​​​​​​​​What Next?

            ROLAN:             I’d like to just remind everyone that if we get caught in open water, it doesn’t matter what we do. I think we need to make landfall as quickly as possible… preferably a location where we have some cover. Then I may scout ahead with Hooterz and report back what I find.

Not much longer than a month ago, his life had been shaken apart. Jahor, his only close friend and mentor, ripped away. Now he’s on track; a path laid out before him by the Kraken. Physically, he’s back here in the Deep Onion, where he was then, though in a very different position.

Now, he’s enjoying some of the local brews with a group of misfits and somehow making plans to raid the Shield Islands. It’s not a raid in the fashion of the Old Ways, but it is a raid nonetheless. The planning of a raid, going into the unknown, feels good in his bones in a way he could not describe – and the good intention behind it relieves him of guilt.

            QARZ:               We could island-hop. We could all get out on the first of the Shield Islands and look around, then have Rolan take the ship to the next island. Then he could just come back for us.

            ARAN:               Do we expect them to be on the islands though?

            QARZ:               Well… I suppose that is a good point. Rolan, where would you expect them to be? On water or land?

            ROLAN:             I hope they are on the islands, otherwise I don’t know what we’re going to do fight them.

            ARAN:               We haven’t seen any real Ironborn on land unless they were near their ships.

            QARZ:               Perhaps there is another stash where we can ambush them.

            ARAN:               That seems unlikely.

As the words leave his lips, two striking young women walk into the tavern. They are none other than Cora and Nora; Qhortho’s and Ornogrim’s flings from their first pass through Highgarden.

Qhortho would take exception to the word “fling,” with him being head-over-heels for Cora. That pure, uncut, love-smack that makes people do stupid things. One of those stupid things happens immediately. Rather than continuing to plan this extremely dangerous approach to the Shield Islands, he shoots to his feet almost knocking over Qarzdaq.

Qarzdaq glances at him with annoyance, but lets it go.

The women recognize the group through the crowd and make way to their table.

            NORA:              Evening boys.

Nora looks over their faces and stops on Ornogrim. Ornogrim stands, puffing out his shoulder to boast his Highgarden “rank” given to him by the King.

            ORNO:              Good evening, my lady. I would ask to buy you a drink, but I fear I have been away from my bed for far too long. Would you like to accompany me?

            NORA:              I am a bit thirsty. Would any of the rest of you like to buy me an ale?

Ornogrim instinctively grimaces and her quick glance back to him catches it. Her sly grin tells him that was her intention.

            NORA:              On second thought, I am a bit tired. Perhaps I will join you.

She winks at him and they leave the table.

Qhortho has been staring at Cora this entire time, now at full attention, metaphorically speaking. This just happens to be at eye-level to Qarzdaq but is still unnoticed. Well, unnoticed by him; Aran and Rolan are across the table from him giggling like two little handmaids. Qarzdaq slowly looks to his side then does a double-take. He quickly forces his gaze across the table to his schoolgirl friends.

            QARZ:               Get the fuck outta here with that thing!

Qhortho remains bright-eyed and ambivalent to his surroundings.

            QHOR:              …hi…

Cora notices his situation and just shakes her head slowly. She takes his hand and leads him away.

The remaining three men have a few more drinks and call it a night.

Pun and Games

The break of day wakes Ornogrim. Rolling over, he sees Nora still in bed with him.

            ORNO:              Rise and shine, hands off mine!

She groggily sits up and realizes she stayed longer than she intended. With a smile, she looks over.

            NORA:              Same to you, buddy!

She quickly gets dressed, gathers her belongings, and rushes out the door.

Ornogrim is not far behind, but he intentionally lags so he doesn’t have to walk with her and make idle chitchat.

The rest of the gang is already downstairs having their morning meal. From the railing near his room, Ornogrim watches the others notice Nora leaving the tavern.  Their eyes immediately shift up to meet Ornogrim, who then proceeds to casually stroll towards the stairs and into the dining area.

            ARAN:               Have a good night?

            ORNO:              Yeah, I’d say so.

            QHOR:              It was the BREAST night.

Qhortho looks around the table, clearly pleased by his pun.

            QARZ:               Yeah. We heard already.

            QHOR:              Ornogrim hasn’t.

            ARAN:               I’m sure you can tell him all about it on the ship.

Qhortho quiets but remains unbothered, wearing his grin ear-to-ear.

They finish their meal of green eggs, buttermilk biscuits, and apple roses (even the breakfasts in Highgarden are flamboyant) then pay the bill and leave for the castle.

Upon arriving in the great hall, an unknown guard greets them. He tells them that the King is indisposed at the moment, but that the newly formed Tutelary of Trade should make for the docks at once and meet with the dockmaster. The party bids the guard adieu and off they go.

Aran tells the others that he’d like to retrieve his splint mail barding before going to the docks and they agree to stop by the stables on the way. Qhortho asks if they think there will be room for his horse, to which they all say neigh.

            QHOR:              I’ll just ask the captain of the ship when we see him then.

The streets are mostly empty as they follow the road to the stables. Merchants are just opening their stores. The smells of baking bread and other pastries waft through the brisk, but not uncomfortable, chilly air. Arriving at the stables, they quickly fetch Aran’s gear and make way for the docks.

The dock workers are just barely getting into full swing, loading and unloading ships. The party walks up to one man who appears to be doing nothing but watching.

            ARAN:               You must be the dockmaster.

            DOCKMASTER:  Yes, and who might you be?

            QARZ:               We are the Tutelary of Trade of Highgarden. I believe you are expecting us.

            DOCKMASTER:  Ah yes, yes. Well here she is.

He sweeps his arm over to a battered light cog, rigged with plain grayish sails and flying no banner. Two ballistae are attached on the rear of the ship. It’s no Ser Osis of the River, but it should do just fine.

            DOCKMASTER:  You’ll be sailing with a full crew. These men are fully aware of the mission at hand, more so than me even. I’ve only heard you are on some sort of special trip for His Grace and that’s good enough for me. These are the King’s men so they can be trusted with any information pertaining to the task – as well as keep you on course and safe on the seas.

Rolan makes a semi-audible interjection, but makes no attempt to explain. It goes by without the dockmaster mentioning it, but the others know what he means: “How arrogant to think we can be presumed safe on the seas versus the Ironborn.” The solemn nature is felt by all as they board the ship via planks of hardwood.

The captain greets his passengers and informs them that the crew will stay out of their way, and that they should remain clear of the crew.

            CAPTAIN:           All of the men here are the King’s men and know their jobs well. They will handle all aspects of maintaining watch and ensuring we reach where we’re goin’.

            QARZ:               We may have to change our destinations based on information we learn along our way.

            CAPTAIN:           Understood. Just let me know where you want to go and I will plot the most appropriate course with you. If you have specific routes, we can address them at that time. We are here to serve you milords.

He bows his head slightly.

The thought of being “lords” to anyone had never crossed any of their minds. This sudden stature hits Ornogrim especially, who instinctively straightens his back and puffs out his rank. Hooterz flaps his wings to rebalance and return to his stoic stance.

            ORNO:              Then I hope you don’t mind my owl friend here keeping your scout company in the crow’s nest.

            CAPTAIN:           Not at all.

Ornogrim nods. He tries to think of other requests he can make using this newfound standing. Nothing comes to him before the captain continues.

            CAPTAIN:           Please make yourselves comfortable in the cabin. I have more work to do before we set sail.

            QHOR:              I have a request. May I bring my horse with us?

The captain looks around quickly, but catches himself before coming out with a snarky response.

            CAPTAIN:           I am sorry to say that we do not have the equipment to keep a horse on board.

            ARAN:               Not even if he lays it on its side?

Everyone except Rolan snickers. Rolan looks around like he’s been left out, but since it does not appear to be at his own expense, he lets it slide without comment. Qhortho’s contented demeanor shifts to a shade of annoyance. The captain takes a half-step back; a disgruntled Dothraki is not exactly a common sight on this side of the Narrow Sea.

            CAPTAIN:           I’m sorry?

            ARAN:               Oh it’s nothing. Just an inside joke.

Qhortho reigns in his emotion.

            QHOR:              My record last night should show.

            CAPTAIN:           Ah. Well. I see. I’d better get back to it then.

The captain turns towards the rear of the ship and descends a staircase below deck.

Qhortho turns to Aran.

            QHOR:              You’d better mind your tongue about me fucking horses.

His voice is just loud enough to prompt a few glimpses from the crew.

Qarzdaq waves his hands in a motion as if to say, “nothing to see here.” The men get back to work.

            ARAN:               Hey, why the long face?

Qhortho screws up his face in anger. Drawing a deep breath, he calms himself and stomps off towards the cabin stairs to stake his claim in the sleeping quarters.

            ARAN:               What? He can’t take a joke?

With a smirk, Ornogrim is the first to respond.

            ORNO:              Perhaps we are leaning into it too much?

Aran and Qarzdaq let out a brief laugh.

The party reunites in their sleeping quarters after a few minutes, and find Qhortho returned to being pleased with himself. He knows he had first choice in sleeping location and therefore it must be the best. However, given that there is no benefit to any one bunk, this goes entirely unnoticed by the others, leaving them to see this as him simply returning to his senses. No harm, no foul?

