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Post by Gandalf on Jun 14, 2021 15:20:01 GMT -5
Within the black marble walls of the Starry Sept, the great and small of the Reach gather to hear the words of the High Septon, voice of the Gods on earth. After months of backdoor politicking, a ceasefire has been brokered between the warring factions in order to spare the blood of the faithful. A summit has been convened, under the auspices of the High Septon and the protection of the House Hightower. Scores of the faithful line the walls, armed and armoured in brilliant burnished steel, watching as the gathered nobility funnel into the Dome of the Stars. Breath-taking, even under the current regime, the roof is painted with a thousand such markings of the Seven's faithful. Light dances off the stained-glass murals of the Gods in the gigantic windows, and from up on high the stone-faced effigies of a hundred forgotten kings look down upon the assembled conclave. The High Septon himself sits before him, surrounded by the hawkish Most Devout that appointed him. There is no trace of excess; any gold or garishness has been painstakingly removed, and the present clerics are utterly unlike their thick-fingered and heavy chinned predecessors. They are bone-thin and sharp eyed, and look to be regarding their guests with a quiet disdain as they huddle into their opposing factions.
Some nobles mutter in disquiet as the commoners are then allowed to join them, kept at bay from the benches by the lesser landed knights and Hightower bannermen. Jon Manderwynd is surely among them, for the Seven allow all voices to be heard in their sacred halls, much to the chagrin of the highborn. The booming voice of a prelate silences their idle chatter, and the clerics dip their heads to mark the opening prayer to the Seven before the mediation begins. Each man will be given the chance to say his piece and state his claim, but it is the intention of the Gods themselves that the conflict be resolved by any means necessary.
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Post by oznerol on Jun 14, 2021 17:11:34 GMT -5
Lady Hightower sits with a straight back. The auburn hair carefully combed and braided. The body encased in a rigid black gown, the corset and bodice almost like a steel chestplate. The dark dress was stern and unadorned, but also rich, as black was the most expensive fabric: for the cloth usually rejected such an intense color and it loses its purity and density too soon. She wears little jewelry, but enough, a circlet, in silver, as only concession to her rank. The cold blue eyes inspect the magnificent hall, hands clasped before her. Cadres of bannermen, members of the household and knights formed the Hightower retinue. No matter what, the city was still theirs, at least part of it, and she had conceded and yielded ground, but not all.
Lord Hightower looked desinterested. Straight like a lance, just like his mother, but spindly and thin. The hair fell to his eyes, in a bowl cut, but his eyes were sharp and atentive. He pretended to be bored, but he wasn't, and leaned on his elbow, resting his face on the right hand, adorned with a gigantic signet ring. That also obscured his visage and gaze. The bony and long fingers of the left hand played with the belt buckle. Lyonel wore the purest black, like Lady Rhonda. He was a child still, under the literal shadow of his mother, but his frown and the way he looked at things were a hint of something else. There was not a remnant of his father's joviality or amiable nature, not at all. His gaze was cold, yet not cruel; the lord was still young. A knight in ceremonial plate held Vigilance before Hightower. The sword was in a black velvet sheath, for they were in a sacred place and naked steel was not allowed. But still, it was Hightower's privilege to bear his arms even before the Gods. After all, he was the Lord and Protector of Oldtown, the most favored child of the Faith. As a concession to the His Holyness, mother and son wore rosaries in their belts, simple wooden beads, with a seven-pointed star hanging.
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Post by Royal Joker on Jun 14, 2021 17:22:03 GMT -5
Jon Manderwynd clasps his hand together for the opening prayer, asking the Seven Above to steel his resolve for the trials ahead. No matter how silent they murmur, the black-clad septon can see their glances and hear their whispers in the echoing halls of this most holy of places. These vultures, these greedy rats, these godless worthless lordlings. Seven Hells take the lot, those who abandoned the people to save their own skin. Jon had no love for them and they none for him, which made his work in this lie much clearer.
Surrounded by his loyal and armed followers, the red seven-pointed star sewn upon their clothes, Septon Jon o' the Mander waited patiently for the aggrieved parties to begin their squabbling. For once he felt no immediate urge to take the stage and begin a sermon against their sins. The lords would hopefully give them a spectacle to further cement their fall from grace. Perhaps he would save the fire and brimstone for another time.
Aron Oakheart stroked his beard, deep in thought in anticipation of the assembly. While he did not approve of bandits dressed as septons in the Starry Sept, he would tolerate them for now, in respect for the High Septon's and the Seven's peace. That was not was what occupying the Lord of Old Oak's mind today, though. The conflict was not new in the Reach, it had only been drawn out to its edge after that terrible Winter. Earlier only the Florents had bothered to claim Highgarden, but after the end of Lord Mace Tyrell, it had been an all-out war for Highgarden, with sides switching every day. He prayed again, for peace and a return to normalcy. Who better than Lord Tarly, a veteran of the old kind, to help bring back that normalcy?
