and a few house rules which will be explained as we come to them. If you have questions about how things work or why certain actions are taken I can explain them as we go along. In truth this is a learning experience for me as well.

Google Documents Mastersheet:

docs.google.com/document/d/1WiZG5xtDqbQKI31IIbqNb4zTmooivb0Ns_J6EatgWgY/edit?usp=sharing
Last Updated:
>6/29 - House Malroy History, Holdings, & Household
>7/3 - Dispositions of Houses & Persons of the Realm

Twitter:

twitter.com/RevengeGoldQM

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SIFRPG Resources:

mediafire.com/folder/6sar1o14399xv/SIFRP

Archive:

suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?tags=House Malroy

And now without further ado.

Eyes of wildfire. Your mother once called them that, shining with bright unyielding flame through light of day, murmuring in soft whispers of emerald flame even in the dark of moonless night. Passion was their spark, fanned by emotion into a roaring inferno that set your mind to unending drive and purpose. Of the past decade it felt the only time they were aflame was when your heart also burnt with anger. With hate. With desire for revenge. As emerald flame washes over the broken body of Lord Quentyn Qorgyle, you again feel that desire, that purpose, the need once more, your body pacing, arms never comfortable by your side or crossed in restless inaction. He was an ally, a friend in some regards, a rival in others. Another target upon your line that stood in such defiance against those that had wronged your family. Beside his bed sat your Maester, Benjin, who was quick at work setting his arm. Three broken bones in the left arm, he had landed on that side, his shield breaking the fall and potentially saving his life. His head was bloody and bruised where it had hit after, chest swollen from broken ribs, similarly bruised and heaving heavily even after Benjin had treated him with milk of the poppy, and his leg that had been pinned under the thrashing horse looked mangled, likely just as broken as his arm. He would walk again, he would hold a weapon again Benjin said, though without the usual confidence in his voice, a rare thing, a poor thing to your ears.

Ser Quellon Qorgyle stands over his bed, keeping his head in place as Maester Armenda, Prince Oberyn Martell’s maester, stitched his flesh together again. You can see the turmoil in his own eyes, less of a burning rage like your own but one of calculated anger. Others among the pavilion whispered it was a slight that Ser Cardyn Lantell had been awarded the victory despite such a dishonorable act, that eyes looked the other way. The chivalry and honor amongst Knights the Reach was known for, lost upon the moment.

The Dornishmen and women about you wore emotions upon their sleeves, obviously slighted, further pained. Though none so much as Lady Obara Santagar, and the two boys, Gulien and Arron, your passing pauses long enough to giving them passing looks in a different section of the tent, Obara seated with her face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, Gulien hugged at his mother’s side tears of his own upon his cheeks, and Arron standing a bit off, eyes upon the floor his face a mask though a poor one still so obviously shocked and scared. Lady Ellaria Sand sits next to them, rubbing Obara’s back as she speaks with Prince Oberyn Martell, his arms are crossed upon his chest, one hand rubbing his face before looking back at you and making eye contact for a moment, pausing long enough to give you the symbol to stay and turning back to Quentyn’s family and begging leave, closing the curtain to the other side of the tent as he leaves. Long strides brings him to you, his fists clenched at his side, face worn in the same anger as your own.

“Come, walk with me,” he says simply as he passes by, pressing his hand upon your shoulder to hardly give you an option otherwise. He leads you outside behind the Qorgyle pavilion and paces a moment before stopping and gathering himself with his back turned and speaking, “I do not blame you for this but you will understand if my anger gets the better of me, yes?”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck where the hair had begun to grow again, “Yes Prince Oberyn.”

“What was done here was no mere accident, you saw it as well as I. Purpose was behind that lance, if he had not needed to stare Quentyn down I have little doubt he would instead stared at you,” Oberyn’s finger points at you as he turns, before slowly withdrawing and again rubbing his face, “Your enemies are not subtle Lord Malroy.”

“After that I could hardly call them otherwise,” you state simply, your fingers idly play with the rings upon your pinky finger, too restless to do simply sit, “Your brother… Obella knew nothing of what your spoke, I find myself knowing and understanding even less.”

“For good reason Lord Malroy. She did not need to know the perils you would face here in Highgarden. Do you truly think she would have let you go if she knew there was not one man here with intent to kill you, but rather seven?”

“But who amongst those seven? Lord Linden Langward for certain, his bannerman? Ser Cardyn…”

“Doran knew not either, merely that seven was the intention, men hide in shadows, away from prying eyes until they are given opportunity when they see valor, honor, history in fighting alongside the cause they may not even believe in…” Oberyn pauses and regards you fully, “Lord Malroy, do you recall your histories?”

“Of war, of battle. I was not the scholar amongst my brothers,” you respond uncertain, voice caught in your throat by the sudden change in topic.

