The Riverlands Part 2:
-[X]Arianne: She's worried about your constant nightmares, and it's affecting Daeron… she has been saying ever since that… incident… every time you sleep, he cries. Like he can't bear the sight of you trapped in your dreams. Rolled:
D100 => 82
It was a quiet thing, being awake. The room was still, save for the rhythmic sound of Daeron's soft babbling, his little voice rising and falling in incoherent murmurs. But you knew it wouldn't last. He would cry again soon—you could feel it as surely as you felt the pull of your dreams, the ones you never truly escaped.
He always cried when you drifted.
As if something in him knew, as if he could sense the moment your mind crossed the threshold into that other world, the world of shadows and memories. And whatever you became there, whatever specter or nightmare took your shape, frightened him. He could not understand it, but he knew enough to try and stop it. To keep you awake, to hold you here, at least until exhaustion stole him away first.
Arianne was growing weary of it, the sleepless nights, the tension coiling tighter between you like a fraying rope. She never said it aloud, but you knew. You could see it in the way her fingers lingered on Daeron's back longer than necessary as if reassuring herself that he was safe, as if trying to tether herself to something solid while the man beside her became someone she struggled to recognize.
You had changed.
She knew that. Felt that. The man who had once swept her into his arms with reckless devotion, the man who had whispered promises under moonlit skies, was not the same man who lay beside her now, silent and distant. But then again… neither was she the same woman.
Marriage had been a gift, one you had both fought for, one that had been worth every battle waged, every sacrifice made. And yet, it was a fragile thing, too, something that had to be chosen again and again with each passing day. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, she wondered how things would have been different if you had hesitated if you had not spoken those words all those years ago, if you had stayed your hand, if you had chosen another path. You could see it through the void that sometimes pierced your mind, and let you see them.
Lying in the small, dimly lit room of an inn, staring up at the ceiling as if the answers to your restless soul were etched into the woodgrain above. And she, Arianne, the only one who had ever been able to match you, the only one who had ever dared, finally broke the silence.
"What do you see, Viserys? In your dreams?"
Her voice was soft, careful. Daeron had fallen asleep at last, nestled between the two of you, his tiny body warm and safe between the walls of his parents. It was a question you had been dreading, one you had been running from.
Because how could you explain it?
She wasn't like you.
She wasn't like Dany, whom you trusted about as much as anyone else in the world, yet still kept distant to your own silent suffering. She wasn't like Jaime, who looked at you as though he saw only Rhaegar's ghost wearing your skin. Who understood far to well what was… haunting in a mind.
And she wasn't like you, because you never wanted her to be like you.
You didn't want her to share in this pain.
But that was the thing about Arianne, she was never content to remain on the edges of your life. She would not let you keep this from her. She was asking, not as a queen or a princess, but as your wife.
"I—" You faltered, swallowing the words before they could form. You turned away, unable to face her. "You wouldn't believe me."
Arianne's hand found yours, warm and grounding. Daeron stirred in his sleep, his small fingers reaching up, tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to pull you back—to force you to look at her.
She held your gaze.
"Do you remember what I said," she murmured, "the night we were married?"
You could only stare.
"I am yours," she whispered, voice steady and certain, "and you are mine."
The words hit you like a heartbeat, steady and strong, resonating through you.
You searched her eyes, looking deeper than you ever had before, and for a fleeting moment, you saw your own reflection staring back at you. Not the lost prince. Not the dream-haunted king. Just you.
And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, she could understand.
You sighed. "I see things… strange things… I dream of monsters that feel to real, of great terrors that are now stalking the West…" You paused. "I dream that I am not strong enough to meet them, to defeat them, to keep you safe. Keep Daeron safe."
You felt your heart quicken with a sense of dread, as you felt the shadows move and shift in the air, as if feeling your tension. You could not see the shatterpoints of the world, not when you were not as focused… but… you could… sense them. See them… feel them morph around you.
Arianne, quietly and wordlessly squeezed your hand… "I'm not strong enough."
The words were enough to make your wife look terrified, though not for herself… but for you. She could sense it all, ever since you both met again after the Second Battle of the Trident, where you defeated Robert… where you were nearly drowned in the Trident… where you saw Rhaegar's ghost come with his ruby armor… and drag you to the surface… to be saved by Jaime… the man who killed your father… and saved you again.