For now, Aron kept his tongue, waiting for the opening statements from the aggrieved lords.
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Post by Gandalf on Jun 14, 2021 18:43:42 GMT -5
Storm stood amongst those highborn retainers he had left, a motley collection of exiles and opportunists from across the Narrow Sea. Estermont, Tally, and Gower were the most trusted amongst them, the last of the grizzled Stormlanders that had followed him into exile. They stood at either side of their lord and kinsman, the towering black haired giant in an extravagant green doublet of the Lyseni fashion. Even with the ragged beard shaven off and the hair trimmed to his shoulders, the fine silk looked ill fitting on him. He was a man that belonged in mail and plate, covered in mud and gore with the screams of battle around him. The Sept felt too quiet; he was almost jumping at every sudden noise or movement, hyperaware of his surroundings despite the obvious lack of bared steel. Like a battered old suit of armour, scratches and scars covered him from head to foot, visible on the exposed hands and forearms. Most noticeably, one of his typically Florent ears had been cruelly mangled by the kiss of a battleaxe. The other was swollen like an overripe fruit. A once youthful face was now rather grim and weathered, marked by lines of age that should not be present in one so young. Edric was scarcely thirty, but looked at least five years older. Rather than his father, a plump and gouty king of Summer, he resembled his wintery uncle, broad and sinewy, skin stretched over too much muscle and bone, eyes burning with the same blue intensity.
"At least this distraction buys us time." He murmured to Estermont, before quietly joining in the Septon's prayer. Unless the Gods truly favoured him, there was little chance of any concession; only the presence of Manderwynd's rabble had attracted greater disdain than the turncoat bastard and his band of vagrant mercenaries. The summit was a chance to breathe freely, without Tarly's armies or Redwyne's ships breathing down his neck. Only a fortunate victory outside Norcross and the hatred his two rivals held for one another had prevented Brightwater falling and all being lost. It was a time to find allies, if anyone still breathed in the Reach that did not wish to see his head on a spike.
Fossoway sat amongst his peers, the long faced lordling gazing sourly as swineherds and sellswords filtered into the very home of the Gods themselves. Wretched creatures.
"What would they think, to see us sunk so low?" He grumbled to none in particular as he gazed upwards at the stony visage of his ancient forebears. Even lords as petty as the green Fossoways had the blood of Garth Greenhand in their veins. The dignity of ruling had fallen to lesser men, beginning with the Tyrells. Old traditions and ancient glories had been forsaken in favour of haggling like fishwives, bartering for a seat of kings with priests and bankers. They should settle it the old way, man on man, in the rigors of single combat. At least then there would be honour in it. It would be a fine battle between Tarly and Storm, both warriors by reputation, even if one was the churlish bastard of a usurping drunkard. Alas, they would instead have to listen to the droning of boorish fanatics.
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Post by AxBrew Sunster on Jun 14, 2021 20:38:26 GMT -5
Dickon Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill, surveyed the remnants of the Reach's nobility. Once considered the flower of chivalry, the peerage of this realm had greatly diminished, to the point that a mob of peasant rabble was given a voice equal to that of the highest Lords. Although how "high" those lords truly were was a matter for some debate. And still they killed each other. Dressed in a deep green doublet, the Huntsman of his house prominent across the breast, the lord made his way to stand amongst his supporters. The cloth was of fine make and cut, but otherwise unadorned, and even without the familiar presence of Heartsbane, left behind out of respect for the Seven and this place, his bearing left little doubt that he was a military man before all else. He had found himself thrust to the head of this faction, which he considered a coalition of the last true Reachmen. A collection of hardened veterans and young knights catapulted to honor and power by the chaos of the Long Night comprised his primary backing. He offered crisp salutes to the military men among his ranks, and friendly nods to others, as well as bows in greeting to the women in the group, though his face remained darkly pensive. They had survived the darkest days known to Westeros in centuries, if not more, and what remained? The shadows of once-great men fighting for scraps like hunting dogs at a feast. He did not exempt himself from this judgement either. Much of his support was owed to his father's reputation, his house's historical prominence, and even to the blade he carried. Few men would throw their support behind Dickon Tarly alone. Yet he would not bend.
His expression darkened further as his gaze lingered upon his rivals, like a storm cloud, threatening lightning at any moment. Even had it been in the nature of the Son of Lord Randyll Tarly to give in, he would not have done so in this. He would do almost anything to stop Reachmen shedding each other's blood, but he could not abide the thought that the land should be put into the hands of the brutal Redwynes, or even worse, the bastard of Storm's End. His gaze lingered on the brutish son of Robert Baratheon. Of an age with himself, Storm was a warrior, and nothing more. The man wore garish silks like bull that had stumbled through a clothier, or perhaps like a Lyseni whore trying to attract custom. He was a great warrior, that much could not be debated. Dickon had never seen Robert Baratheon in his prime, but men who had claimed that Storm was the spitting image of the usurper. The Storm Lord had claimed the Iron Throne in blood, and all could see where that had led them. Reluctantly, Dickon turned his gaze away from the more detested rival, to the more serious threat - the twins of the Arbor. These two at least had some claim to the blood of Garth Greenhand in their veins - not merely through the chance of an unwed mother being of Reachman stalk - though he thought little of their attempts to claim legitimacy through the Tyrell line. If nothing else, he hoped that this forced gathering would allow some accord between the true claimants to the throne, so that they could ensure that the keep of the Gardners was never sullied by a bastard who now sought to follow his father's footsteps as a usurper. Dickon Tarly knew well the ways of war - his father had made sure of that. It was time for him to learn how to lead.