Oberyn taps his chin, “It is a noble pursuit Lord Malroy, perhaps you may wish to someday. A bookish Lord is not a poor thing, the chain of a maester does not wear so tightly nor heavily when it is but a few links. I recall two such times such a number bore significance-”

“Lord Brynden Malroy? I am sorry to interrupt-” your head turns, seeing the small voice of Olymer Tyrell’s squire coming from behind, he wrings his green cap in his hands before looking past you and growing wide eyed in terror, “O-oh Seven above, I-I-I apologize Prince Oberyn Martell I had not known you were speaking. Please forgive me, I… Um merely was sent to, to, to…”

Oberyn rolls his eyes, flicking his wrist for the boy to quiet himself, you can see a dark look in his eyes when regarding the green and gold livery the squire wore, a half second of darker intention before his voice returns to you, “I see you are needed elsewhere Lord Malroy. Is not not right squire?”

The boy nods his head furiously squeaking out, “Ser Olymer Tyrell requests your presence my Lord. You are to meet Ser Arlen Hunt and Lord Randyll Tarly soon for the hunt.”

“Thank you squire, go and wait up front, prepare my horse,” you say simply and he dashes off allowing you to return to Oberyn.

“You appeal to the man’s loves, to show him kindred spirit before gaining his support. A wise idea Lord Malroy. One I certainly hope to see pay off in the days to come,” Oberyn says, flicking his thumbnail in thought, “I will send word regarding Quentyn’s status as is necessary Lord Malroy. See to it that this was not in vain.”

You nod, “Another reason among the many Prince Oberyn.”

---

“Thank the bloody Seven you’re here, I thought we were going to be late, and then Lord Tarly would cross, the man does not like to wait or forgives tardiness easily. Are you ready Lord Malroy, your bow, your horse… Your ahhhh…”

“Olymer calm yourself, I’m prepared, I’m here. We are fine,” you say dismounting Goldsong and joining him before the gates that leave towards the forests beyond Highgarden. Placing a hand upon his shoulder you can feel the sweat even through his clothing, the nervousness obvious before you had even begun the hunt.

“There is… There is just so much riding upon a simple hunt my Lord. What if… What if we fail? What if we only succeed in gaining Lord Tarly’s ire? We’ve only a week left, that is not enough time to orchestrate such a meeting again.”

“Then we don’t fail Olymer,” you state simply, allowing a smile that Lucas Longwaters would be proud of, “Make it through the evening and you can drink my stores dry for all I care.”

Olymer swallows hard and nods, turning his head as he notices the small hunting party lead by Lord Randyll Tarly and Ser Arlen Hunt. Dogs bark and pull at their leads behind them, bloodhounds by the looks of them, reminding you of your sore lack of such a point Lord Tarly is quick to point out.

“Evening Lord Malroy, Ser Olymer. Undresed and under prepared then?”

Olymer looks ready to fall on his face before stammering out a response, “Good evening Lord Tarly. I would beg forgiveness, but my Master of Hunt is a mite late with our own provisions and such.”

Lord Tarly tsks and presses forward, his party of ten odd men following after, Arlen Hunt breaks off after and stops beside you, talking down from atop his horse, “Lord Qorgyle?”

“Alive, though barely, he is being taken care of,” you respond.

Arlen sighs with relief, “Seven be blessed then. I will warn Lord Malroy, try not to take offense to Lord Tarly’s opinions of the dornish. We are Marcher Lords afterall and uncouth is not far from the word I would use since the incident, respectfully of course.”

The side of your mouth twitches though you nod regardless, “Noted Ser Arlen. Olymer, must we wait any longer?”

“No, my Lord,” Olymer is waving down a man from behind you as he speaks who waves back and rides over quickly, followed by his own party and slightly less impressive dogs.
He rides up and dismounts, bowing curtly towards both you and Lord Tarly, Olymer introduces him, “Apologies for his tardiness Lord Tarly, Malroy. May I introduce the Master of the Hunt in Highgarden, Ser Clayton Bushy.”

Both you and Lord Tarly regard him with simple nods that he returns with an flinching face, “The day grows older yet my Lords, shall we?”

And with that you are off, three score men, twice as many dogs, two Lords and several Knights upon a simple hunt, with ramifications that bore wider than the Kingdom itself. You outpace Lord Tarly upon Goldsong, hardly a difficult thing to do considering the quality of horse, though his dogs are impressive, fast and cunning as they dart in and out of the forest before your party. Your target was a red hart, a stag with a rack of at least twelve. The sun had begun to wane in the evening sky as you ride further into the forest, an hour or so of hard riding later and you have slowed, waiting for the dogs to return to their masters for the sounds of rustling wildlife or the calls of men. Lord Randyll Tarly rides alongside you, garbed in dark heavy leathers a greatsword lashed across his back, Heartsbane if your memory served you well. Another of his dogs bounds out of the forest, pausing before you both a moment sniffing the air before jolting after another lead. You both ride in silence, Ser Arlen and Olymer riding ahead leaving you alone for the moment, better to speak to the trial when Lord Tarly was in a better mood you think, but a little idle chatter would hardly be a poor thing between Lords.