You had never spoken of it. Not to Arianne. Not to Dany. Not to anyone.
But in the silence of the night, when your dreams turned dark, when the weight of ghosts pressed against your chest, you wondered—had it been real?
Or had it been something else entirely?
Arianne's hand was still holding yours, still anchoring you to the present. To her.
She was waiting for you to speak. To tell her more. To let her in.
And for the first time, you wondered if you should.
So you both spoke for another hour—long after the candles had melted low, long after the distant sounds of the inn had faded into silence. You spoke of dreams and fears, of ghosts and regrets. Of the weight you carried, the burdens you had never dared to share.
And Arianne listened.
Not as a princess of Dorne, nor as the wife of a Targaryen prince, but as your Arianne—the woman who had chosen you, who had fought for you, who had stood by you even when the world seemed set against you. She held your hand through every word, through every fractured memory you unearthed, through every shadow that had once seemed insurmountable.
And when, at last, the exhaustion pulled you under, the nightmares did not come.
There was only warmth.
There was only her.
And Daeron, nestled safely between you, his tiny fingers curled around yours.
And your family, standing in the sunlight, smiling, whole.
For the first time in years, you felt something unfamiliar. Something distant—so distant that you had almost forgotten its name.
Peace.
Reward:
Viserys begins his long road to recovery, no longer carrying his burdens alone. He has opened his heart to his wife, to his son, to his family. And in doing so, he has found something he thought he had lost forever.
He is not alone.
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-[X]Sansa Stark: She hadn't stopped crying since the incident. But… now she was free of tears. "Something feels wrong." She said. "Something in the west feels wrong." Rolled:
D100 => 10
It was impossible to truly look at the young woman before you—Sansa—without feeling the weight of everything she had endured. She sat quietly, her head bowed, her fingers moving with delicate precision as she knitted away at her work. A scarf. A blue scarf, woven from scraps of wool and cloth that she had gathered at every stop along your journey.
You didn't know where she found them, how she managed to collect them with the meager resources at her disposal, but she had. And now, she sat there, focused, the rhythmic motion of her hands the only sound between you.
You had tried to speak to her before. You had tried today, once more.
And as always, she said the same thing, in the same measured, careful voice:
"Your Grace, I do not wish to speak to you right now… I am busy."
There was no anger in her tone, no hatred—only distance. A wall, built stone by stone, word by word, woven just as carefully as the fabric in her hands.
And so, silence settled between you once again.
You wanted to help her. You wanted to say something, to do something. To assure her that she was safe, that she was not alone. But what words could ever be enough? What could you possibly say that she had not already heard, or worse, had once believed and been betrayed for?
So instead, you sat there, watching her knit, listening to the quiet click of needles, feeling the unspoken weight between you.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
Failure: Sansa… is traumatized by her experience… and she does not know how to comprehend it. What madness that has been brought to her life, ever since she entered your court.
This was supposed to be a great adventure. Now… she was trapped in her own private hell.
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-[X] Barristan Selmy (Lord Commander): He coughed. "This is…how the blazes are we going to fight this?" Rolled:
D100 => 79
-[X] Mandon Moore: The Silent knight only looked out. "There will be more They won't stop until you are dead." there was a pause. "I heard stories about shades in my youth, but never seen them before with my own eyes." Rolled:
D100 => 100
Ser Barristan Selmy sighed, the lines of age and battle-worn wisdom etched deeply into his face as he turned his gaze from you to Mandon Moore. The other Kingsguard sat across from you, his expression unreadable, as always. The others had been sent to guard your wife and son, leaving just the three of you to ponder what had transpired.
"That was a monster," the Lord Commander said at last, his voice heavy with certainty. "How do we fight that?"
A silence stretched between you, broken only by the flickering of the torches lining the walls. Mandon Moore sat still, seemingly lost in thought, before he finally hummed to himself and spoke in that cold, detached manner of his.
"Steel works," Mandon said simply. "They bleed all the same. Shadow, shade, flesh, and blood."
Both you and Ser Barristan turned to look at him. The old knight raised a weathered brow, his expression caught somewhere between intrigue and skepticism.
"What?" Mandon asked, his tone almost bemused.
Barristan exhaled sharply. "You seem awfully calm about what just happened to us."