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Post by Magnate Lucius on Jun 15, 2021 1:55:02 GMT -5
The arrival of the twins, Horas and Hobbler, came with pomp and arrogance to an extreme degree. Their banners were now quartered with the grapes of Redwyne and the golden flower of Tyrell, a point to be made as to their obvious seizure and grip over Highgarden and the old demesne of their mother's late kin. Many knew that if Garlan were still alive, the Redwynes would have been sunk into a watery grave within the Mander. But now, the ruined fortress played host to their troops, knights, and nobles from not only the Arbor, but so too the Shield Islanders and Reachmen that had sided with their cause. Their fleet coated the mouth of the Mander with their brilliant masts and flags in order to control the vital route into the sea. Their father was now senile and unable to rein them so their mother simply bowed to her sons ambitions and quietly remained home to care for the old lord Paxter, her husband.
The twins of Lord Paxter came with several notables, namely the highborn of the Arbor and the Shield Islands who were their strongest supporters. Knights escorted them into the thick of zealot territory and barked at any who drew too close. Once they were nobody knights, now the twins were utter tyrants and gluttons for the wealth and prestige of the Reach. The 'Lord Protector' and 'the Marshal' entered the Starry Sept with their escorts and supporters. Both were rather unwilling to come to this vain attempt to end the strife or whatever the High Septon desired. However, they were persuaded otherwise and came to join the gathering of these motley individuals.
Horas noticed Edric Storm while Hobbler spotted Dickon Tarly. The twins then looked at each other. They hoped these two would join the graves of their fathers and cease soon enough. Already, plans were in motion to end the life of the Baratheon bastard so that they could focus on Tarly next. They more than likely underestimated both threats, but they viewed themselves as the top of the food chain. For they possessed Highgarden and had good forces to support their cause. Noticing this, the nobles sought to steer the pair away from their adversaries and find a location furthest away.
Lord John Ball had come alone, leaving his brother, Garse, to watch over the Manderford. The presence of both the veterans under Edric and the fleet of Redwyne caused great concern for their future. They had supported one side before and paid for it. More than ever, John was cautious and divided on what to do. Neutrality would likely gain the glares of his fellow nobles and the hungry jaws of some warlord. To choose one side over the other would result in the same. Lord Ball had to be careful on where he went in this war. It would likely come down to whose sword was the first to be drawn and closest to his heart.
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Post by Royal Joker on Jun 15, 2021 3:52:48 GMT -5
Lady Alysanne Bulwer looked on with disgust at the pompous pageantry of the Redwyne twins as they entered the sept. Pigs propped up in silk, she thought to herself as she turned her attention toward the High Septon and his faithful. The mistress of Blackcrown is dressed rather modestly for the occasion in a black-red dress, her auburn hair tied up in a braid. Around her neck hangs a seven-pointed star in simple silver. She and the members of her household stood close to the Hightowers, both currently aligned with the Faith and the High Septon. The battle for legitimacy between Tarly, the Redwyne Twins and the Baratheon Bastard was a silly contest that led to unnecessary bloodshed. Yet the Reach would not know peace until the three factions came to a settlement or, most likely, slaughtered the other two. Alysanne had no high hopes for this summit, but the Bulwers had picked the side of the High Septon for now, and their presence was expected. She sighed, a silent prayer that fools would see reason today.
Eddard Freestone grumbled at his splitting headache, letting out curses that made a few septons and septas give him stares that could kill a dragon. He hated getting old and not being able to hold his wine like in his youth. At least he now had a good excuse to leave this idiotic summit if he felt like it. The old sellsword-turned-warlord was dressed in furs, a dagger or two hidden inside his heavy coat. His hair and large mustache was greasy and unkempt, and he most likely reeked of wine. Like other former mercenaries who had carved out a little fiefdom for themselves, he had none of the etiquette of the pompous lordlings of the Reach.
It was only natural that Eddard would align himself with the Bastard of Brightwater Keep, a former sellsword who had proven himself on the battlefield, with royal blood to boot! Freestone grinned to himself as he eyed the Redwyne twins and the Tarly boy from his seat close to Edric Storm's faction. Legitimacy and bearing they may have, but even their well-kept heads would split like a melon under an axe or a hammer. The one-eyed sellsword closed his eyes to sleep off his hangover, not wasting his time listening to this stupid summit.