Setting Sail

The calls above deck and the untethered rocking of the ship provide the signals they have just left port. Qhortho pushes past everyone to get above deck, not wanting to be imprisoned when this thing inevitably capsizes.

The rest of the group follow, but with nowhere near the same urgency. They captain strides towards the group and shares his plans for the next few days’ travel.

            CAPTAIN:           All I know at this point is that you are to go to the Shield Islands. My plan is to sail the River Mander and dock at the closest of the Shield Islands, Southshield. This will take us about four days. Do you have a different destination in mind? Or an order you want to visit the islands?

            ARAN:               Have you been out there recently?

            CAPTAIN:           Not recently, no.

            QARZ:               Have you heard anything?

            CAPTAIN:           Nothing of any substance. Trade still flows, as far as I know, to Oakenshield and departs from there.

            ORNO:              What can you tell us of the Shield Islands?

            CAPTAIN:           Let’s see… Well, Southshield is closest. Oakenshield is to the northeast of Southshield and hosts the largest town and port, called Lord Hewett’s Town. To the northwest of Oakenshield is Greenshield, and that is closest to the northern mainland. And finally, the island southwest of Greenshield, and farthest into the Sunset Sea, is Greyshield.

            QARZ:               Perhaps Oakenshield may be the best place to start.

            ROLAN:             What is your plan if we happen to run into the Ironborn while in open water?

            CAPTAIN:           … Flee … and quickly… we would hope to remain unseen.

            ARAN:               We’ve seen Ironborn in that vicinity.

            CAPTAIN:           We are going to do our best to avoid them at all costs.

            QARZ:               If we get in a pinch, we have some means of escaping.

            CAPTAIN:           Yes. I am aware of some… well… let me put it this way… this is considered by me and my crew to be a covert mission. Any use of the arcane or any other incidents will go unshared to anyone off this ship. I’ve been told you lot have some prowess of the arcane arts that goes beyond simple parlor tricks. You are free to use them as you see fit, as long as it doesn’t bring harm to the ship or my crew.

            ORNO:              We appreciate your discretion.

            QARZ:               Let’s talk for a minute. If this is a covert mission, are we expected to announce ourselves to Lord Hewett upon reaching his town?

            ORNO:              I don’t think we should.

            ARAN:               I agree. We should go to the largest tavern and get a lay of the land. We can see if anyone has heard rumors pertaining to the Ironborn.

            QARZ:               So it is settled. We’ll bypass Southshield and go directly to Lord Hewett’s Town on Oakenshield. We can figure out where to go next based on what we learn there.

            CAPTAIN:           Sounds like a plan. It takes a little less than a day’s travel between the islands, port-to-port, so we will arrive at Oakenshield in about five days.

            ORNO:              Come on, let’s go find a cask of ale.

            CAPTAIN:           I’ll just add that I’ve heard of Dothraki rambunctiousness… and I’ll have none of that on my ship.

            QHOR:              Then stay out of my way.

            CAPTAIN:           Puh. I can’t say I like the start of this.

            QHOR:              Then don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.

            CAPTAIN:           This is my ship, I’ll remind you.

Qhortho glares at him.

            ARAN:               The best way to get his cooperation is not give him orders, if that makes any sense.

            ORNO:              We just ask for your patience. This mission is of the utmost importance for the King. This is nothing more than advice to make the mission a success.

Qhortho’s glare remains unbroken.

            QHOR:              You wouldn’t want to interfere with the King’s…

            ARAN:               Shut up.

Aran nudges his arm firmly, causing Qhortho to twist slightly.

Qhortho turns his glare to Aran. Ornogrim helps to guide Qhortho away from the captain. Once out of that situation, which escalated quite quickly, it doesn’t take long to find a few kegs of ale. Using their Commemorative Lannisport Faire Tankards, they pour themselves drinks and return above deck. Rolan, not having a Commemorative Lannisport Faire Tankard of his own, is forced to use a nearby dirty wooden cup that smells like cabbage. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever used, but a tankard like theirs would be nice.

Rolan is quite at home on the ship, but this is the first time Aran and Ornogrim have ever been out on the water. They both handle it quite well, though Ornogrim continues to be splashed in the face by the cold, sloshing river as he has some sort of infatuation with peering over the side. Aran’s only gripe is that he can’t make significant progress on his engraving with the ship rocking back and forth. Qarzdaq is generally comfortable, but the thought of being existentially extinguished does pass his mind from time to time. Qhortho never likes to set out on the poison water; if a steed cannot survive, it is a sign for humans not to try.

They continue to sail the River Mander south and after a few hours, Highgarden disappears over the horizon.

As the afternoon dredges on, they each take to their own style of relaxing: playing cards, lightly drinking, communing with feathered friends, doing arts and crafts, and staring out across the great fields of The Reach.

The crew maintains their professionalism and remains out of their passengers’ way through the entire evening.

The sights over the next few days become normalized: the sandy banks of the river’s shore, the small hamlets and ports, the wide stretches of open land never out of sight. That is, until mid-morning on the third day, when the opening to the Sunset Sound appears for the first time in the distance. The open water is a stark contrast to what they’ve experienced this far – as is the sky above. The bright blue sky filled of puffy white clouds transitions to gray endless cover out to the westward horizon. Pressing forward, the air becomes noticeably cooler as a mist settles in along the coast.

Knowing their destination is not far ahead, the party begins to think of their plans more critically and requests time with the captain to answer some questions about the islands and the Ironborn.

            CAPTAIN:           We have a long history with the Ironborn. Their raids went on for centuries. They’d never know when they’d strike or where exactly. Every little town along the coast was at risk. In fact, it was due to the raids that Highgarden invested heavily in defenses on these islands. By their vigil and beacon towers, the Shield Islands, as they became known, would alert each other and the mainland of raids with enough time to mount some defense in most cases.

            ORNO:              Ah, hence the name.

            CAPTAIN:           Mind you, the defense forces were rarely enough to overpower or completely stop the raiding party, but over time the Ironborn learned to go after easier prey. In that sense, it was enough to make the people of the Reach safer. But that has remained history since House Hoare took over the Iron Islands. Still, call it mistrust, call it tradition, call it an excuse by the Shields to pay lower taxes… the watchtowers are always staffed. So although you mention Ironborn in the region, I find it unlikely to be the case with no one being on alert.

            ARAN:               Why use beacons instead of ravens?

            CAPTAIN:           Ravens travel much too slowly for that long of a distance. Not just for the initial message, but also to change the message quickly as the situation on the ground dictates.

            ARAN:               What can you tell us about the islands currently?

            CAPTAIN:           They are fairly self-sufficient across the four of them. All four have decent populations, though these folk tend to be homesteaders rather than the sort you’d see in Highgarden. The largest town amongst all the islands is Lord Hewett’s Town on Oakenshield.

            QARZ:               So this guy just named the town after himself?

            CAPTAIN:           Yep, yep. And your presumption of the man after knowing that single fact is spot on. Oakenshield’s primary production is wood from their plentiful forest areas and so they handle many of the ship repairs. This is partly how Lord Hewett’s Town rose above the others. Now it is a fairly bustling trade hub just out of convenience.

            CAPTAIN:           So let’s see… Southshield is the most protected of the four and is a convenient rest place for weary sailors and merchants. Greenshield provides much of the farmland and Greyshield is named for its great weather… Greyshield maintains much of the livestock. The four islands have learned to interweave their specialties quite nicely.

The party thanks them for this information, but as they are about to leave, Rolan speaks up.

            ROLAN:             Captain, would you mind showing me the course you’ve plotted? I’m somewhat of an expert in sailing, and know this coast’s weather patterns quite well. Perhaps I can be of some use.

The captain’s face twitches involuntarily.

            CAPTAIN:           Sure.

He rolls out a map on a tree stump of a table and produces a sextant from his inside coat pocket. He shows Rolan the path they are taking to bypass Southshield for Oakenshield. The course looks well-plotted in terms of expected winds and currents, but Rolan notices something that could reduce their travel time by half a day, perhaps more.

            ROLAN:             Based on what I see here, and the steady, dark cloud formation on the horizon, it seems we may be better served by cutting off this section here.

The captain nods in recognition of the information. The rest of the party looks at each other in disbelief of these skills and they begin to doubt the captain’s ability to prevent an encounter with the Ironborn. However, the lessened faith in the captain lasts only a few more moments.

            CAPTAIN:           Yes, well, I see you know your navigation, milord. But I wager you have not spent time within the Sound’s waters.

            ROLAN:             Not specifically, no, but…

            CAPTAIN:           Yes, well, that area you point out becomes quite shallow at the time we’ll be passing through on account of the tides. That, coupled with this being a new moon cycle, means the spring tides will cause us even more trouble than going around that area.

            ROLAN:             Ah. Yes. I see. Carry on.

            CAPTAIN:           Will do, milord.

The party leaves the captain to his business. Perhaps due to him being so new to the party, Rolan is given a pass by the others.