>Roll 3d6 for Survival (Hunt) please.
You got a +1D from Olymer's dogs.Otherwise it was unlikely you would have succeeded.

What to walk to Lord Randyll Tarly about?
>His bloodhounds, impressive bloodline on par with your House’s horses, surely he would enjoy the boost
>The greatsword upon his back, the Valyrian Steel Heartsbane, men of stature hardly pass up the chance to speak of such

Rolled 1, 5, 3 = 9 (3d6)

>Talk about his hounds.

Rolled 2, 4, 2 = 8 (3d6)

>The greatsword upon his back, the Valyrian Steel Heartsbane, men of stature hardly pass up the chance to speak of such

Rolled 1, 2, 4 = 7 (3d6)

>His bloodhounds, impressive bloodline on par with your House’s horses, surely he would enjoy the boost

Bet everyone always ask about the sword. Must be tiresome

Seven above Brynden...

Rolled 1, 5, 1 = 7 (3d6)

>>His bloodhounds, impressive bloodline on par with your House’s horses, surely he would enjoy the boost

Rolled 6, 6, 2 = 14 (3d6)

eh, we can't be good at everything.

Your dice say otherwise.

Rolled 6, 6, 5, 6, 4, 2 = 29 (6d6)

Brynden Malroy professional being shite at hunting. Will he ever learn? Probably not.

Conversely, rolling a 5D+1B for Lord Randyll Tarly's Survival (Hunt) roll.

>The greatsword upon his back, the Valyrian Steel Heartsbane, men of stature hardly pass up the chance to speak of such

Valyriansteel is the pride of any house

One day we shall have one of our own but for now act envious let him gloat a little suger him up

>>The greatsword upon his back, the Valyrian Steel Heartsbane, men of stature hardly pass up the chance to speak of such

Changing my vote to
>The greatsword upon his back, the Valyrian Steel Heartsbane, men of stature hardly pass up the chance to speak of such

Considering how shit Brynden is at hunting we should move the talk over to battles/war rather than hunts

Welp, alright, let me somewhat start over then.

Brynden Malroy Survival (Hunt) roll:
>First Goal: Success, one degree.
>Second Goal: Success, one degree.
>Third Goal: Failed.

Randyll Tarly Survival (Hunt) roll:
>First Goal: Success, four degrees.
>Second Goal Success: four degrees.
>Third Goal: Success, four degrees.
Holy shit I’m dying.

“The blade upon your back, it is of Valyria is not?” you ask, having grown dreadfully bored of the silence.

“I would expect a Valyrian Lord to recognize their own steel, Lord Malroy,” Lord Tarly responds puffing his chest out slightly, a point of pride for any Lord worth his weight to be certain, “Hardly a difficult thing to recognize given the sword’s rich history.”

“Hardly a Lord among Westeros that is unaware of her name Lord Tarly, Heartsbane, a rather indicative and blunt thing is it not?”

“It is an honest thing Lord Malroy. As all swords are, honest in purpose and use, they only seek your hand in need of their design. But yes, my Heartsbane is a particular sort, do you know of the Vulture Hunt, Lord Malroy?”

“Briefly my Lord, I would admit to knowing less of the Marcher Lord conflicts than my own House’s.”

‘Savage’ Sam Tarly,” he pauses to mutter something under his breath, you catch, ‘that he disgraces’, before he continues, “...was the head of House Tarly when he rode into the Red Mountains, sussing out the dornish from their hiding holes, cowards they are, and my ancestor put them to the blade. Every last one of those slithering snakes before he cut the Vulture King’s head from its place. It is side Heartsbane ran red with the blood of her enemies, something I hardly doubt. And now she resides upon my back, in battle, in court.”

“While hunting?”

“An outlaw who is too bold for his own good is never outside of the realm of possibility Lord Malroy.”

“Point well taken Lord Tarly,” you respond with a nod allowing your hand to jostle the pommel of your bastard sword out of reflex.

Randyll Tarly’s eyes follow your movement before his face screws up into a frown, “I was surprised to learn that House Malroy never possessed such a sword of your homeland, why is that may I ask?”

You laugh instinctively, causing Lord Tarly to sit back a moment as you compose yourself with a cough, “Consider Lord Tarly. The Targaryens, had their dragons, Blackfyre and Dark Sister. The Velaryons, the most dangerous fleet upon the eastern shore. The Celtigars, coin and influence to spare. The Qoherys, Harrenhal. My family? A castle upon a river where we use to keep our horses. All things considered, comparably we are the pauper Valyrians. My father once told me Ser Aeson Malroy’s father, Eammon Malroy sold our family’s sword to maintain his lifestyle in Lys post Doom. How he came to possess it being a third son, I could hardly say, though I very much doubt he did.”