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Post by ironaquilifer on Jun 15, 2021 18:31:24 GMT -5
Titus Meadows, among the last of the Reach's nobility to arrive, finds himself drifting away from the congregations of the Highgarden pretenders. Instead he finds common cause among those whose banners still remained at home. Even then, as he studied the body of men and women that the eastern noble found himself, his mouth drew into a sharp grimace. Too many new faces were counted among their number. Faces that did not belong to the noble lineages of old. It was a disquieting thought, that his continued silence on the matter of Highgarden saw him forced to take the company of such, some no more than bandits who had murdered their way into the castles they now possessed. Mayhaps he would be mistaken as being among the retinue of that bastard from the stormlands. He shook at the thought.
Instead the lord of Grassy Vale settled himself. The long ride south had been dangerous, even with the peace. Today was a chance at establishing something, anything, that could help being the healing between the noble families. And that healing had to begin. Titus paid the commoner presence at his back no heed. Religious fervour was one thing, but the armies of peasants was something altogether different. If a strong arm could not be found to sit Highgarden, to unite the people against the ruin that awaited them? Titus could not finish his line of thinking. No, there had to be someone.
The brothers Hewett followed the Redwyne twins into the chambers. They wore the finery expected of Reach noblemen, though paling in comparison to the garb of their chosen pretenders. It was no small thing, to find the three brothers together so far from their home. In recent memory, it had become custom for only one to be beyond the headwaters of the Mander, the painful memory of ironborn villainy still etched into all. But this was no ordinary occasion. This peace was a chance for the lords of the Reach to accept the mastery of the Redwyne claim, to turn their attentions to the defense of the Reach from its most vulnerable of flanks: the sea. Who better then to lead this great kingdom than those who brought it fame and riches through their trade? Who better to have the priviledge of its tithes than those whose responsibility it is to defend it?
Percy and Glendon spoke softly, almost whispering compared to the laughing choir that was their brother's conversation with the others who now followed the quartered grapes and rose. Though it may turn to them to champion the cause of their masters, none of the men seemed ready to supercede them in calling forth the pretenders' claim. Instead they seemed happy to allow the matter to rise of its own accord.
The High Septon sat as the gods willed for their avatar on earth, in the manner as only their herald should. Crowded by the ethereal presence of history and with no one above but the heavenly seats themselves. It was the position that not even kings could claim to own, nor understand. The hundreds before him knew only of themselves and the riches that were theirs by the blood of others. It was not their hands which toiled the lands nor by their generosity the divine tithes paid. No, it was the humility of those who were tied to the land. Where the gods to listen only to the words of the nobility they would have turned the kingdoms to ash twice over, for the only words they hear would be of wants and demands. Whom spoke of service to the gods when the allure of a crown was so close at hand? And yet those dark thoughts were nothing but firewood for his spirit. Would the gods not wish it so, for his mission was of such designs that the challenge must be equal to the quest of crowns. Only by ascending beyond such obstacles could he hope to forge the one kingdom as promised.
"We give thanks to the gods," the High Septon intoned. A soft echo rang out from the Most Devout. "That we could have this chance to come together. We are reminded of their generosity. Of their bounty which was intended for all of their children." His eyes went out to the huddled masses at the rear, to the folk. His folk, in spirit if not in blood. "In this moment of peace we are reminded of the bonds that unite us. The bond of land. Of the Seven." His voice, raised to reach every ear regardless of willingness, echoed harshly. "These harsh years have tested all of us. But now is our chance to rejoice. Now we may take measure. Let us one and all remember what was lost. Remember what will be lost."
His ascension had come in the turbulent years before the council, when radicalism was a luxury to only a learned few. Ascension, when the fires of truth were so ready to be blown out by the unfaithful. Now that flame was spread far and wide. The truth, as intended by the gods, was being heard from Oldtown to Tumbleton. Though the nobility were loathe to admit it, it would only be a matter of time before even kings accepted their place in the plans of the gods.
"You have all come because we have been blessed by the gods. The Gods who care for all of their children equally, and wish only love in return. This blessing is one only the gods can bestow: a future. This future will be one of the faithful united into one kingdom, where all men are beholden to the laws of the divine. You are here because you can help make this future a reality, with the least of your brothers' blood spilled to water it." A pause. The avatar of the gods almost smiled. He had almost forgotten his audience.
"I would call forth for those pretenders who would be heard. Lay your claims to Highgarden before your assembled peers and let them hear the validity with their own ears. Stand, and speak clear, for the gods are listening."