Mandon only shrugged. "We're Kingsguard. We have to be prepared for anything."
That answer did not satisfy the Lord Commander. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists against the table. "And how do we prepare for an eventuality such as this? How do we plan for shadowy monsters that move like smoke and strike like nightmares? How do we guard against the unknown threats that may yet come for our king?"
Mandon sighed, as if the conversation itself was a greater burden than the horrors you had faced. "I don't like talking."
"Well, I order you to talk," you said, leaning back in your chair. "Because something tells me—just a feeling—that what you might say could actually be useful."
Mandon studied you for a moment, then nodded, settling into his seat. "I remember an old ghost story my grandmother used to tell me, before she passed. She spoke of how the great knights of old battled such things, back before the septs and the septons, before the Faith took hold. Back when Westeros was still young, when the old magics ruled the land."
His fingers traced the hilt of his dagger before he pulled it free and drove the blade into the wooden table with a dull thunk.
"Black iron. Weirwood spears. Steel set aflame, as the Red Priests do. Or pure faith—unyielding will, the kind that can shatter anything set against it." His voice was steady, measured. "That's how you fight monsters. Even when they are stronger. Faster. More powerful."
You frowned. "That's dreadfully unhelpful. And how does one become a warrior of 'pure faith'?"
For the first time since you had known him, Mandon Moore smiled. It was slight, barely there, but unmistakable.
"Don't fear death," he said. "Because if you do not fear it, then nothing—no monster, no nightmare—can ever cause you to doubt."
Now that was an answer.
"But we all have fears," you said, watching Mandon carefully.
"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "And that is why it is doubly important that those who guard you have none."
Ser Barristan leaned forward, his weathered hands clasped together on the table. His eyes, sharp with the wisdom of decades, studied the younger Kingsguard with an intensity you rarely saw. "And do you have fears, Ser Mandon?" he asked, his voice devoid of jest, his tone heavy with something deeper.
Mandon turned to you, his expression unchanged, his voice as flat and measured as ever. "I like killing, Your Grace. Too fond of it. Can't imagine a world, where I'm not the best at what I do."
A flicker of something stirred in your chest—discomfort, perhaps. A cold wind seemed to pass through the room, though none of the torches so much as flickered.
That was not the answer you had expected. Nor was it one you particularly liked. And yet, something in the way he said it—calm, honest, unashamed—told you all you needed to hear.
Mandon Moore would fight for you. He would kill for you. And when the time came, he would face the monsters that lurked in the dark, the things that turned grown men to cowards and sent warriors fleeing. He would not waver.
And yet, the thought left an uneasy weight in your gut.
Reward:
Mandon Moore now gains a massive bonus to fighting supernatural creatures that stand against you.
(This is temporary… but it may become permanent.)
But something told you that if you encouraged this path, you would not like what he becomes.
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Ah the Riverlands... Westeros' most peculiar kingdom. and one you loved to vist again...
if only the bloody place wasn't on fire. Well you were the king, time for the blood progress to continue, and you have to put out some fucking fires.
Where do you go?:
[]The Blue Forks: The Republic of the Blue Forks, has risen in rebellion, viewing no man but themselves to be the masters of thier fates. You were going to need to deal with that, if only to prevent there being a headache again.
[]Harrenhall's buried Vault: Lady Whent was selling Harrenhall to a bunch of mercenaries. It wasn't the fact that it was illegal, far from it, but you were looking at the men with shovels and carts... and all sorts of building material. "What are you doing?" "Fiding Harren the Blacks Treasure Room?! Old Riverlander legend that when Aegon burned the place, he forgot to loot it, there are entire kingdoms worth of gold in there."
[]Edmure Tully and the Parlimatarians: So... Edmure was gathering his lords and ladies... and is trying to legalize... what is essentially anyone else... treason. The fuck is a parliament... and why the hell does Edmure want to make one for the Riverlands? better question is... why the seven hells are all of his lords agreeing to this?
[]The Frey Problems: Another rising of bastard freys trying to steal the twins. Olyver wants your help to deal with that problem. Again.
[]Septon Meribald and Ray's Sept Building: You found a sept that was under construction... and two septons that were most godly men among them. And Ray smiled. "Welcome your grace..." he then saw your eyes. "It seems you have other reasons to be here... then just helping an old man with his sept?"
AN: enjoy.