Randyll Tarly nods shortly, “A shame then Lord Malroy.”

“I have learned to live with the lack of such an inheritance Lord Tarly.”

“No, a shame that your ancestors cared so little for their history. This Eammon Malroy, a foolish and selfish man if I had ever heard it, it is clear to see why your family credits Ser Aeson with maintaining your lineage. I could never allow my Heartsbane to fall into the hands of the undeserving, not even mine own.”

An underhanded cut that was, even if not entirely intentional, “Yes Lord Tarly, for good reason.”

He responds with a gruff noise before turning his head and bringing his bow to bare, “It would appear we have our scent Lord Malroy.”

The dogs in the distance are going mad and the shouts of men are obvious in that they had found something, the forest is suddenly alight with the noise of wildlife, birds and small game fleeing and calling from all the ruckus. You nip into Goldsong’s side, and he begins to move forward on his own, allowing your legs to hug him with your own bow bore and ready.

Lord Tarly begins to fall behind not being as practiced with the stance as you were and your ears and eyes catch upon a movement to your left. Two doe burst from the woods with the howls and barks of dogs after them, sizable deer, at the very least worth your time. Hands are quick to draw your arrow, a sharp breath and your arrow is soon streaking across the field and sinking into the neck of the doe. Another arrow comes flying past you and strikes the other, a slight turn of your head telling you it had been Lord Tarly’s own from a few paces behind. Your door crashes into a tree and the dogs are quickly upon it, a man following up and giving you the go ahead to continue as he finishes it off, another man of Lord Tarly’s doing the same.

The two of you press on, following after Ser Arlen and Olymer upon the old trail and listening for further commotion, not a few moments later and Arlen is pressing off to the side and flagging down Lord Tarly to follow while Olymer paces in circles upon his horse waiting for you. Randyll Tarly drives past you, hardly giving a passing look as he follows after his bannerman and allows you a short moment of confusion alongside Olymer.

“What is it Olymer?”

“Ser Bushy’s hounds are lost my Lord. We haven’t gotten the scent or the tracks Lord Tarly’s do,” he says, you can see his heads twisting up in the reins as he speaks to you, again nervousness and want for drink turning up.

You frown deeply and pace around in your own circle attempting to gain your bearings in hope of finding something on your own or at least the moment lasting long enough for Ser Bushy’s hounds to catch up with Lord Tarly’s.

>Roll 3d6 for Survival (Hunt) please.
A failed roll this time means you’re out of the hunt.

Rolled 6, 3, 5 = 14 (3d6)

rolla

Rolled 2, 1, 2 = 5 (3d6)

Rolled 4, 5, 4 = 13 (3d6)

Rolling.

Much better.

I will fan-name our family valyrian sword Goldmane after the goldlike pattern on the the blade!

Also Tarly is right about Eammon.

I dunno about the sword name. Not bad, but not that great, I think.

He is totally right about Eammon, though. Yet very wrong, I think, about his son.

I think Brynden will chuckle quite a lot when he hears that Randyl son took the black.
>I may be a swordless lord but at least my son isn't a fuck up

>All of Brynden's sons ends up being total failures or ends up becoming septons/maesters

>Success, one degree.

Eyes and ears follow the sounds and commotion of Lord Tarly’s dogs and men. A thicket nearby tells you the deer had been resting before you had come upon them, the wilderness floor cleared out a bit from where they had laid, the leaves and bramble around it kicked up as they had all fled. At least five of them were about, the big buck had been the alpha of the small group, no fawns, only the doe and the hart. Pressing into Goldsong’s side you go to examin the area, pushing out the noise for a moment while you inspected the trees around their campsite. Eyes catch upon a fresh scrape, on one of them, the green flesh exposed to the world, bramble beneath had caught red hairs, all opposite of the direction Lord Tarly and Ser Arlen had gone. No doubt their men were working on cutting off his flight and pushing him back towards the rest of the hunting party but you had enough of a head start and the better horse to boot to catch up and take the prize yourself.

“Olymer, round up the hounds and take them this way. Lord Tarly hunts the other doe, while we the prize.”

Olymer smiles at your sudden confidence, bolstering his own failings, and calls for Ser Bushy and a collection of men and dogs that fly past you once they catch the scent and trail, barking and howling away like madmen. Goldsong complains against your push but nonetheless breaks into a canter through the woods, old boy knew how to keep his step in the thick woods, he’d hardly be a proper horse if he didn’t, roots and branches didn’t bother him so much as the evening exercise did. You had promised him retirement soon afterall.

“Just a few more months old man, then we’ll break in one of your kids, promise,” you whisper to him while leaning down to avoid a branch that swats Olymer in the face behind you.

“Brynden are you certain we are going the right way!?” Olymer yells up to you.