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Post by AxBrew Sunster on Jun 16, 2021 2:03:27 GMT -5
Lord Tarly strode forward, offering a precise bow towards the High Septon, and through him, to the gods. Then he turned and stood tall and straight with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, facing the crowd. His face was neutral, a stern look resting upon his features. His face was shaved of any baby flesh, leaving him with a lean and hard look, and he wore his beard trimmed tightly. Though still young, his hair had already begun to recede slightly, leaving him with a high forehead under the dark brown fuzz, trimmed short. He wore no beard, having never found them particularly comfortable or practical under a helm. He was tall, like his father before him, though even he would have a hard time looking Edric Storm in the eye. While his late father had a wiry frame, Dickon was broader across the chest and shoulders, though he still carried himself the same way, and had a similar lean profile. "I stake a claim to the seat of Highgarden in my own name, invoking the Houses Tarly and Florent and my twice-pure lineage traced to Garth Greenhand. My claim is the most just. It is for the greatest good of the people of the Reach that this station should pass to me, and would do the most honor to the legacy of our kingdom."
He made no further motion for the moment, nor did he make any indication that he would speak further. He simply surveyed the crowd with dark eyes, before allowing them to settle on the other claimants. It was not proper that he, with his true claim and the support of the finest remaining nobles of the Reach, should speak first. The lesser claimants could squabble first, he would allow them to beg their cases before ending this.
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Post by Gandalf on Jun 16, 2021 4:23:53 GMT -5
So, Tarly had made the first move, offering the shared blood of all Reachmen as proof of his rightful claim. Some would scoff, but others would look to the Lord of Horn Hill and see a man able to lift them from the mire by strength of arms alone. Many still nurse grievances towards the Tyrells, who were not well loved even when their rule was strong. It was their weakness that led to this, in the minds of many, and the nobles of the Reach have for long thought that their own dignity was damaged by the rule of mere stewards.
”Your holiness. I am Edric, son of the late king Robert Baratheon, first of his name.” Storm rose purposefully from the pew and mimicked Tarly’s own obsequious deference to the avatar of the divine. ”My good cousin Tarly forgets that by the laws of Gods and Men, a daughter of the Lord of Highgarden comes before their gamekeeper.” Suppressing a grin, it became apparent to Edric that Dickon reminded him of his humourless uncle in frame and manner. ”Catheryne Tyrell, sole daughter of Lord Willas, is the heir to Highgarden. As her betrothed, I speak for her rights, against those so called bannermen and kinsmen that would do her harm.” Even shaven and groomed, Storm looked fierce and wild, eyes circling the room for any hint of challenge. His eyes rested on the Redwyne twins, the pair of halfwit ingrates that undoubtedly wished him dismembered and dead. ”Even now, her rightful seat at Highgarden remains occupied and the Mander blocked by those that would advance their own claims at the expense of a young girl. Peace can never come while the laws of the land are so fragrantly flaunted, my lords, nor while the honour of good Reachmen lies drowned in the mouth of the Mander.”
A fine speech, full of mock incredulity. Storm straightened himself and stared upwards, not meeting the gaze of any he had challenged.
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Post by FieldMarshal Bismarck on Jun 16, 2021 11:58:30 GMT -5
Arriving late but surrounded by hardened men, some of the North, some of the south. Brandon Umber pushed aside the lowborn that stood in his way while he claimed his place in from of the crowd. As his father and brothers he was of a big posture. Significantly slimmer than his father and brothers tho. The life that Brandon has been living made sure he had slimmed down the past decade. He was a good leader to his men. Offering his own rations to those who needed them and with the scarcity of goods after the long night there never was much to go around. Brandon was just in time for Edric's speech.. listening and laughing softly to his trusted officers of the guard.
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Post by Magnate Lucius on Jun 16, 2021 23:28:30 GMT -5
Bah!
The sound of a scoff was heard after Edric Storm spoke. The source of which came from the younger of the Redwyne twins, the 'Marshal' Hobbler. Horas, who stood beside him, seemingly began to look at his finger nails, pretending he did not hear his brother's retort. Hobbler steps forward, gesturing to the Baratheon bastard. This half-bred stag was nothing to him.
You speak of birthrights? Of heirs and honour? You are nothing but baseborn bastard who acts like your Durrandon ancestors before the Seven came and put light into their hearts. You are the worst kind of opportunist... the very same that your father was. Whose very actions sundered the Seven Kingdoms and ensured that ALL its misfortunes was blood on his hands! I would rather a Flowers be raised as Lord of Highgarden! At least we would know that the honour of the Reachmen is in their veins, unlike this twice-foreigner.
The ridicule, at the end, was a remark to how Edric had been raised in the Free Cities. He was as foreign as an Essosi and further foreign cause he was a Stormlander through and through. There was hardly an ounce of Reachmen blood in his veins. Before Hobbler could speak further, Horas tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look. Hobbler steps back, letting the 'Lord Protector' come forward. Subtly though, Horas was happy to have heard such a rant about the Storm bastard.
Forgive my brother's rudeness. It is hard for him to listen to words spoken by those who aren't true Reachmen.
Horas turns to the High Septon.