They are fully into the Sunset Sound when they awake on the morning of the fourth day. The open water is noticeably rockier, but not violently so. Southshield lies directly ahead in the distance.

At about mid-day, the captain calls for the crew to change course, 30 degrees starboard. Immediately, the sail handlers get to work adjusting the rigging to accommodate the captain’s orders. Although the crew is busier with the sails on this day as compared to the entire trip thus far, the remainder of the day proceeds without major incident.

Stormies Ahead

Ornogrim awakes the next morning to see a moderately-sized port in the distance. He wargs with Hooterz to get a better look before they dock.

The workers appear to be performing the typical tasks of a typical port. Nothing appears out of the ordinary, even as they get within roping distance. After docking, the party disembarks, leaving the crew to care for the ship. The man running this section of the docks greets them.

            DOCKHAND:      So, whatta ya guys got going on hea?

            ORNO:              Oh just a pleasure sail.

            DOCKHAND:      Pleszah?

            ORNO:              Yep.

Ornogrim flips the man a silver coin.

            DOCKHAND:      Ah, well thank ya. How long ya think ya gonna be in town hea?

            ORNO:              Not long at all.

            ARAN:               Just a day. Just checking out the sights. Maybe a tavern?

            QARZ:               Yeah, where’s a good tavern around here?

            DOCKHAND:      Theyuhs only one hea.

            QARZ:               Only one that’s good? Or only one at all?

            DOCKHAND:      Only one at all.

            ARAN:               Is it any good?

            DOCKHAND:      S’alright.

            ROLAN:             Anything interesting happening around here lately?

            DOCKHAND:      Interestin? Ah well, suppose that depenz on whut yah call intrestin. Someone fell off tha docks yestuhday. Younguh fella, messin round, tryin ta walk a rope to a trade ship on a daya!

            ORNO:              Day-uh?

            DOCKHAND:      Ya know, some otha fella bet he couldn’t do it, and the younguh guy just couldn’t let it go so…

Aran cuts him off.

            ARAN:               Is that interesting to you?

            DOCKHAND:      Ha! Mildly amusin’ shua.

            ORNO:              I’ve heard there’s a lot of Ironborn attacks around here, lately. I’m surprised your towers aren’t lit.

            DOCKHAND:      Ain’t seen nun uh that. Ain’t been those sawts uh raids as long as I been ’round.

            ORNO:              Really…

            ARAN:               When was the last time those things were lit?

            DOCKHAND:      Prolly a generation or so. They stopt most uh tha raids longa back dan dat… Since House Haw been runnin things out theyuh.

            ARAN:               I’ve heard stories of Ironborn on the Ocean Road, which is why I ask.

            DOCKHAND:      Yuh, yuh. I heard da same. No raids out hea though. Watchtowuhs always ready tuh go atta moment’s notice.

            ORNO:              Alright, good to know.

            QARZ:               So what’s the name of this tavern?

            DOCKHAND:      I think da dru name is da Tainkin’ Turdle, but it don’t much get called dat cuz it’s the only one.

            QARZ:               I’m sorry, was that that the Tainting Turtle or the Tanking Turtle?

The dockhand is careful to annunciate the name this time.

            DOCKHAND:      Tanking Turtle.

            ARAN:               I thought you said was Taint and Turtle.

            ORNO:              Ha! Maybe it should be the Turtle’s Taint!

They all laugh, including the dockhand.

            DOCKHAND:      Lotza names fuh it! Not too much propuh…

He cuts himself off with a hearty laugh. A few moments of silence pass as they settle down.

            QARZ:               Ok, so off to the Taint and Turtle!

Another wave of laughter rises and falls.

            QARZ:               Oh, before we go, I don’t believe we got your name?

            DOCKHAND:      The name’s Danyel Danyels, but folks round hea jus call me Stawmy.

            ARAN:               Stormy Daniels. It’s nice to meet you Stormy.

The rest of the group introduces themselves. Ornogrim, once again, ensures his rank is noticed.

            QARZ:               So what is the common religion followed around here?

            STORMY:           Thuh Seven of caws.

            QARZ:               Oh ok. So no Drowned God influence down in these parts.

Stormy’s voice gets deep and solemn.

            STORMY:           No. No. You might want ta mind yah tung on dat…

            QARZ:               Oh really? Tell me more.

            STORMY:           The Drowned God don’t do so well round hea.

            QARZ:               I’ve only just heard about the Drowned God myself. I’m from the far east, where we follow R’hllor.

            STORMY:           Hmmm… May want tuh keep that to yuhself too…

            QARZ:               What about you? I could just te​ll you about it!

Stormy frowns at him with minor contempt.

            ARAN:               Everyone knows the Faith of the Seven is the one true god… er… gods…

Ornogrim shakes his head at all of this nonsense.

They wish Stormy a good day and off they go into Lord Hewett’s Town proper.

​The town has the feel of a beach town in the sleepy demeanor of the residents, the general style of buildings, and their sea-battered façades. However, the lackadaisical feel smacks hard against the stark contrast of the guards and their military-style vigilance. Strangely though, the guards here are different than other highly-trained watchmen they’ve come across on their travels; rather than keeping their attention on all those wandering inside the town, these men and women are watching everywhere except inside town. Their eyes remain trained on the sea and shoreline, many of them using spyglasses.

The tavern is found fairly easily by turtle sign hanging out front. Had they not known the name, it still would have been easily identified by its level of activity as compared to every other building they had seen.

They enter the tavern and immediately take a seat at the bar.

            QARZ:               Barkeep, what ales do you have available?

            BARKEEP:          We only keep Lord Hewett’s Ale on hand.

            QARZ:               Man… he names everything after himself…

            BARKEEP:          Yeah, he certainly does.

            QARZ:               Is it any good?

            BARKEEP:          Yes, quite so.

            QARZ:               You can tell us the truth, we’re still going to purchase it.

The barkeep lowers his voice to a whisper.

            BARKEEP:          It’s really just a rebranded ale from Highgarden.

His voice raises to normal conversational volume and tone.

            BARKEEP:          It really is quite good!

            QARZ:               Does Lord Hewett have spirits by chance?

            BARKEEP:          We do have some Fireplum Schnapps, that one is from Highgarden. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

Everyone nods enthusiastically. They all order shots and immediately down them. The telltale, involuntary “WOOO” that comes along with Fireplum Schnapps lets them, and the entire bar, know this is the real deal. The entire group becomes quite confident alongside their inebriation.

Aran attempts to goad Qhortho into dancing atop the bar. Qhortho just looks at him and laughs in his face.

            ARAN:               Yeah, I suppose it’s no use. We all know it’s true that the people from around here are the best dancers. There’s no way you could compete, I agree with you.

Qhortho stares at him for a few moments without saying a word, then again laughs in his face.

            QHOR:              If you think you’re so much better, then why don’t you dance for us?

Qhortho reaches into his pack and produces a silver coin.

            QHOR:              Here! Go on! Dance for me!

He tosses the coin in Aran’s direction. Or at least he tries to. Instead, it tumbles from his grip and rolls across the floor into the foot of some random stranger about to leave the tavern. Noticing it, the patron picks it up, counts this as a lucky day, and leaves the tavern.

Qhortho watches this happen, but is powerless to stop any of it. He looks back to Aran.

            QHOR:              I said dance!

            ARAN:               That’s ok, I’ll let you show me how it’s done.

The two of them settle down, neither of them wanting to showcase their prowess in the boogying arts. After a few moments of silence, Qarzdaq sparks a conversation with the bar tender.

            QARZ:               I don’t believe I caught your name.

            BARKEEP:          The name’s Stormie, Daenny Stormie.

            QARZ:               Ah, funny, the man by the docks is also named Stormy.

            DAENNY:           Yes, it’s a common name around these parts on account of the weather. It enters the area through many of our passages and sticks around for a while.

            QARZ:               I… see…

The party take turns asking questions relating to Lord Hewett, general business and trade, the blockade by Lannisport, and day-to-day life around the Shields. Daenny shares that everything is fine. It’s… fine. Not lavish by any means, but it’s… just fine. There have been some issues with trade to and from Lannisport, but it hasn’t measurably impacted their port, positively or negatively.

Meanwhile, Aran is eavesdropping on other discussions nearby in an effort to overhear rumors of Ironborn or any other threats. Unfortunately, the only thing he overhears is about how some kid fell into the water by the docks the day before. Mildly amusing, but not altogether enlightening.

Another fifteen minutes of chatter and the party decides it’s time to be on their way. They decide Greenshield should be their next stop and stand up to leave. Briefly, they contemplate speaking with Lord Hewett, just as a matter of courtesy.

            ARAN:               Why? The guy’s obviously a narcissist.

This comment is enough to sway their opinions; they now agree it would be a waste of time.

            ARAN:               Hey Daenny, we’re about to ship out, but I was wondering what the cost might be for a barrel of ale.

            DAENNY:           Normally, I’d ask 40 or 45 gold. But I’ve gotten to know you guys and so whatta ya say to 35 gold?

            ARAN:               Is it alright if I give you 70 electrum?

            DAENNY:           Yeah, I’d do that. It’s not every day you get paid in electrum.