“Hardly! I’m not a hunter! I can shoot things real good when they get in range though!”

“What’s in range mean!?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet! All the fields are too short!” you finish with a laugh before emerging into an open field, wild grass high enough to be at your chest if you were to dismount. Goldsong has little issue plowing into it, quickly grabbing a snack as you slow down to a trot and look about. The slight wind gives the field a wavy appearance like the Narrow Sea, cuts from the dogs that had entered before you looking like sharks prowling about. From your vantage point you can see the entire stretch, though eyes are trained upon the forest openings, ears listening in for the calls and barks of dogs and men in the forest around. Your thumb brushes the fletching of the black shafted arrow that waits upon your bowstring.

Eyes catch upon the opening to the left but it only appears to be the other hunting party, Ser Arlen being the first to appear with Lord Tarly shortly behind. Not shortly after though your eyes catch upon a glint to your right, that of a creature's eye in the waning sunlight. You draw immediately, stretching out your bow to full length and taking in the beauty of the stag that had just emerged from the forest, bounding into the field with dogs, Olymer’s dogs, hot on its heels. Eyes cast over towards Lord Tarly, his party going into a frenzy when the hart appears, they were facing it head on, while you had the full range of his side, an easier shot to be certain. You line up your bow, sharp breath, easy shot, moving target at one hundred and fifty paces give or take, you’ve had worse.

>Roll 8d6 for Marksmanship please.

Rolled 2, 3, 2, 3, 6, 5, 3, 2 = 26 (8d6)

Rolled 1, 2, 1, 3, 6, 2, 5, 5, 1, 1, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 4, 2, 1 = 45 (18d6)

pew pew pew

Think you did that wrong.

well at least there wont be anymore ones in this thread now.

Rolled 1, 6, 2, 5, 5, 6, 5, 3 = 33 (8d6)

Rolled 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5 = 30 (8d6)

Rolling

Much better Brynden. Brynden may have a hard time finding his mark but when he does it is as good as dead.

Rolled 5, 5, 1, 5, 3 = 19 (5d6)

20,27,24

Damn son dat Hunting Bow.

Roll on this is 4D+1B for Randyll Tarly.

He aint got nothing on us!

Not so tough when he cant shoot his sword.

>“What’s in range mean!?”
>“Haven’t figured that out yet! All the fields are too short!”
>Rolled 1, 6, 2, 5, 5, 6, 5, 3 = 33 (8d6)
Brynden face when

He probably tried that once.

If the thing we are killing got Antlers we need to take them back to Steadhold to show off to the wife.

Then wait for Lorelei to be old enough to listen to stories so we can bore her to death with the hunting story for years.

Nah.

We'll drive that '20 Good Men' story of ours into the fucking ground to the point where the kids can hear us say one word from the story and they can just recite the rest of the story from that point.

Reminder that it would cost a fortune to obtain and make The Perfect Arrow since it needs feathers of a three eyed raven, wood from a Weirwood Tree, Valyrian steel/Dayne Starmetal.

Every time they ever complain about anything and how hard it is just bring up that whole story

It also needs to be crafted on a moonless night on the shores of a frozen lake.

IF everything goes according to plan we should put it on the wall with a plate under it saying "Langward"

Yes.

Even as a grumpy, decrepit old man Brynden still recalls that story with the utmost clarity and accuracy.

>I will fan-name our family valyrian sword Goldmane after the goldlike pattern on the the blade!
Not Gold/song/? I did wonder if he was named after anything, and it's curious that Brynden can so easily conjure this snippet of history when he's consistently said not to be a scholar.

>Not Gold/song/?

Steelsong or Bloodsong.

I've got a great name for Brynden's heirloom bow.

>Woe

Ha.

I like it.

His quiver shall be called Sorrow.

>Naming your own weapon

Only people who should be naming weapons is the one who crafted it or the ones it is being used on.

I like to imagine every kid listening starry eyed to the story exactly until the age of six when they loose their innocence and question how much of the stories their father tells are just bullshit to feed his ego

Except they all true.

Sometimes vastly exaggerated but true.

of course, I like to imagine the sons confirming everything but with a hint of a smile as to imply they are just indulging their lord
Just to fuck with Bryden, you know

>Dad, how did you ever meet my mother?
>Well I won a archery tourney and then she was the entertainment for the victory feast, and then the next day I found her camp and we fucked, then later I met her again when I went to Dorne and we fucked a bunch more, and then we got betrothed.

>Having to tell Lorelei she was conceived in some backalley cheap wineshink while her mother wore a mask seducing her father. Her father then almost got killed right after.

hey, it's the Dornish way

It's quite romantic really.

She might dig the story if it was framed properly.

>her father then almost got killed right after.

Pfff, we got jump by 3 men with knifes and we gutted the scum out of lot of them.

I am sure Obella will have her own version to tell Lorelei.

