The Lonesome Road

[Nefieslab]

The Kingsroad.

Constructed long ago on the orders of madmen with dragons - or visionaries depending on whom you asked - it stretches across the land of Westeros and it serves the highborn and the lowborn alike. All may travel the Kings Road, people tell their children from a young age.

They tell them it's stones are smooth and the way safe, in hopes that they will instill some sense of security in their children when they catch sight of the road. But in truth, the Kingsroad has seen more blood spilled than any single battlefield and it's stones are forever thirsty for more.

It is upon this road that the party from House Ironbane travels now, towards their destination of Kings Landing. King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, intends to host a tourney to celebrate the nameday of his son, Joffrey.

The party may very well enjoy this tourney, should they survive the journey.

The Riverlands are flush with greenery and life, the life that comes with a soft and gentle spring. It is warmer than even the most southern reaches of the North, with large oaks framing the road and allowing only interrupted streams of sunlight to breach their canopies to light the way. The sun has not long since risen and already the day looks to be a long one.

There are still many miles to go before rest is to be found.

How are you this morrow and what shall you make of this day and your journey ahead?

@Loco @Ecclessey @vamp @Rom @TheMorrigan

Spoiler: Recording

Voiced Narration Found Here

 

[Eccles]

Ser Aelos of the Saltpans did not own a horse, making him a sorry excuse for a knight, thus walked alongside the smallfolk retinue of their lord. His left hand on the pommel of his castle-forged longsword and his shield with his personal crest slung across his shoulder and bouncing uncomfortably up and down his lower back. Despite being clad in better fitting leather and chainmail than the last time he walked the Kingsroad, Ser Aelos felt melancholic over his return to the Riverlands, passing by the Trident and the Stoney Sept, both scenes of great personal loss and shame.

None in Lord Ironbane's retinue knew of his past fighting for the Targaryans in the War of the Usurper, knowing him solely from his contribution to the Siege of Pyke, Aelos was careful not to let slip that fact despite any lordling who knew the houses and their history would've known that House Cox of the Saltpans had fought to thwart Robert's Rebellion.

Keeping his distance from the lordlings he therefore walked with those of equal birth to his own and spoke in gruff tones of his adventures along this very road.

 

[Loco]

Drake sniffled, snorted, spit, and then let out a mighty sneeze, despite his best efforts not to.

His storm grey courser whinnied in annoyance. The upjumped pack animal didn't seem to mind riding straight into a pitched fight or charging full tilt into a joust, but seven hells did it have something to say about its riders conduct at every turn, intentional or not.

"Stuff it, you mangy ass." The heir of House Ironbane admonished his horse. The horse huffed and trotted along with vanguard of the procession.

They were still at least a days ride from the Inn at the Crossroads, and a half day past that from the Ruby Ford, and already Ser Drake felt under attack. It always took him several days to adapt to the Riverlands abundant bloomage and humid warmth compared to his home country. He'd already stripped off his furs and pelts down to his lacquered black leather scales and the deep navy cloak tossed back over his shoulders, but he was sweating profusely regardless, and his eyes watered like the mouth of the Rillwater come spring snow melt. Drake suspected it had something to do with all the flower sprouting this time of year, and the towering cottonwoods dumping the Southron equivalent of snow on him, but he couldn't be sure- he'd have to ask a Maester some day if there was any correlation. All he knew is that this time of year in this type of country, it was all he could do to see and breath properly. Even in the thick of the fighting on Robert's flank at the battle of the Trident, Drake had thought for sure he'd die to suffocation and misery before he died to a Dornishmans spear. Knee deep in the mud and rock of the Ruby Ford, enemies all about, and that was all he could think of- I can't fucking breath.

It was going to be a long ride, he thought, looking back on the small train of northmen trudging South toward the captial a d brushing the sweat soaked brown hair from his brow. A long ride indeed.

@Nefieslab @Ecclessey @Rom @vamp

 

[vamp]

Ryden Snow trudged along the road on his rounsey—the least malnourished one he'd been able to find. Its black mane was thick from the humidity, and Ryden, too, was suffering from the weather. One hand on the reins and another in the air swatting at the bugs hovering around his face, he gave the horse a gentle nudge to trot up a few steps so he was riding alongside his older brother.

"Ah cut him a little slack," he piped up. "Someone'll overhear you and tell the Maester you're being rude to the horses again." Last time, Drake had gotten an earful about treating all life with respect because he'd said something somewhat impolite about one of the steeds after it spit on him. The bastard had witnessed it and it seemed someone else had too, because they told the Maester. Ryden himself was no snitch—it wouldn't earn him any friends, and being a bastard was a shit situation enough as it was.

His own horse was surprisingly disciplined, mostly because he actually took the time to befriend it. The steed had been quiet throughout the whole ride down, even now when there were insects biting it and a 19 year old riding its back for hours at a time. Ryden had stripped of his furs long ago and was all but shirtless now, only thing covering his torso being a black cloak. Still, he remained drenched in sweat, his wet hair pulled back in a ponytail to prevent it from covering his eyes.

"Lovely stretch of land," he remarked, eyes on the road up ahead.

@Loco

 

[Rom]

Taking a long pull from the waterskin hanging at his belt and absent-mindedly wiping a lock of dark sweat-soaked hair from his brow, Jorund Ironbane was the only Northman in the party to not look completely miserable beneath the summer sun. He'd traded his furs and heavier armor for lighter leathers and cloth, a stylized winter rose embossed into the leather armor over his heart. The years fighting in Essos as a sellsword with the Company of the Rose had inured him to the scorching heat and his eastern armor, though cut in a Northern style, certainly helped make the journey more bearable. Snapping the reins he urged his garron forward to ride alongside his brother's get, dark eyes carefully sweeping over the road ahead before turning to look over the two young men. Jorund ofttimes found himself despairing over what the Ironbane of ages past must think of their House today; a land ravaged by poverty and banditry, a Lord hobbled by injury, an anointed Knight of the Seven as an heir and a bastard with iron and salt in his veins at his side. To say nothing of Jorund himself, the first trueborn second son of House Ironbane to run from the post waiting for him with the Night's Watch.

Sighing heavily, he tossed the waterskin to Drake so that he might wash the snot and grit of the road from his face and responded to his brother's bastard without taking his eyes from the road.

"Aye, and the bandits find it just as lovely. Blood has been shed every time I've crossed the Riverlands and I don't expect this time to be any different, so keep your wits about you and don't get too distracted by the scenery, Snow."

@Loco @Ecclessey @vamp

 

[Nefieslab]

Today, on this particular stretch of the Kingsroad, House Ironbane meets The Stranger.

A dozen corpses litter the road ahead, their arms and armour either stolen or broken beyond use for the most part, it is clear that they were the guards to a caravan that was making it's way down the Kingsroad. There are tracks in the dirt that imply more than one cart was taken away from the scene.

Fires burn along the edge of the road, as if the attackers had begun an attempt to cleanse the area of the evidence of their crime before deciding that it was too much work. Instead their victims lay upon the ground where they fell.

There are no immediate signs of anyone yet living.

There are no clear clues as to where the carts have gone.

The 'heroes' of House Ironbane will need to decide how this sight, how the stench of death, stirs them. Will they investigate further with bravery in their hearts? Or shall they continue onwards, too craven to linger?

@Loco @Ecclessey @vamp @Rom @TheMorrigan

Spoiler: Recording

Recorded DM