Aran hands over the coins and Daenny presses one into a frame of other coins on the wall, clearly meant as a decorative memorial plaque of some sort.

            ARAN:               Oh, if you’re doing that, I should probably sign it and put where I’m from!

Aran walks over to the frame and whips out a quill. He marks the coin with his initials, AW, and roughly draws a pig, the sigil of Crakehall, underneath.

Daenny thanks him and disappears into a back room. He reappears a few minutes later, struggling with rolling a heavy barrel.

            DAENNY:           This one’s fresh and untapped.

            ARAN:               Thanks Stormie. Hey Qhortho, you mind carrying… oh wait, never mind… you probably couldn’t…

Aran then lifts the barrel onto his shoulder with an air of mockery. His knees shake a little at first, but once it’s on his shoulder, he doesn’t have any trouble carrying it.

Qhortho, not to be shown up so easily, lifts Aran into the air while holding the barrel, generating a few oohs and ahs from patrons and the barkeep. Qhortho places him down and Aran walks quickly out the door, leading the others out of the tavern.

Heading for the exit, Ornogrim looks across for any patrons facing his direction in case they’ve noticed his Highgarden stature. None except one older man shows interest. Ornogrim stops in his tracks momentarily to face the man so he can give him the joy of getting a better look. Looking at the old man’s face, he seems to be looking straight through Ornogrim. The old man rubs his one good eye, grimaces, then looks back into his tankard.

Ornogrim shrugs this off and catches up with the others, who have now just left the tavern.

​Onward and Upward

Arriving back to their ship, still late morning, they are greeted by their crew.

            CAPTAIN:           Ho! So you have brought cargo I see. Part of the mission, I presume.

            QARZ:               Well, it’s just that…

            CAPTAIN:           No need for explanations, let’s get it on board.

            ARAN:               This is open for all to drink… When you’re not on your shifts of course.

The crew laughs and thanks their passengers.

Aran places the barrel down and immediately taps the barrel to have an ale.

            CAPTAIN:           Do you have other stops here or are we to set sail?

            QARZ:               We are to set sail.

Qarzdaq looks around for confirmation and realizes Ornogrim is not on board yet.

            QARZ:               Well, as soon as our last comrade joins us.

Qarzdaq continues looking back the way he came and sees Ornogrim loitering around some of the other ships. He watches Ornogrim slinking from one ship to the next on an information-gathering mission. He eventually makes it to their ship and comes aboard.

            QARZ:               Learn anything of interest?

            ORNO:              Nope. Seems like just any other normal day around here.

Ornogrim’s eyes fall on Aran, who is mid slurp from his personal Commemorative Lannisport Faire Tankard.

            ORNO:              Oooo… Ale! Let’s get Godrickitty-rickitty-wrecked!

He is past Qarzdaq and at the barrel a half-second later and pouring his own. They each have one round and the crew transports the barrel below deck to secure it for travel.

Qarzdaq approaches the captain while finishing the last of his ale with a sigh of satisfaction.

            QARZ:               Captain, we’ll be going to Greenshield next, we’d like to arrive just before sunrise.

            CAPTAIN:           Aye.

            QARZ:               And could you have the crew wake me about two hours before we will arrive?

            CAPTAIN:           Yes, milord.

The dark gray clouds to the west slowly advance towards them, threatening to open up in the near future.

Seeing as everyone else has gone below deck, Qarzdaq decides to join them. He brushes past a few of the ship’s crewmembers on his way down the flight of stairs and finds the rest of his crew around the secured barrel of ale.

They reiterate and confirm the details of their plan for Greenshield: Rolan and Hooterz will scout the island with discretion and report back.

After a few more rounds everyone except Ornogrim goes to sleep, knowing they will need a full night’s rest to combat the unknown unknowns.

Ornogrim stays up just one more hour past the others. Just enough time to get a little extra bonding time with Hooterz… after a hit of pipe weed, of course.

​Shields of Green… and Red

Qarzdaq awakens to a wet deckhand poking at his shoulder.

            DECKHAND:      … Milord? Milord? …

Drips of water fall on his face and he wipes them away.

            QARZDAQ:        Ah, yes. Is it time?

            DECKHAND:      Yes, milord. The island is just about five miles or so ahead. We are slowly making our way into port so we still have about two hours.

            QARZDAQ:        Thank you. I will awake the others.

The deckhand sloshes to the staircase leading above deck.

Knowing the others want to sleep for at least another hour, Qarzdaq takes the time to meditate with the amulet. He wakes everyone except Aran, who wanted to be awakened just before arrival. They don their game faces.

Exiting the cabin with slow deliberation, they are greeted by steady light rain from a dark sky. More than a drizzle, but not a great danger to visibility or movement. Transitioning to the outdoor air, Qhortho and Rolan catch an initial chill, just enough to shake the shoulders, but they quickly adjust.

Rolan takes to the crow’s nest. The slickness of the rungs is no match for his swift and dexterous movement. Reaching the top alongside a slender scout, Rolan calls down that he sees two ships at the dock, and that they appear to be flying the flag of Greenshield.

He keeps to himself that they appear to be longships, which the Reach and its territories do not keep. Were these commandeered by those on Greenshield? Does the Reach have a secret fleet of longships? He doesn’t want his traveling companions to jump to conclusions and potentially force him into choosing between his companions and his kinsmen. This certainly is confusing.

Qhortho’s natural instinct is to take station at the bow, as if leading the ship to victory. He peers into the distance just as the sky in the east lightens somewhat, trying to make out movement on the shore. He can only make out a keep atop a large hill and a series of dark watchtowers at varying distances. Near the shore, he notices two masts swaying with the waves, docked at the port. It is still too far to tell their banners.

Ornogrim takes a seat near the cabin staircase, out of the crew’s way so he can warg with Hooterz. Qarzdaq sits next to him to ensure Ornogrim doesn’t slip off the deck and into the sea.

Hooterz takes off with purpose towards the low clouds. It takes a good 20 minutes of flight before Hooterz reaches the shoreline, where Ornogrim, through Hooterz’s eyes, sees… something… some… things… on the hill leading up to the keep. He swoops down for a closer look.

It takes a few moments to realize that these thing are bodies. Bodies scattered all over the hillside. Getting closer, he sees they have been torn apart, as if by animals. The victims are not armored. They are just common folk. Flying over the docks, he finds two Greenshield ships completely empty – but no bodies, living or dead.

He explores some nearby merchant stalls, none of which look ransacked or otherwise disturbed. What the hell happened here?

Taking to greater heights in an effort to gain perspective, he sees two other ships farther north along the coast. The early morning sunlight reflects off their flags. Flags with with yellow fields. They are flying the Kraken of the Ironborn. Fuck.

Inland, he can now make out a group of people a few miles out at an intersection between a westerly road leading from the keep and a southerly road towards the shore. Other than them looking to be on watch, Ornogrim is not able to determine anything else before he gently awakes from his warging session.

Ornogrim’s eyes flutter as the color returns to them. He awakes to the rest of his party standing around him. It brings him back to times when he’s been knocked unconscious with people standing around trying to wake him. This time, it is he who has more information about the past few minutes.

            ORNO:              It’s the fucking slaads again…

The look on their faces ranges from confusion to horror.

            ARAN:               What? The slaads from the caves you told the King about? The ones with those damn claws you’re carrying around?

            ORNO:              Yeah.

            ARAN:               How many??

            ORNO:              I don’t know.

This reaction causes the captain to rush over.

            CAPTAIN:           What the fuck are slaads?

Ornogrim looks at the captain, deciding whether he should let him in on the existence of these creatures. Ultimately he decides he should share the information. Retrieving a bundle of canvas from his bag, he unwraps a slaad claw.

            CAPTAIN:           What the fuck is that??

            ORNO:              That’s what I believe destroyed all of the people in this town. There are corpses all along that hill over there. The people have been ripped apart. I recognize the gashes from these things.

            QHOR:              What color were they?

            ORNO:              I didn’t see the slaads themselves, only the result of their presence.

            CAPTAIN:           What does the fucking color have anything to do with it??

            QHOR:              The red and blue ones are powerful. The green ones are even worse.

            QARZ:               A green one killed one of our travel companions a few fortnights back.

Ornogrim nods and looks at the captain.

            ORNO:              Captain, I know you said you understand this is a covert mission. I hope you understand that this is especially secret. I would not even share this with your men unless it is absolutely necessary.

            CAPTAIN:           Understood. But you must understand that I must know what we are getting into and that I will not put my crew into avoidable harm.

            ORNO:              There’s more. There’s also a possibility there are Ironborn here. I saw two ships to the north along the beach that were flying the Kraken and saw some people at an intersection farther inland. Clearly, not everyone on the island is dead. Unless… they are also slaads?

            ARAN:               Did you see any dead Ironborn?

            ORNO:              I didn’t see any, but I couldn’t get close enough to their ships. I did check out the longships at the port where we are headed, but those appear to be completely empty. No dead bodies or anything. They must have been docked before the slaad invasion.

            ARAN:               Did you say longships? House Chester doesn’t have longships.

            ORNO:              Well, they are flying the banner of Greenshield.

