Gendered nouns down below for our main character are entirely mutable even if my default is that they be a woman.
Hiya. I'm looking for a GM interested in an AU of ASOIAF that surrounds the extraordinarily neglected lives of the peasants of the North in the absence of Robb Stark, the innocents caught between roaming armies of slaving Ironborn and merciless Boltons. Our roleplay ideally would be one about the war against cruelty and misery through real and dramatic change that takes place through incompetent neglect, optimism and hope eventually turning back the tides of evil taking place when good people turn their eyes away from what's happening.
If it wasn't clear from the text below this isn't meant to be a story about putting new people in charge of old institutions - although my vision is heavily open to change, the intact version in my head sees a revolutionary shift in politics in Westeros, not the rise of a new dynasty. Republicanism. Agrarian reforms and land ownership. I'd like to see a heavy focus on management, warfare (especially of the partisan and guerilla kind), cool environments, survivalism in winter, and extraordinary struggle meeting oft insurmountable odds that they must avoid or think their way around.
Content warning for referenced wartime violence and torture.
...
"No wolves will save us."
She dares not look up to meet the scorn that she knows awaits her behind the fire she focuses all of her attention on. They are four-hundred, tired and cold. Weak and afraid. Without hope. Without a choice.
'Traitor!' She hears, which she supposes must be true. 'Our Wolf will return! Have hope!' After that, which makes her smile in spite of herself, too nostalgic and eager to return to easier times. And finally she hears what she knew would be asked - 'Who else?'
At that, she rises.
Many of the men stand above her, but not all of them. She looks for the faces she knows to reaffirm her courage, and most of them nod silently in support, others having become too afraid themselves. They look like she does now - shrunken, with their skin bleaching from the living winds. There was supposed to be howls on those winds, but there isn't. There are no more wolves. Only kraken and flayed men and the broken.
"Us."
There isn't quite silence at that, but it's close. Families huddle close together to be closer to the flames, looking at her with doubt, curiosity, or mockery. But there's nods too. She lives off those, few as they are, exchanging her attention between the frozen faces that watch her and the star-filled sky above. God-filled, some said. If there were gods, they had to be there, didn't they? She certainly didn't see any of them down here. 'Not with us,' she thought. 'No. I think we must do this ourself.'
"Us!" She repeats, louder, stomping her foot, putting all of her heat into it, raising her voice as high as it will go, letting it cut through the sullen trees that protected them. "Winterfell is gone. Your Lord is gone-" She sees heads quirk at that, and she shakes hers in turn, clenching and unclenching her gloved fists. "ALL your Lords. We have more kings than kingdoms, and none of you could name one that has come to save us!"
"There is a war," an aged man said, and she could hear the patiently lecturing tone in his voice, as if she had forgotten. "You would have us become brigands in the absence of order?"
She's allowed him his chance to speak, and it's only because of her respect for custom that she does not strike the old man, only glare at him with enough heat to warm his hide.
"I would have us fight back. Not against one another. Against them."
There's enough hate and contempt in her voice that some voice their agreement in an instant. They know who she speaks of, and though another tries to raise their voice she yells over them, stepping into the light of her fire, letting it cast her shadow across the snowbanks.
"THE VERMIN! MURDERERS AND TORTURERS AND THIEVES AND LIARS!"
Her throat cracks under the screaming, her every breath turning to vapor, but she does not care. She holds in her mind every corpse and ruined castle, every village and silent hearth. She refuses to forget. She lets her anger and grief fill her where food and warmth cannot.
"Think of how many of us there are, think of how many suffer to the hands so very few - how many soldiers have you seen in your life? How many archers? How many lances? How many sit beside you today?"
Some do exchange looks. A soft and curious voice from the crowd asks her - "But... we are gentlefolk. Our lot is the fields, madam. Plows. What are we to a House? To many Houses?"
"Afraid of seafood, good ser?"
That earns her laughter, but it isn't laughter she wants. Not yet. She wants a tide. A rising storm from all corners.
"We are everything. We are the many. They are the few. Gods can die - so why cannot a Lord? Why must the sheep wait for wolves to save them? Do you not grow weary of bowing so low? Do your knees not ache from kneeling? Would you rather suffer this, freezing in the snow, unloved and unheard, rather than fight and take what you have sewn for so long?"
Everyone is silent now. She knows now she has most of them hanging onto her every word. Even the man who she knew would not survive his next winter is watching her, allowing himself to dream.
To hope.
Swallowing, one of her friends she'd trusted to speak raises their voice.
"What is to be done, then?"