Brynden Malroy Marksmanship, DC 21
>Success, two degrees.

Randyll Tarly Marksmanship, DC 15
>Success, one degree.

The hart backpedals and turns when he notices the other party, attempting to split the difference between your own and Randyll Tarly’s. You readjust slightly, sitting to full length in Goldsong’s saddle, knees gripping into the old boy as he trots along to keep your lead on him equal. Lord Tarly is lining up his own shot, hardly allowing the moment to pass and you can tell he is ready to fire as he leads from a stationary position upon the ground. Your breath holds and your mind focuses, ready… Aim. And… Fire.

The arrow streaks across the field, dipping low towards the very top of the grass in its descent enough to cause ripples as it passes. The moment slows as you fire, watching Lord Tarly’s own bow crack one off not moments later. Though too late, just by a hair, the hart is struck firmly in the shoulder blade closest to you the arrow digger deep and burying itself in the far one. The body of the hart flexes and then goes limp before crashing to the ground in a lump. Lord Tarly’s arrow flies high over it, having aimed for the head and eyes during the lead. You smile to yourself and Olymer comes over clapping his hands watching his dogs surround the incapacitated deer barking and growling.

“That was a hell of a shot my Lord, never seen a deer go down quite like that.”

“My brother hunted like that, called it a double shoulder shot, basically it slams through the two shoulder blades and damages the spine enough to paralyze them. I saw him do it once back home. Could never quite get it down myself, lucky shot,” you respond while trotting over to the body. Truly it was a magnificent beast and you can read upon Lord Tarly’s face the disappointment that the deer he had been tracking for the past few days had gone to another less talented hunter.

“Fourteen points milord! None damaged in the fall neither. A damned good shot!” says one of the huntsmen as he examines the deer and quickly finishes it off in such a way not to damage or the pelt too much.

“Three doe to one doe and a true prize Lord Malroy,” Lord Tarly says across the way while remounting, “To the victor the spoils, as agreed. An impressive showing.”

“Thank you Lord Tarly, you honor me. Though no small amount of respect is due to you likewise, I hardly the capacity to track not two but three fleeing animals at once, had it been more than one in this field no doubt I would have turned up with nothing,” you respond with the most graceful smile you can muster, swallowing down the confident bravado that would be spent upon someone such as Lucas or Mason.

The huntsmen regather their dogs and pack up the five deer upon a wagon they had brought. Upon inspection you notice your doe had been smaller as well, though it hardly mattered, she wasn’t your main catch of the day. The sun had begun to set, giving you cause to realize that you had been out for the better part of three hours now, and likely wouldn’t return to Highgarden for another hour and half as the sun had s completely. Men ignite torches and spread out to provide the proper guard and perimeter befitting two Lords and Knights and you begin the trek back.

For the first half you hardly speak with Lord Tarly, noting he was still simmering a mite, he wasn’t as competitive as you were you think, rather prideful and disliking losing something that he took such pride and care of improving his prowess with. It is not until later when Ser Arlen Hunt manages to get him upon the topic of Ser Artys Hunt, his former squire that he begins to speak again at length. Among the discussion is Armen, Ser Arlen’s youngest son and more than likely your future second squire and talk turns to Steadhold and home.

>Brynden becomes a really chill, laid back dad.
>Cross between Norman Rockwell painting and Mister Rogers
>Lorelei grows up thinking that he's a soft dude, funny and caring and not a aggressive bone in his body.
>hears stories from Uncle Dontos and Victus (He's a great big brother!) about how Brynden Won this tournament, killed dozens of men, leads daring raids.
>Read mom's book about him, didn't think it was true.
>Tries to go on her first date.
>First date meets him, incredibly respectful and afraid of him.
>Lol whatever, dad's just being a bit goofy.
>War gets called against Iron Islanders
>Dad goes in armory, loses sweaters and corn cob pipe.
>Fully decked out in war gear.
>Watches firsthand how he takes an entire enemy ship, sets it on fire, and crashes it into the enemy fleet while sniping as many captains of other ships as possible.
>Drags down hundreds Into the drowned gods halls.
>Later that night tucks her into bed and kisses her forehead.
>Now she knows why there were never any monsters under her bed.

“The walls are being repaired as we speak, labor from the bandits that had plagued my family’s rightful land being the primary driving force behind it. An engineer should have arrived by the time I return, and my castellan has been given instructions to redirect him to the bridge and tower across the Rush. We are rebuilding, albeit slowly, Lord Tarly.”

“Your uncle had once lamented to me the fact your bridge had fallen into disrepair, good to see that you are taking up that cause, a family should take pride in their holdings, in their lands. Putting their people to good honest work. Those laborers of your, I would have put to the sword and dumped their bodies in a hole months ago,” Randyll Tarly responds.