            ARAN:               They may fly the Greenshield flag, but I am telling you, those are not Greenshield ships.

The group looks at each other, not really sure what to make of this.

            QARZ:               Ornogrim, you mentioned that the people looked ripped apart.  Did they look like they had been infected, or killed by the slaad?

            ORNO:              They looked like they had been attacked.

            CAPTAIN:           What about Greenridge Keep? Was it attacked as well?

            ORNO:              I saw the primary door was shut, so I don’t believe so. We may want to check that out first.

            CAPTAIN:           You still plan on making landfall?

            QARZ:               We must. Perhaps you can pull into dock, we can jump off, and you can remain off-shore. I can shoot off a firebolt if and when it is safe for you to retrieve us. I’ll be sure to keep it low enough as to not alert the other islands.

            ORNO:              And if we are unable to do that, or do not find it safe enough, I will send my owl to the ship to land nearby and scratch the ground with his talon.

            CAPTAIN:           Ok. We will remain five minutes out from shore.

            ARAN:               Sounds like we have a plan. Let’s do this.

Rolan is remarkably quiet through all of this. Aran turns to face him.

            ARAN:               If the Ironborn are being attacked too, then this may be the perfect opportunity for you to get them on our side.

Rolan apprehensively nods in agreement.

​​​The captain walks back to the helm and pilots the ship towards the port.

Greenridge Keep

Disembarking quickly, the party begins their uphill hike towards the keep. As the ship sails quietly back out to sea, the captain salutes the group, wishing them well.

The only sounds in the air are that of steady rainfall hitting the earth. Even so, it is eerily quiet.

The steep, grassy hill is slippery enough from the rain to force them to a slow pace but not so slick it impede their ascent. Progressing towards the keep, they navigate through animals, through men, through women, through children– all slaughtered. Some bodies are so mangled that it is impossible to know whether its parts were from a man or woman, adult or child.

Circling around to the front of the keep, they see the door is shut and intact, making this the perfect place to hold up in an invasion. They gather near the door. Keeping his voice down, Aran leans over to Ornogrim.

            ARAN:               Should we check for survivors here?

            ORNO:              Yeah. It’s probably a good idea. Just a second.

Ornogrim slides his fingers around the edges of the door, checking for traps. Finding none, he gives Aran the signal to proceed.

Aran raises his voice loud enough to penetrate the thick wood door.

            ARAN:               We’re travelers! Is anybody in there? It’s a massacre out here and this looks like a great place to hide!

Hearing no immediate response, Ornogrim pushes on the door a bit and it gives. He pushes harder and the door is pulled away from him, causing to stumble forward.

            STRANGER:       STOP RIGHT THERE!

Three Ironborn have their weapons raised at the party, ready to attack.

            ARAN:               We mean you no harm. We’ve come to help.

A moment later, eight more Ironborn enter from the rear of the room, weapons drawn, all ready to strike. Taking in the scene, the party all realize a nobleman is in shackles but sitting at a large table, which takes up much of the great hall.

            NOBLEMAN:      Please! Help me! My name is Lord Aidin of House Chester! This is my home! These cretins invaded my lands!

The Ironborn leader stands front and center, next to the nobleman. With swords drawn, he responds.

            LEADER:            This man set out a power upon us that the world has not seen in ages.

            ARAN:               Power?

            LEADER:            You’ve seen what they did out there. That wasn’t us.

            ORNO:              So you’re saying it was this lord here who did this.

            LEADER:            Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m…

The captive interrupts.

            AIDIN:               He’s lying! This brute is responsible for this mess! We had everything taken care of before these Ironborn attacked us! How do you think he learned of this so-called force?! They raided our lands!

            ORNO:              My Lord. Are you telling me that it was these Ironborn that killed these people or that they failed to stop the force that did?

            AIDIN:               I’m telling you this is their fault!

            LEADER:            Your Lord here is responsible for this mess. We’re trying to get this back under control!

            ARAN:               We have Ironborn among us. Rolan, why don’t you jump in here and talk to these guys?!

The leader looks at Rolan.

            LEADER:            You are of Iron?

            ROLAN:             Yes. I am. Why are you here, if, under the rule of House Hoare, we are not to be continuing our pillaging ways?

            LEADER:            We are not here at his behest. I am Galon Greyiron. Perhaps you’ve heard of my lineage.

Rolan knows now that any further mention of the New Ways will be destructive. No one else shows they know the reference to House Greyiron, except maybe Aran, who changes the subject pretty quickly to the matter at hand.

            ARAN:               Tell him about the slaads.

Ornogrim, unsure that this was the right time to bring this up, but now seeing no choice, digs into his bag for one of his slaad claws. This quick movement into his bag draws nervous attention from the archers. Luckily, their stoicism holds steady as do their hands. Ornogrim notices the focus on him and he slows his movements and tosses the canvas package to the ground. It unrolls as it lands, revealing a decrepit slaad claw.

Galon looks down at it then up to Ornogrim, then to Rolan.

            QHOR:              Is this the power you speak of?

Glon looks at Qhortho.

            GALON:             Looks similar. Yeah.

            ORNO:              What do you mean this is his fault?

            ARAN:               We have information about this and we happen to know this is neither of your faults.

            GALON:             Oh, I beg to differ.

            ARAN:               We don’t care what you think! We’re trying to tell you information…

The tension immediately escalates.

            GALON:             Ha! I’m trying to tell you information that will prove this guy is the one at fault!

The words hang in the air for a few seconds.

            ORNO:              I want to hear more about this.

            QHOR:              Yes. Why??

            GALON:             Because he has brought this power upon us!

            QHOR:              How??

            ARAN:               Yes. Specifically, how?

            GALON:             We are in the middle of tracking that down.

            ARAN:               Well, we’ve had experience with these things on the mainland.

            GALON:             Yeah, us too. We travelled from a place on the mainland coast… There was… an incident.

Qarzdaq, who had remained quiet, slowly steps forward.

            QARZ:               Despite who is at fault, we are here to help. Part of us helping requires us knowing all the available information. I ask that you tell us more about this incident.

            ORNO:              Exactly. We are here to gather information, not pass judgment.

Aran looks away and sighs. He looks back to Galon and nods, affirming his allies’ position.

Rolan’s eyes flit across the Ironborn. He sees every twitch of a muscle, every shift of their weight. They are likely to strike at any possible moment and without the indication given away by every Westerosi knight he’s ever met. The Ironborn are crafty, chaotic fighters and the only real guard is to expect their attack with every movement.

Galon looks Qarzdaq up and down, lowers his weapons, and releases a sigh.

            GALON:             We… We are here… We’re a group known as ROW. Rights of the Old Way. We came here to raid the island without House Hoare’s consent. We just have little bouts of raiding and pillaging along the coast to the north and we went to…

            QARZ:               Are you responsible for the blockade?

            GALON:             No… During a raid on this island, we wound up facing these creatures. Slaad you called them? We boarded our ships with what we could get away with and sailed to a location we’ve used over the years on the mainland to divide our spoils. We found out, along the way, that a few of us had been infected by something, but we hadn’t known what. We stayed in the cave that night, and those who were infected disappeared from our ranks. No bodies, just gone. A few of us ventured deeper into the caves to find them, but never returned. We left one ship and crew back at the cave so we could return to this island for the rest of our loot, but when we returned to the cave, there had been an ambush and forty of our men were killed.

            QARZ:               How terrible.

            ORNO:              Oof… 

            QARZ:               How many ambushed you?

            GALON:             I have no idea. There was a great fire-throwing giant on the shore in the ensuing onslaught. We met up with a single survivor on that beach and retreated as quickly as possible. We gathered all the loot we could and got out of there. We need to go back though because something infected us and we believe it is still in that cave. As of right now, though, this island is our priority.

            QARZ:               We ventured into a cave and there were dead Ironborn everywhere and there was no loot.

            GALON: That was our cave. How did you know about it?

            QARZ:               We saw and heard a commotion by the cliffside when we were traveling nearby. We explored the cave to see what caused that devastation and fought these creatures. A few of us had been infected, but were cured.

            GALON:             So there is a cure. That is good. We have learned of a group of cultists on this island channeling these creatures into our world. This asshole is bringing them here to hurt us and the Iron Islands. We are NOT going to stand by and let that happen. We imprisoned these people not to cause them harm, we did it to protect ourselves and observe… to see if they are infected.

            ORNO:              I only see this one prisoner. Who are these others and where are they?

            GALON:             They are commoners and other folk and are in the prisons below the keep. None of them have shown signs of infection.

            QARZ:               I see… You should know that one of the creatures we encountered had the ability to shapeshift into a human.

            ARAN:               Which means it can be anyone on your ranks.

            GALON:             It certainly is possible, but I have not seen any changes in behavior within my ranks.

            QARZ:               Or any of the commoners.

            GALON:             Hmmm…

            QARZ:               So, Lord Aidin, what can you tell us of these creatures?

Aidin was staring at the ground until addressed. His eyes slowly move up to Qarzdaq.

            GALON:             While you’re at it, why not ask him why he didn’t light the watchtowers??