I present the claim of House Redwyne. Our lineage descends from the third son of Greenhand, who taught our ancestors how to make the fine wine of the Arbor. An ancestry that outranks both Tarly and Florent, who come from younger sons. Furthermore, our mother, Mina Tyrell, is the eldest daughter of the late Luthor and Olenna. The latter of whom is a member of our house as well and is a child of our great-grandfather, Runceford. It is by both Redwyne and Tyrell lineage that I put forth both my claim and that of my mothers to Highgarden and the whole of the Reach!
The older Redwyne barks, giving glances at both Dickon and Edric afterward. Florents... Tarlys... they were nothing upon the immense tree that were the sons and daughters of Greenhand. There was a reason why the arrogance went into Horas' head and he proclaimed himself Lord Protector of the Reach.
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Post by oznerol on Jun 17, 2021 2:00:46 GMT -5
Lady Rhonda, as regent and Voice of Oldtown, stands, making a short genuflection before the Gods. As it was expected, moreso from a daughter of the Reach.
"All your claims are spurious"
She said. The auburn hair shone under the light of the sun, coming through the vitrals, with a myriad reflections. Her cold blue eyes stared at everyone there gathered.
"All here, all lords, have the blood of Greenhand. My forebear is Rowan Gold-Tree. My own son and the House of Hightower have the blood of the Gardeners, probably more drops than Tarly or Redwyne both. My own vassals, my lady-in-waiting, Lady Bulwer and my retainer, Lord Beesbury, both can claim to have a line of descent from Garth himself"
Her lips remained flat, but a smile flickered in her mouth.
"To claim our liege lord's title, seat, honor and privilege based on such a distant and flimsical claim is as irrational as everyone that have a drop of dragon blood tried to sail Valyria and claim the sunken treasures of their ilk"
Lady Rhonda gestured with her hands, dismissively.
"House Hightower will not stand and support these so-called lords, upstarts and would-be usurpers. Worst, they have made the land bleed, they fought, Reachmen against Reachmen, faithful against faithful, while the Red God gains hold in our shores. This should be anathema. They divided and torn the land apart based on their foolish pride"
She made a dramatic pause.
"We will not bear steel for any of those. There is only one liege, and that is Catheryne Tyrell. However, she has been coerced into betrothal by a bandit, and is in the wrong hands. She should be freed, restored to her power and glory, as daughter of our beloved Lord Wyllas, my nephew, and niece to Blessed Garlan the Knight, martyr and defender of Oldtown"
Another short pause.
"We have to rescue our liege from the clutches of mercenaries and usurpers. And cast away these pretenders that have ruined our land in times of need. Spring should be the time of rebuiling and hope, not fighting over the ashes. I dennounce them, Tarly and Redwyne and Storm, them three. But the worst are the lords of Hornhill and the Arbor, raising sword against kin and their own people, worshippers of the Seven Who Are One"
Then, Lady Hightower kneels.
"Your Holyness, Voice of the Gods, blessed High Septon. House Hightower stands firm in its devotion to the One True Faith and the worship of the Seven Who Are One, source of light and life and love and bounty. We humbly request that we are heard, and that the House of Tyrell, our rightful rulers, always faithful to the Seven and your Holyness, are restored to their graces, freed from usurpation and that the pretenders are declared anathema, for they are turning the folk of the Gods against itself and destroying the Seven's peace, devastating our fair land. I beseech you to hear my voice and answer our prayers"
She said so a hand over the heart, looking at the High Septon.
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Post by Gandalf on Jun 17, 2021 4:16:13 GMT -5
Bah!The sound of a scoff was heard after Edric Storm spoke. The source of which came from the younger of the Redwyne twins, the 'Marshal' Hobbler. Horas, who stood beside him, seemingly began to look at his finger nails, pretending he did not hear his brother's retort. Hobbler steps forward, gesturing to the Baratheon bastard. This half-bred stag was nothing to him. You speak of birthrights? Of heirs and honour? You are nothing but baseborn bastard who acts like your Durrandon ancestors before the Seven came and put light into their hearts. You are the worst kind of opportunist... the very same that your father was. Whose very actions sundered the Seven Kingdoms and ensured that ALL its misfortunes was blood on his hands! I would rather a Flowers be raised as Lord of Highgarden! At least we would know that the honour of the Reachmen is in their veins, unlike this twice-foreigner.The ridicule, at the end, was a remark to how Edric had been raised in the Free Cities. He was as foreign as an Essosi and further foreign cause he was a Stormlander through and through. There was hardly an ounce of Reachmen blood in his veins. Before Hobbler could speak further, Horas tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look. Hobbler steps back, letting the 'Lord Protector' come forward. Subtly though, Horas was happy to have heard such a rant about the Storm bastard. Forgive my brother's rudeness. It is hard for him to listen to words spoken by those who aren't true Reachmen.Horas turns to the High Septon. I present the claim of House Redwyne. Our lineage descends from the third son of Greenhand, who taught our ancestors how to make the fine wine of the Arbor. An ancestry that outranks both Tarly and Florent, who come from younger sons. Furthermore, our mother, Mina Tyrell, is the eldest daughter of the late Luthor and Olenna. The latter of whom is a member of our house as well and is a child of our great-grandfather, Runceford. It is by both Redwyne and Tyrell lineage that I put forth both my claim and that of my mothers to Highgarden and the whole of the Reach!The older Redwyne barks, giving glances at both Dickon and Edric afterward. Florents... Tarlys... they were nothing upon the immense tree that were the sons and daughters of Greenhand. There was a reason why the arrogance went into Horas' head and he proclaimed himself Lord Protector of the Reach. Hobber Redwyne. Gods, what a stupid name. The Baratheon bastard bristled like a shadowcat, a cloud passing over his face that heralded thunder. "The man of honour waits until he is on safe ground, before the very Gods themselves, and then makes his insults." Edric retorted venomously. If they were anywhere else, he would have caved the man's skull in then and there. "If you would show such bravery in single combat, then we may end this war here and now. The Warrior would bless such a display."