“Many of their comrades have already faced such a fate, I assure you. These men will however be offered the chance to join the Night’s Watch, as I am sure you are aware my step-Uncle, is the current Lord Commander, and my dear wife insisted.”

“A gift I would hardly consider worth giving. Dying order, rapists and pickpockets defending a wall of ice against legends and folktales, pfft,” he throws a hand up in disgust, “The Night’s Watch of old was a order to be respected. The real wars are down south now, where honor and justice still matter,” he pauses before turning his head to you, “Lord Malroy I know you do not speak plainly with me. I was not born a fortnight ago, your type is hardly the sort to ever do something without purpose behind it. Whether that purpose is coin or favor, I’ve yet to figure out, but you will speak plainly with me or soon, not at all. Your Uncle and I's past encounters have afforded you this much of a chance Lord Malroy, I would suggest you use it well.”

Your eyes keep pressed forward into the darkness, considering his words, the sellsword playing at Lord always had an agenda. You could be the most perfect Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, yet the stigma remained, likely not helped by a dornish court and wife. At the very least it made the topic a simple one to breach, “I have not Lord Tarly, and for that I apologize. We both know the song and dance we must play, the political maneuvering, the posturing. Paid compliments, both physical and as those that are merely wind. But if you wish I speak plainly, I will tell you the truth. I am in need of favor, though not one without a proper cause…”

Lord Tarly’s eyes hardly leave your face as you go into the length of your situation. Lord Linden Langward had placed a saboteur in your Household, attempting to murder one of your dearest friends and spying upon you. Once caught you learned of her and his connections to the bandits in the Princewood, not so simple were their patrons, while Linden had not placed his own coin upon them, they were amongst those that could be considered your enemy’s men, going as far to frame another hapless powerless Lord to cover their tracks. And when those among his family disagreed with his actions they banished him, disinherited him as if he were nothing, for only speaking truth and reason. And now he is fled the Crownlands to seek asylum, assumingly knowing he has been caught and fleeing the true justice that he deserves for such acts of war. Beyond that, the armies that now stood unbannered and with siege engines upon your House’s border while you are aware, insurances of a man that was marked for death, threatening women and newborn babes rather than the Lord and his Knights like the cowards they truly were. You sought less retribution as you did justice for these criminal acts, that a trial both the eyes of men and gods would bare witness to was the only way to end this without further bloodshed.

“And the favor Lord Malroy?” Randyll Tarly asks plainly once you are done.

“That you would sponsor me and my case before the Lord Paramount, Lord Tarly. I have a just and true case, you may speak with the witnesses and criminals yourself if you do not believe such. But it is a case of the Crownlands, not the Reach. I am in need of man that sees that justice must be done, regardless of location, and so that I may finally end this man’s foolhardy attempts to overreach his bounds.”

Lord Tarly chews on the thought a moment, eyes pressed forward as he rides and you see the campfires and lights of the castle in the distance. He is silent for a long moment his face unchanged from the stern scowl and you only hope for a response.

>Roll 5d6 for Persuasion (Convince) please.

It's not so much history as it is an old story his father use to tell him when he was a kid. Old Malroy family story that is likely untrue, but something they tell themselves to feel more valyrian.

Ask him when the Great Spring Plague occurred or the longest winter or how many crops you should stockpile for a year long winter to make sure you don't die and he'll shrug and say he has people for that.

love this

Rolled 1, 1, 4, 2, 5 = 13 (5d6)

Rolled 5, 3, 5, 4, 5 = 22 (5d6)

>Silver tongue GO!

Rolled 6, 6, 4, 1, 3 = 20 (5d6)

Rolled 3, 5, 3, 2, 2 = 15 (5d6)

lets try that again

>Now she knows why there were never any monsters under her bed.

Best part.

12,19,19

Skewing nice and high on those rolls today, good thing too because that was a tough roll.

Lorelei better not be going on any dates at the age of four. Otherwise I chuckled.

I just realized Victus already has an Hot Dornish Sister and two hot redhead twin cousins
He'll be a busy knight fending off suitors

More like he's going to warn the suitors about the girls. They will eat men alive. Especially Loreli.

Dad die? Or just writing up an 8 part post?

naw Sleepy, just writing a whole new book. give it time.

Brynden Malroy Persuasion (Convince) DC 18
>Success, one degree.

“I will come by your pavilion tomorrow Lord Malroy, you need not be there. I will speak with your prisoners myself,” he pauses, face still unyielding, “If I find they speak true I will present your case to Mace Tyrell myself and he will decide if it shall come before him.”

Your face brightens, though before you can speak again you are interrupted.

“This is not guarantee Lord Malroy. You understand this yes? I am not a man that is bought by simple words, through your actions and that of your family I have given you due time and will grant this favor, in so far as I am able. Whether Mace sees it is not for me to say, if he is given proper cause and by that I mean his ego is swelled by those sworn to him carrying out his duties, then he is more likely to see reason to allow the case.”