            QARZ:               Hmmm… Yes… Why didn’t you raise the alert?

Lord Aidin sighs.

            AIDIN:               We didn’t raise the alert because we didn’t want anyone to know…

He sighs again.

            AIDIN:               That… we… were… summoning the creatures. But we were protecting our people!

            QARZ:               Lord Aidin… You summoned these creatures…

            AIDIN:               We were protecting everyone!!

            QARZ:               I’m not asking that. You summoned these creatures to defend yourselves from the Ironborn, correct?

            AIDIN:               To defend ourselves and the entire Reach!

            QARZ:               Ok. How many did you summon and how many people may be infected?

            AIDIN:               I don’t know exactly. And this is the first I’ve heard about infections.

Ornogrim addresses the Ironborn leader.

            ORNO:              You mentioned that this island is your priority. What steps are you taking and how many men do you have?

            GALON:             We began our voyage from Salt Cliffe with over a hundred men on five ships. Some were killed during our raid here, another forty of us were killed in that ambush on the mainland where we also lost a ship, and another ten or so were killed upon our return to the island before we could get out of there and sailed to this port under the Greenshield sigil. Now we’ve only got about seventy of us left. We killed a few of these things here outside the keep and took control over the area. I kept ten of my men here with me and sent the remainder of ROW in the dead of night to fight these cultists; to end this scourge this “lord” has laid upon us.

            ARAN:               I agree. We need to kill them on this island as soon as possible.

            GALON:             We’ve been finding them and fucking killing them as quickly as possible.

With an air of arrogance, Aran pushes the topic.

            ARAN:               Oh yeah, and how many have you actually killed?

            GALON:             Thirty? Forty? It’s hard to keep track at this point. And who knows how many more have been killed since my men took to the road.

Ornogrim gasps at the thought.

            GALON:             The belief as of yesterday was that it the cultists are nearby our landing point on the north shore, but we did not know exactly where. We’ve found these things in various places around the island, but the largest concentration appears to be from that area.

            ARAN:               How long have you been here?

            GALON:             It’s been weeks.

They ask about the people at the crossroads and are told that those are Ironborn on watch. Their plan was to break off small watch groups along the way and keep a larger troupe pushing forward.

            ORNO:              We should be on our way immediately.

            ARAN:               I never thought I’d see the day that I’d be working with the Ironborn…

            ROLAN:             You already have been.

            ARAN:               I suppose that’s true. Well then, we should all leave at once!

            GALON:             Look, I’ve fought these things. I know what they’re capable of. We’re not leaving this keep.

            ARAN:               What? You’re not leaving the keep?

            GALON:             No. Our sixty men out there can handle the cultists. We need to be here for the forty men and women in the prisons. I’ve seen the strength of those things. They could easily bend the bars of those cells and get out. We also want to see the effects as they turn or burst from those poor fuckers’ chests… We’re not leaving this keep.

He then reaches behind a bundle of backpacks and tosses a red slaad’s head onto the floor. Everyone in the party jumps back a step as it thuds to the ground and rolls towards them.

            GALON:             I know what we’re dealing with.

He goes on to tell them that he finds it highly unlikely that this group of travelers can help the sixty Ironborn in the field. Stubbornly, the party will not concede this point. They inform him that they will be leaving to keep to search the countryside on their own. Providing information about where his men are will only focus them and provide help to those poor bastards out there dealing with the slaad.

Galon begrudgingly lets them know the larger Ironborn group headed west along the road. The plan was to break off a small watch party at key points to protect any previously-searched areas and provide an easier network for sending information along the route. He tells the group that they should approach his men cautiously as they tend to be quick on the draw. The party should inform any men on the roads that they met with Galon at the keep; simply being alive to tell the tale will show them that truth.

​The First Watch

The party leaves the keep, traveling westward along the road with the sun still low in the sky behind them, providing a surreal highlight to the steady rain. After being on the road for a few minutes, it dawns on them that things could go very badly if the Ironborn on watch do not believe they met with their leader. They discuss what may happen in that case, with each of the branches in that discussion leading to the same result: death. Either them or the Ironborn, with complete uncertainty of how fate’s dice will roll.

Ornogrim decides it’s time to send Hooterz out ahead. He tells Hooterz to hoot nonchalantly if he sees any humans, and to hoot chalantly if he sees any other threats.

After about two hours, Hooterz nonchalant hoots are heard in the distance and they stop. They move off the road into the grass and get low. Ornogrim conjures the shadows around them. They hold for a few moments, Hooterz still hooting in the distance. Slowly, they proceed. Seconds feel like minutes; the minutes like hours. Objectively, it takes a full thirty minutes before they even see anyone on the road: a group of five men at an intersection. They appear to be on the lookout for threats.

Holding in place, they look to the surrounding area and see no one else. They either have very well-hidden reinforcements, or these men are alone out here. Most of the party bets on the latter and decide it’s best to walk out to them openly with nothing to hide.

Rolan immediately objects to this because these ROW members are a fringe group of Ironborn, following their own set of rules. He refuses to walk out there and be killed. Efforts to convince him to change his mind fall far short. After some short debate, it is only Qarzdaq and Aran that approach while the others stay back.

While the Ironborn are looking away from their direction, Qarzdaq and Aran get onto the road, hands raised, weapons stowed. When within fifty feet, Qarzdaq shouts.

            QARZ:               HAIL FRIENDS!

The Ironborn, startled, grab their weapons and turn towards the voice.

            QARZ:               We have come from the keep. Your captain sent us.

One of the Ironborn takes a few steps forward, lowering his sword.

            IRONBORN:       Captain… Hmmm… Tell me more.

Qarzdaq and Aran approach the group slowly to get within thirty feet.

            IRONBORN:       That’s close enough.

            QARZ:               Galon Greyiron. He has ten men with him. Forty or so commoners captured. The lord of the keep is among them, shackled in the great hall. He’s told us that you seek to kill the slaad invasion that burdens this land.

            IRONBORN:       And what do you think you two are going to do? We have sixty-five of our men out there.

They convey their experience with the slaad and tell them they’ve also convinced the captain of being able to assist.

            IRONBORN:       I see.

The one speaking for the group holsters his weapon and the others follow suit. Qarzdaq and Aran walk into a comfortable conversation distance.

            QARZ:               I am Qarzdaq and this here is Aran.

            IRONBORN:       I am Stormseeker, you can call me Stormy.

            ARAN:               We have others with us as well.

Rolan, clearly on edge and keeping an eye on the group, sees Aran motion them to move up. At the same time, Qhortho, who was just playing with a blade of long grass, hears a message in his head saying it’s safe to move up but to remain unthreatening. The two look at each other squarely and simultaneously say, “let’s go.”

The two men stare at each other incredulously for a few moments, as if there’s no way the other one could know it was time to proceed. Rather than waste time discussing it, they both stand up. Ornogrim stands with them but does not drop the shadows. As they calmly make their way up, hands raised, they can hear Aran speaking casually.

            ARAN:               Stormy, do you know where the slaad are right now? Are they in a single location or spread around?

            STORMY:           We don’t really know that yet. We arrived at this point early this morning. The others continued forward while we took up watch.

Coming into view for the first time, the shadows surrounding the three newcomers seems to wash away with the rain, dripping off of them as ink drips from a drenched quill.

The Ironborn watch this happen, but are not shocked. Perhaps they have experience with these arts themselves; perhaps nothing shocks them anymore after battling slaads. Without so much as a momentary pause, they go on to tell the party that many slaads have been killed across the island. A higher concentration of them were noticed on the north side of the island, so the remainder of their group continued along the road to the northwest, hopeful to find their source.

Rolan’s Got Tricks

The Tutelary of Trade leave the Ironborn, following the road. Ornogrim sends Hooterz ahead with the same plan, except this time, they’re traveling as quickly as they can muster without becoming exhausted.

Along the way, Aran talks shit about the Ironborn not coming with them, looking at Rolan with a smirk. Rolan lets it roll off his back, focused on the task at hand. Aran sees this determination and drops it, choosing to focus his energy as well.

About an hour into their travels, Hooterz warns them with nonchalant hooting. They get low in the grass once again and Ornogrim bows his head to conjure the shadows. Although they all know they can be easily spotted while walking in the open, this additional shroud may give them a slight edge as long as they stay low.

He is interrupted by a hand on his arm. Looking up, it is Rolan who stopped him.

            ROLAN:             I’ll take this one.

Ornogrim looks at him, curious as to what he is planning to do.

Rolan shakes out his arms and bows his head in prayer. Holding a small wooden coin, he presses it to his forehead and traces a path down to his navel. Inky shadows seep from the falling rain, dousing them fully.

Ornogrim locks eyes with Rolan and nods his head approvingly.

About thirty minutes go by before they get eyes on five Ironborn at another intersection. Qarzdaq takes this encounter into his own hands. He creeps onto the road, stands, and walks toward the Ironborn. As he gets closer, he raises his arms and calls out.

            QARZ:               FRIENDS! WE ARE HERE TO HELP WITH THE SLAAD THREAT!

They watch as a single robed man emerges from shadows that dissipate into the air around him. The Ironborn turn towards them, swords and bows drawn, ready to strike. A moment later, four others come into view, emerging from evaporating shadows.