Lady Rhonda, as regent and Voice of Oldtown, stands, making a short genuflection before the Gods. As it was expected, moreso from a daughter of the Reach. "All your claims are spurious"She said. The auburn hair shone under the light of the sun, coming through the vitrals, with a myriad reflections. Her cold blue eyes stared at everyone there gathered. "All here, all lords, have the blood of Greenhand. My forebear is Rowan Gold-Tree. My own son and the House of Hightower have the blood of the Gardeners, probably more drops than Tarly or Redwyne both. My own vassals, my lady-in-waiting, Lady Bulwer and my retainer, Lord Beesbury, both can claim to have a line of descent from Garth himself"Her lips remained flat, but a smile flickered in her mouth. "To claim our liege lord's title, seat, honor and privilege based on such a distant and flimsical claim is as irrational as everyone that have a drop of dragon blood tried to sail Valyria and claim the sunken treasures of their ilk"Lady Rhonda gestured with her hands, dismissively. "House Hightower will not stand and support these so-called lords, upstarts and would-be usurpers. Worst, they have made the land bleed, they fought, Reachmen against Reachmen, faithful against faithful, while the Red God gains hold in our shores. This should be anathema. They divided and torn the land apart based on their foolish pride"
She made a dramatic pause. "We will not bear steel for any of those. There is only one liege, and that is Catheryne Tyrell. However, she has been coerced into betrothal by a bandit, and is in the wrong hands. She should be freed, restored to her power and glory, as daughter of our beloved Lord Wyllas, my nephew, and niece to Blessed Garlan the Knight, martyr and defender of Oldtown"Another short pause. "We have to rescue our liege from the clutches of mercenaries and usurpers. And cast away these pretenders that have ruined our land in times of need. Spring should be the time of rebuiling and hope, not fighting over the ashes. I dennounce them, Tarly and Redwyne and Storm, them three. But the worst are the lords of Hornhill and the Arbor, raising sword against kin and their own people, worshippers of the Seven Who Are One"
Then, Lady Hightower kneels. "Your Holyness, Voice of the Gods, blessed High Septon. House Hightower stands firm in its devotion to the One True Faith and the worship of the Seven Who Are One, source of light and life and love and bounty. We humbly request that we are heard, and that the House of Tyrell, our rightful rulers, always faithful to the Seven and your Holyness, are restored to their graces, freed from usurpation and that the pretenders are declared anathema, for they are turning the folk of the Gods against itself and destroying the Seven's peace, devastating our fair land. I beseech you to hear my voice and answer our prayers"She said so a hand over the heart, looking at the High Septon. Storm turned to the so called steel whore, a woman who regularly garbed herself in mail and plate. For a moment, he merely ground his teeth, recognising her as a different sort of mettle than the others gathered. Enough time in Lys and Volantis had taught him as much. Despite his best intentions, he found himself attracted to her. "If I am a bandit, woman, then I have more honour still than you and your ilk. I have defended the lady Catheryne for two years with my own sword and blood. I saved her from her own cousins, damn them, who would have seen her dead to claim the lordly seat in her place. House Hightower has sat and idled atop the bones of good Reachmen, and all know it to be true."Undoubtedly, 'free from usurpation' meant that his betrothed would soon find herself instead married to the young Lord of the Hightower. Whilst Rhonda grovelled, he turned to the rest present - including the clerics, mercers, and other smallfolk.
"If I may speak for the Lady Tyrell." Storm's voice grew in size, echoing like a thunderclap around the Dome. "Our good lady has not forgotten the sons and daughters of the Reach, even as her sworn bannermen and kinsmen besiege her." Edric took a pause, as the rhetorician had taught him, allowing the silence to settle. It was one of the few lessons that he still remembered. "As I fight for her rights, I fight for yours, for it is her sworn oath that the liberties of her subjects be defended, at all costs." For emphasis, he put a hand over his breast, as one might do when they swore a binding oath. "The liberties of Free Men are not to be taken away, by men like Lord Tarly or otherwise. She will defend you unto death, and that is what these lords fear."The would be Baratheon turned back to the High Septon, and bit back his pride to dip his head in a show of deference.
