What is usually a Friday night with friends of Dungeons and Dragons has for the time been replaced by Westeros and A Song of Ice and Fire rp. I really enjoy the dice system and it’s a nice break from min-maxing a Fighter (Targeteer) Dread Pirate Half-elf.
So, meet Marisily Thorne of Red Lake in The Reach during the age of The Dance of Dragons. It’s just a quick write up, but I figured that I’d share.
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It took Marisily a surprising amount of willpower to keep back an amused chuckle as she walked away from the campfire. She could hear the murmuring of jesting flowing back and forth between the men, directed mainly at the only one of the Briarguard who had plucked up enough courage to speak to her. They were good men, and she shared with them an equal concern for the welfare of the home they’d left behind.
To the side of their encampment Kloe practiced her shooting with a skill that both surprised and instilled pride. Nodding to her sister as she passed Marisily could not help but smile at the sight of the mangled target. Marksmanship brought a connection with Kloe that Marisily had rarely shared with others. Usually she would have joined the young Thorne, but not tonight. Tonight she needed silence and time to gather her scattered thoughts.
The closer she drew to her tent, the more her smile faded and a weight took hold within her. The news of The Blacks pressing north and Old Oak being surrounded renewed her sense of duty for her mission. But the rumors of dragons slaying thousands at a time made her feel sick. Slipping inside of her temporary shelter, Marisily clenched her fists, her eyes moving up the length of her bow. She was responsible for the lives of her men; for the life of her sister. She would do what she had to. What change did this bring to her husband’s vague instructions?
“Nothing,” she said firmly. She would take the cards The Seven dealt her and use them to their greatest advantage. Sable. She had never doubted him, and she would not start now. Until he told her differently she would stand for neutrality, and work to keep the wolves out of the Lady Regent’s garden. Marisily’s hands steadied and the pounding of her heart quieted. Sitting down on the seat of her saddle, the Lady Thorne pulled out a piece of parchment and quill, and began to write.
Dearest Robert and Phillip,
My sons . . . .