            ORNO:              We’ve spoken with Galon at the keep and with the men on watch farther back along the road. We are no threat to you. We have come to help.

            QARZ:               The man we last spoke with was Stormy.

The Ironborn look at each other, not sure what to do next. One of the Ironborn sheathes his sword. The others lower their weapons but do not stow them.

            IRONBORN:       I… believe you. We arrived here a little more than an hour ago. The rest of our men continued along the road north. I’m not sure what you think you can add to fifty Ironborn, but we won’t stand in your way.

The other men sheathe their swords and stow their bows.

            QARZ:               Thank you. Anything else we should know?

As the party walks up, a few dead slaad lie in the vicinity.

            IRONBORN:       Just that these, slaad you called them? They appear to be grouping somewhere north of this area. We believe they have found a central place to organize.

Aran looks around at the dead creatures.

            ARAN:               Seems you can handle yourselves here. We’re going to push forward.

            IRONBORN:       Better hurry, there may not be any more of them to kill once you get there!

            ORNO:              Let us hope.

A Final Warning

The group hurriedly continues on the northerly road, using the same Hooterz-scouting tactic that has done well for them so far.

After about an hour of travel, they hear Hooterz. This time the hoots are obviously of the chalant variety. The party stops in their tracks. They can see Hooterz flying towards them faster and with more effort than they’ve ever seen him use. He dives at Ornogrim, who holds out his arm to provide a place for him to land, hoping he chooses it over his face.

As Hooterz gets within a few feet, Ornogrim squints his eyes as it takes all of his fortitude not to drop his arm. Hooterz flaps his wings furiously to slow down, but the force with which he strikes Ornogrim’s arm still almost pulls it out of its socket and forces him to swing around. Hooterz digs his talons into the leather bracer hard enough for his talons to be felt through it.

Hooterz jumps up on Ornogrim’s shoulder and scratches him over and over, wearing a small groove in his Highgarden emblem. Ornogrim begins speaking to him in chirps and hoots while the others watch. Ornogrim turns to the group and continues chirping and hooting for a moment before he realizes he needs to use the common tongue.

            ORNO:              A battle is up ahead in the distance!

            ARAN:               Shit, I wish I had my fucking horse!

Not missing an opportunity for a joke, Ornogrim motions to Qhortho.

            ORNO:              Isn’t his horse the fucking horse?

They all laugh, except Rolan who is looking ahead, focused on the unseen threat.

Qhortho looks away to the horizon. This continued disrespect of the Great Stallion, and the Stallion’s kin on earth, infuriates Qhortho to his core. It has taken great restraint up until now to hold back, but this latest slight against him and the Great Stallion causes his rage to bubble over. Qhortho snaps to Ornogrim.

            QHOR:              ENOUGH! You not only insult me, but my religion!

            ARAN:               There is battle to be had. This is not about religion… or fucking things that are not supposed to be fucked…

They all snicker. Even Rolan can’t hold back a small chuckle. Qhortho turns to Aran and takes a step forward, putting a finger in his face.

            QHOR:              Mind your tongue Westerosi, or I will remove it with my arakh! Take that as your final warning!

He directs the threat to Ornogrim as well.

Ornogrim raises his hands, knowing this has gone too far.

            ORNO:              Don’t look at me!

            QHOR:              To the both of you!

            ARAN:               Ok. I consider myself warned.

Qhortho turns away from them and takes a few steps, staring to the horizon. The fear of striking down these men – his allies, his companions, his family – consumes him momentarily. Flashbacks of his time as a slave and killing those who would call themselves his owners override his vision. Next time, he may not be able to control himself, and that is his greatest fear of all. He draws a deep breath, hoping this can finally be put behind him, for their sakes, as well as his own.

He turns around and is met by expressions of shock across all their faces, their newfound respect for Qhortho and his boundaries made plain. Not wanting to dwell on this, he extends his arm outward and points ahead, along the road.

            QHOR:              Gwe!

They all snap out of the moment. They move forward as quickly as possible while remaining cautious. After a few minutes, the telltale sounds of battle are heard. The blood-curdling screams of dying men and the mind-shattering screeches of dying slaad break through the sound-deadening background of steady rainfall. The party stops in the muddy grass about twenty feet from a hill just ahead, their only obstruction from seeing the action. They kneel and quickly confirm their plan: get eyes on the terrain of the battlefield, fan out as necessary to keep the ranged attackers protected, and focus efforts on the greatest threats.

Rolan bows his head and calls forth the shadows once again. One last moment of calm. They all nod with readiness and stand. Each draws their preferred weapons. Looking towards the hill, Qhortho stampedes forward, leading the charge.

Summoners of Slaad

They all skid in the mud to a stop as they are confronted by ten Ironborn cresting the hill charging towards them, weapons drawn. The Ironborn look just as surprised to see armed men in front of them as the Assembly is to see the Ironborn at that moment. The Ironborn quickly spin to go back the way they came, just to be confronted with three slaad, two red and one green. The party quickly pieces it all together. Qhortho, Ornogrim, and Aran move forward to help the Ironborn defeat these beasts; Qarzdaq and Rolan make some distance to the sides as they proceed forward.

As they are about to engage the slaad, the party sees over the hill for the first time.

Dead slaad and Ironborn are scattered across the field. Some men, still alive, continue to reach and call out for help. Some are still trying to fight with missing limbs. Some are lying on the ground, staring into the dark clouds above, gasping for breath and blinking raindrops out of their eyes. Some slaad, severely maimed, are trying to bite anyone within their reach. Blood of varying shades pool in the areas with piles of bodies.

            ORNO:              What the fuck…

About fifty feet or so straight ahead, a rocky overhang covers six standing hooded figures staring into a blazing campfire of red and green flames, motioning their arms in vertical patterns.

A red slaad emerges from the campfire and lunges forward as if being ejected. It looks around and locks on to one of the nearby dying Ironborn. Rushing forward, it jumps to the ground and bites out the man’s throat mid-scream, cutting it to a high-pressure gurgle.

            QARZ:               We need to kill the ones summoning these things!

In agreement with Qarzdaq, Rolan yells out to the Ironborn archers, “Archers! This way! Follow me!”

Hearing the call, the Ironborn swordsmen focus on the slaad closest to the archers. This give the archers the small opportunity they needed to squeeze out of the pack and run towards Rolan. Seeing them clear and running towards him, he gives himself a little more distance from the melee.

            ROLAN:             Fire at those guys over there!

He slides to a stop and fires mid-skid. He allows his arrow to point the other archers towards the cultists around the fire. The others loose their arrows all at once, focused on the same target, severely injuring one of the cultists and momentarily bringing him to one knee.

While reaching for his next arrow, Rolan glances over at one of the senior Ironborn swordsmen on the hill with a hint of recognition. It can’t be who he thinks it is. But… they never did find a body. So… could it be? He pushes these questions out of his mind and gets his head back into the fight. He sends another arrow directly into the side of the injured cultist, who falls to the ground.

A loud screaming whinny briefly overpowers every other sound of the battle from the cluster of swordsmen atop the hill. The sound is loud enough to make everyone wince with annoyance.

Qhortho dismembers one of the red slaad with a single slash of his Valyrian Greatsword. Two other soldiers seize on the opportunity, quickly stabbing it with their rapiers. The red slaad retaliates, clawing and snapping at one of the soldiers. As its neck is out, the captain of the group slashes its head clean off. The headless slaad scrambles furiously for a second then collapses and slides down the hill.

The recently-spawned red slaad by the cultists finishes his meal of human throat and clambers up the hill. It jumps over the sliding body and lunges toward Aran with its claws. He sees it coming and dodges immediately. He avoids both claws, but the creature bites him hard on the shoulder. He knocks it away and quickly returns with a few bites from his glaive.

Ornogrim and a few other Ironborn soldiers focus on the other red slaad. They take turns slashing and stabbing it until it releases a shriek that pierces the skulls of those nearby, as if it originated inside their own heads. It falls. Its lifeless body rolling down the hill.

The green slaad singles out the veteran Ironborn fighter. He viciously advances with bites and swipes from its claws, while the soldier deftly avoids each attack, jumping back with each one. Finally, his chance opens and he unleashes a flurry of attacks. He connects with almost every slash from his longsword, pushing the green slaad back towards the other men. Two of the Ironborn berserkers notice this and join the attack. The green slaad retaliates by unleashing a fireball that envelops everyone on the hill, barely missing Qarzdaq.

What may have been uncomfortably close for most, feels like a warm bath for Qarzdaq.

            QARZ:               Yeah? You guys want to play with fire?

Qarzdaq raises a ring of fire directly beneath the cultists’ feet with the outside of the ring projecting its heat. The idea was that the cultists would not be able to get near their summoning pit. However, he underestimates their determination. They jump towards the campfire just within the cylinder of fire, where it cannot hurt them. Even so, most of them jump a moment too late to avoid being badly scorched.