"I await your judgement, holiness."
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Post by AxBrew Sunster on Jun 17, 2021 14:02:57 GMT -5
"Peace! For a moment, if you all will!" Dickon called, raising his hands into the air in a pacifying gesture. He drew in a deep breath and held himself tall. He, Eleanor, his mother and Talla had all been over what was needed multiple times. He had to make the other see.
"I will not lean only on historical claims to the throne. Indeed, I cannot. As has been elucidated so clearly by both Ser Horas and Lady Rhonda there are few in the Reach who cannot claim such a lineage." He paused for a moment, turning to each as he named them and offering a nod, though the nod towards Horas was notably stiffer and shallower. "The legacy of Garth Greenhand runs in the blood of every man, and woman, from the Reach, and in direct lineage can hardly be traced. Nor, I feel, is the claim of Tyrell still sufficient."
He turned to the High Septon and spoke, "Under the eyes of the Seven, the Reach flourished for many centuries. If the claim of ancient lineage is to be respected, then any could demand the Seat of Highgarden by birthright, and the Reach will never find itself at peace again. If the claim of House Tyrell to the throne were to be held sacrosanct, then my house has as much claim as them, for they earned their seat by bending the knee to Tyrell rule, as my father did years past. But I submit that in these times, right to rule comes not from ancient blood, nor can it be granted by Targaryens from across the Seas. Indeed, we must now choose out of need."
Lord Tarly cast his attention back to the rest of those gathered and spoke yet louder, letting his voice cast throughout the room as if it were a battlefield. "My Lords and Ladies, and gentle folk of the Reach. Standing before you are four men," a brief gesture indicated himself, Edric, and the Rewyne twins, "By whose hand the life-giving land of the Reach has been sowed with death, the Mander left to run red. I do not presume to speak for the Seven, but I cannot imagine it is their will that the few remaining good men in the world emerge from the world's end only to die upon the battlefield in what amounts to a squabble between siblings. The conflict must end."
Another deep breath, and he resumed his previous posture, hands folded behind his back, as if he inspected a line of troops. That is all this is, a speech before the men, nothing more. "I am here to declare before you all and under the eyes of the Seven and their representative on Westeros, that I have had enough. Save in defense of me and mine, I will not raise my sword to shed the blood of my people. Hells, I certainly do not wish to march against my own niece! And I would see all such foolishness come to an end. We find ourselves at the threshold of a new era, and power proven through force of arms alone is something that I would see left behind." He cast a veiled glance towards Edric and Hobber, who now glared at each other like young stags preparing to vye for dominance.
"And because we find ourselves at this threshold, those of us gathered in this hall have the chance to change the world we live in for the better. The world is still a dangerous place, but the Reach at least can stand united. Might alone does not grant one the right to rule, but strength of arms will be necessary in the coming days. Ser Edric certainly has strength of arms, but he is a warrior, not a soldier. A soldier must know when to sheate his blade, a skill which I fear that Ser Storm has not yet honed. He speaks of freedom, yet for years none have seen my niece nor her family. How are we truly to know her will in any of this? He would set her as Lady over us all, but insists on speaking for her on all fronts. I call this laughable. Yet he does speak truly when he speaks of the people of the Reach. Whoever is to rule must do so because they have the good of the Reach and all her people in their heart. For this reason, and I mean as little insult as can possibly be taken from such a statement, I cannot endorse the claim of Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, for their pageantry reveals that they seek greater station and importance for themselves."
One final push now, a cavalry charge surging against a flank that would either grant or cost him the victory. "My proposal, then, is a new council. The Iron Throne is no more, we stand alone, and I would see us prosper now. My niece's claim to Highgarden itself I support, as her hereditary seat. Let Lady Catherine be brought here and allowed to speak for herself, in the company of these who we know will protect her, if it comes to that. But I cannot yet support her as lone ruler of the Reach. Instead, those who would hold power for the good of others know that they cannot rule alone. You may view the position I ask as a sort of Queen's Hand, in the terms of the old order - I truly believe that my Stewardship would give the Reach the greatest chance to do so. Of my rivals, I would not see them cast out or killed, for the Reach needs all of the strong capable men, and all the flower of her nobility we have left. Each of them could have a role on the council. Masters of ships and war, perhaps. The Faith, of course, should have a seat, for we need the light of the Seven more than ever in these times. And perhaps we have held ourselves apart long enough, and the smallfolk deserve their own representative among the mighty of the land, to ensure that we truly have their interests at heart, as Ser Edric claims?" He cast a glance towards the rabble which had been brought in to view the pomp of the day.
"We can no longer spend our days squabbling as was done in the time before the Long Night. If anything should have proved to us the error of our ways it was that winter, and yet we turn back to the same foolish wars. Let us stand now together, and show the rest of Westeros that in the Reach, we remain proud, and will emerge stronger than before."
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