“It is all I ask Lord Tarly, I cannot express my gratitude enough, my family owes you a debt.”

“One I will not be soon to forget Lord Malroy,” Randyll Tarly says gruffly, “A debt owed is more of the same amongst the politics of the Reach and the Crownlands both. And you are correct, we both do know how this game is played. All of that being said Lord Malroy, if I am being honest, I do believe your case is just.”

The rest of the journey is carried out in silence barring Randyll Tarly occasionally asking for specifics regarding Linden and your encounters with his bought men and women. Names, locations and such, nothing of significant note. By the time you have reached the gates from before the huntsmen have broken off to skin the deer of their pelts, cure the meat, and in your case preserve and mount the neck up of the hart.

Your evening with Lord Tarly is ended with a firm handshake and promises to be ready for his summons at a moment’s notice. For a man not guaranteeing success he certainly was sure he would be needing to speak with you again soon, it was a good feeling, one that filled with confidence, or as much as you would allow for the moment. Ser Arlen Hunt hangs back a moment later, assuring you things had gone well and he would attend the meeting Randyll Tarly would be having in the coming days. Once he and the rest of the part has gone however you turn to Olymer and see him practically melting in the saddle, the sweat upon his brow so obvious you thought him caught a fever.

“It worked. Seven blood hells it worked Brynden,” he says in a shell shocked voice.

“I told you it would Olymer,” you respond allowing your voice to fall back into its usual less formal tone.

“Mace Tyrell is sure to see… He never turns down Lord Tarly not after the Battle of Ashford. It’s going to happen Brynden, it will go to trial. I know it, I’d swear it upon my father’s grave!” Olymer’s voice raises in excite, his face bright and happy rather than the nervous wreck it had been half the time in the woods. He leans over his horse and hugs you awkwardly, his voice having turnt to laughter and joy, “You owe me a drink, Brynden Malroy, and I plan to take you up on that.”

-Day Eight-
“My Lord do you plan to compete today?” Ser Jon Pryor asks you as your men break fast with you at the pavilion.

“In the joust?” you respond confused.

“No my Lord, apologizes for being unclear, in the Melee.”

You screw your face up, suddenly remembering how deep into the Tourney you were. Not to mention how entirely unsure you were if you should participate with a potential Trial by Combat so close upon the horizon, Benjin enters this section of the tent, having returned from the Qorgyle pavilion early in the morning, he takes his seat next to you and shakes his head when you pass him a look of questioning. No news was good news you supposed in this regard, rest is what Quentyn needed, not worrying minds. Lady Obara had requested you allow Arron to stay with his father for the next couple of days, something you were happy to grant, though leaving you squireless not as though that was a particularly difficult thing to deal with. Benjin does however produce a single letter sealed with golden wax that makes you assume it was from home before you notice the cornucopia pressed into the seal.

“It came this morning for you my Lord, House Merryweather I assume. I did not know you knew them.”

A smile spreads across you face as you open the letter, Ser Olson Merryweather, and his son Ser Orton Merryweather were not long past acquaintances, and had actually been the men who had told you what was occurring in Westeros during the Rebellion when you had stopped in Myr and met the exiled family entirely by chance. Olson was now calling himself Lord Olson Merryweather, and was inviting you to attend the melee with him, to catch up.

“We’ve met, briefly Benjin. During their exile, I hadn’t known the family had their lands and titles restored to them.”

“A few months past my Lord. Though at a significantly lessened state, as I am sure you are able to surmise from your own experiences.”

You nod and place the letter down on the table, rubbing your chin with your decision for the day.

What to do today?
>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather
>Participate in the Melee

Sorry I'm just a bit slower today than usual. Not sure why.

>“One I will not be soon to forget Lord Malroy,” Randyll Tarly says gruffly, “

Get the feeling he may request Lorelei and Sam getting married (luckily for us it will be ruined when he gets sent to the wall. So maybe Dickon ?)
>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather

I would prefer if we kept ourselves fresh for the archery competition and the possible Trial by Combat from the trial.

>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather

>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather

Lets make some more friends

>>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather

>>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather
Hopefully he isn't one of the seven.

>>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather

>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather

>Attend the Melee with Lord Olson Merryweather
I'd rather not participate after what happened to Quentyn and Oberyn warning

>A few months past my Lord.
[Shadowruns internally]
I'm not sayin' he's out to kill us, but if I was one of these 7 guys I would use this guy to pull the wool on Brynden while we place our pieces in a different position for the next strike.

Oh hey, since I just remembered. Since you won the Hunt you get a +1d3 to Influence. Exciting I know. Let me get that done real quick lest I forget.

>Roll 1d3 for Influence please.

Rolled 2 (1d3)

Rolled 3 (1d3)

oh boy

Rolled 2 (1d3)

Rolling

apparently it was a very influential stag
I hope his house won't be seeking revenge