The archers, now not being able to target the cultists, focus on the green slaad. All of the arrows strike true, though some appear unable to pierce its tough skin. Aran gets behind it though, sweeps its leg, and delivers a killing blow. Meanwhile, another red slaad is summoned and is ejected out of the fire under the rocky overhang. It rushes to join the melee on the hill and is met by the butt of Aran’s glaive. This stuns it slightly, but does little else.

Qhortho, seeing the two red slaad surrounded by his allies, rushes down towards the ring of fire. When he gets as close as he dares, he stands there, brooding. He breathes the hot air deeply, driven entirely by adrenaline, menacingly biding his time to jump in and destroy the cultists inside. He is suddenly met by a green slaad jumping out of the fiery wall, biting at the air and swinging its claws. Although some of its strikes tearing flesh, the sound of searing reptilian skin fills Qhortho’s ears and invigorates him to the point of not noticing the pain.

Another two red slaad emerge from the fire in succession. One runs up the hill to attack Aran beside one of its brethren; its claws graze Aran’s armor but do little more. The second slaad lunges directly for Qhortho, who manages to avoid the claws, but takes yet another bite on the arm.

Seeing as this ring of fire is not doing anything to prevent the summoning, Qarzdaq drops the fire, revealing the cultists still focused on their ritual. He quickly launches a Fireball centered on the summoning point, killing three of the five cultists.

Qhortho, deep in rage, finally sees his chance. He takes off towards one of the cultists, just 20 feet away. As he turns from the two nearby slaad, they manage to slash deeply into his back with their claws. Without as much as a wince of pain, he charges his blade through the cultist.

Blood trickles from the side of the cultist’s mouth, though he remains standing, mostly due to Qhortho’s blade holding him up. Qhortho looks into his widened eyes and happens to catch a sight of the other cultist being pierced by several arrows at once. The last arrow pierces his eye, dropping him to the ground. Qhortho yells out in barbaric rage, turning a 180 on the spot and ripping his blade through the cultist’s side.

The fire that was once much larger, with its red and green flames, now dies down to a small, typical orange and red campfire. The ripped-open cultist falls into the fire and his robes go aflame.

Qhortho sees the Ironborn captain in close-range combat with the nearest red slaad while the green slaad appears to be mid-cast of the arcane. Qhortho rushes toward the green slaad and slashes at him, but it moves at the last moment and sends a fireball at the men up on the hill. It explodes, killing two of the Ironborn berserkers, while the third is badly weakened. A red slaad finishes him off before attacking the veteran soldier.

Qhortho attempts to attack the green slaad, but before he can, the archers and Rolan put an end to its existence.

Qarzdaq launches a few well-placed firebolts, taking out the red slaad near the captain.

The last of the red slaad are vanquished by Aran, Ornogrim, and the remaining Ironborn swordsmen. Unfortunately, another Ironborn swordsman was lost in that final battle.

The entire encounter couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds. Across the field lay so much death, so much destruction. Nature once again proves it pays no mind to the lives of men… and slaad… as the rain continues, indiscriminately diluting the spilled blood of both.

It is true that some Ironborn made it through the fight, but many of them have fallen. Six remain, a few of them badly injured. Still, this is six out of the fifty that took on this fight. Looking across the field, the Ironborn bodies lay scattered. Some individual bodies are literally scattered. At least twenty slaad bodies are among the dead.

The thought of fighting fifty Ironborn is terrifying enough, but for that many to have been killed by these slaad means these creatures are even more powerful than they’d ever imagined. They are lucky to have made it through the day. How many of these things are still on the island?

Forks in the Road

The veteran soldier stows his sword and limps over to Rolan.

            VETERAN:          Rolan, the Drowned God brings us together again. As expected, I suppose. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I owe you that much at least.

            ROLAN:             Jahor… It is good to see you alive… We have much to discuss.

            JAHOR:             If you have questions, I will answer what I can. If you would choose a different time or place, I will do what I can to accommodate.

            ROLAN:             Why… Why are you with these people?

Jahor sighs.

            JAHOR:             Well… I’ve been with ROW, the Rights of the Old Way, for a long time. Before you were born. But… I don’t know that I still completely agree with all they stand for.

The Ironborn captain clearly overhears this comment but turns away. This is no time for laying down principles.

            JAHOR:             Still, duty is duty and I have been training you for this the entire time. Your next phase of training that I told you about? That was to join ROW. If you see it fit. After knowing you all this time, I was half-expecting you to pull ME away from it, but if you decided to join them, I would accept that as well.

            ROLAN:             There is much to consider here… What is the next step?

            JAHOR:             The idea is that you would choose one path or another. Join ROW, the Rights of the Old Way, the rights of your people, of your tradition, of… your lineage. Or, you can choose to go the New Way. The way of House Hoare. The way the most recent generations have chosen. Where the Ironborn work with the Westerosi instead of taking what is ours by force.

            ROLAN:             The way I feel you have trained me has been in the New Way. I am so confused right now with what you are saying about the Old Way. The Drowned God hooked me up with this motley crew of adventurers, some dirty and some clean, and I’m going to have to stick with them until the Drowned God gives me a sign to do otherwise.

            JAHOR:             I understand. I just hope that I am not ostracized from my people for training you as I have. I have been a recruiter for ROW for quite some time. I’ve spent a lot of time on the mainland and with you. I’m still surprised at how much you have taught me. I always allowed you the choice. I never pushed you one way or the other, so I find it interesting that you say I trained you in the New Way. The fact is, that I trained you and, on your own path, you have chosen the New Way.  And I believe, now, that the New Way is probably better for us as a people. That it is better for us to join with Westeros.

            ROLAN:             I think I understand. I must inform you that our presence on the Shield Islands is very much known in Highgarden and we, as a group, were sent here to put a stop to this. What… what are you doing here next? And how do we avoid further bloodshed?

            JAHOR:             I think we are at the precipice of choice. We are ok parting ways here. I don’t know that I can stay with them any longer, to be honest. We’ve lost too many. Our ranks have dwindled to the few of us standing before you now… and those we left along the road and at the keep. I think it’s time for me, personally, to part ways with ROW. To retire. I wish you well on your journey forward. I hope the Drowned God continues to guide you along your way.

            ROLAN:             What happens to the rest of us? The Ironborn that are still alive?

            JAHOR:             I don’t know… I don’t know… But I do know that ROW does not have the ranks they once did. The tradition cannot continue unless there is a change of leadership. And I don’t think that I can be a part of that anymore. Especially now that we’ve lost so many. I think that over this entire journey… and it wasn’t even that long of a journey… we’ve lost more than half our ranks. We can’t continue like this. I mean… what’s our end goal here?…

            ROLAN:             I think that’s the question for them now. We need ROW to leave. To go home. We need to be able to report back that the Ironborn threat to Westeros is gone. I don’t yet know what to make of the rest of what’s happened out here. I suppose I look to my companions. Do you feel that this allows us to call this a success?

            ARAN:               We can’t fix everything, and I think we have a lot to think about, but this is definitely for the better. We should head back to the keep.

            JAHOR:             Would it be alright with all of you, if we were to leave the island for the Iron Islands? We still need to reconvene with at the keep, so we will travel with you a bit longer, if that is ok with you.

The group agrees with this.

Although severely scorched, Qarzdaq is able to find some identifying scraps of robes and trinkets, to provide as evidence of the cultists. Ornogrim stocks up on a few more slaad claws, to show the creatures that were being summoned.

Exhausted, they all travel together along the road. Two hours pass before they meet with the five Ironborn on watch. After telling their story and hearing that the watch had not encountered any slaad of their own, they band together and continue towards the next intersection.

Another two hours pass and the same steps are repeated. These watchmen also have not encountered any slaad. They all continue towards the keep.

The sun is low in the sky behind them as they climb the hill to the keep. They pound on the door, demanding entry, and are greeted by the same sight they saw earlier that day: the lord is still shackled but appears to be well-treated otherwise. The other Ironborn stand watch, waiting for a slaad attack at any moment.

Upon entering the great hall, the Ironborn lower their weapons. It is only now, that the party truly appreciates that they are in the presence of almost thirty Ironborn, most of whom are well-rested. These next few minutes could go very badly.

After retelling the story of the slaad battle once again, Aran adds…

            ARAN:               We have agreed that all the Ironborn should be free to go.

Immediately, this draws protest from the shackled lord.

Aran looks past him and addresses Galon.

            ARAN:               We have vanquished the enemy. It is a good night.

            GALON:             I ask more of you. I ask that you not tell anyone that we raided these lands. We will let these people go. If we are sure the slaad have been removed from this land, then what does it matter… Our ranks are so low, we couldn’t possibly raid anyway.

            AIDIN:               I ask that you not tell anyone about these cultists that we brought to power. We will never do this again. We have learned the errors of our way. We really just want to exist in peace. That was the goal all along.

            QHOR:              We report to the King. What are we supposed to tell him?

            AIDIN:               I don’t know precisely, but I ask that you not tell him of the cultists. We have been charged with keeping The Reach safe for over a thousand years. Please do not ruin this for an incident that may have gone too far but was always, ALWAYS in line with that one and only goal.​

With no time to rest, the party remains exhausted but more experienced, earning 1800XP this session, nearing the end of Day 330.