She smirks at that.
"Oh. Revolution, ser."
Hiya. I'm looking for a GM interested in an AU of ASOIAF that surrounds the extraordinarily neglected lives of the peasants of the North in the absence of Robb Stark, the innocents caught between roaming armies of slaving Ironborn and merciless Boltons. Our roleplay ideally would be one about the war against cruelty and misery through real and dramatic change that takes place through incompetent neglect, optimism and hope eventually turning back the tides of evil taking place when good people turn their eyes away from what's happening.
If it wasn't clear from the text below this isn't meant to be a story about putting new people in charge of old institutions - although my vision is heavily open to change, the intact version in my head sees a revolutionary shift in politics in Westeros, not the rise of a new dynasty. Republicanism. Agrarian reforms and land ownership. I'd like to see a heavy focus on management, warfare (especially of the partisan and guerilla kind), cool environments, survivalism in winter, and extraordinary struggle meeting oft insurmountable odds that they must avoid or think their way around.
Content warning for referenced wartime violence and torture.
...
"No wolves will save us."
She dares not look up to meet the scorn that she knows awaits her behind the fire she focuses all of her attention on. They are four-hundred, tired and cold. Weak and afraid. Without hope. Without a choice.
'Traitor!' She hears, which she supposes must be true. 'Our Wolf will return! Have hope!' After that, which makes her smile in spite of herself, too nostalgic and eager to return to easier times. And finally she hears what she knew would be asked - 'Who else?'
At that, she rises.
Many of the men stand above her, but not all of them. She looks for the faces she knows to reaffirm her courage, and most of them nod silently in support, others having become too afraid themselves. They look like she does now - shrunken, with their skin bleaching from the living winds. There was supposed to be howls on those winds, but there isn't. There are no more wolves. Only kraken and flayed men and the broken.
"Us."
There isn't quite silence at that, but it's close. Families huddle close together to be closer to the flames, looking at her with doubt, curiosity, or mockery. But there's nods too. She lives off those, few as they are, exchanging her attention between the frozen faces that watch her and the star-filled sky above. God-filled, some said. If there were gods, they had to be there, didn't they? She certainly didn't see any of them down here. 'Not with us,' she thought. 'No. I think we must do this ourself.'
"Us!" She repeats, louder, stomping her foot, putting all of her heat into it, raising her voice as high as it will go, letting it cut through the sullen trees that protected them. "Winterfell is gone. Your Lord is gone-" She sees heads quirk at that, and she shakes hers in turn, clenching and unclenching her gloved fists. "ALL your Lords. We have more kings than kingdoms, and none of you could name one that has come to save us!"
"There is a war," an aged man said, and she could hear the patiently lecturing tone in his voice, as if she had forgotten. "You would have us become brigands in the absence of order?"
She's allowed him his chance to speak, and it's only because of her respect for custom that she does not strike the old man, only glare at him with enough heat to warm his hide.
"I would have us fight back. Not against one another. Against them."
There's enough hate and contempt in her voice that some voice their agreement in an instant. They know who she speaks of, and though another tries to raise their voice she yells over them, stepping into the light of her fire, letting it cast her shadow across the snowbanks.
"THE VERMIN! MURDERERS AND TORTURERS AND THIEVES AND LIARS!"
Her throat cracks under the screaming, her every breath turning to vapor, but she does not care. She holds in her mind every corpse and ruined castle, every village and silent hearth. She refuses to forget. She lets her anger and grief fill her where food and warmth cannot.
"Think of how many of us there are, think of how many suffer to the hands so very few - how many soldiers have you seen in your life? How many archers? How many lances? How many sit beside you today?"
Some do exchange looks. A soft and curious voice from the crowd asks her - "But... we are gentlefolk. Our lot is the fields, madam. Plows. What are we to a House? To many Houses?"
"Afraid of seafood, good ser?"
That earns her laughter, but it isn't laughter she wants. Not yet. She wants a tide. A rising storm from all corners.
"We are everything. We are the many. They are the few. Gods can die - so why cannot a Lord? Why must the sheep wait for wolves to save them? Do you not grow weary of bowing so low? Do your knees not ache from kneeling? Would you rather suffer this, freezing in the snow, unloved and unheard, rather than fight and take what you have sewn for so long?"
Everyone is silent now. She knows now she has most of them hanging onto her every word. Even the man who she knew would not survive his next winter is watching her, allowing himself to dream.
To hope.
Swallowing, one of her friends she'd trusted to speak raises their voice.
"What is to be done, then?"
She smirks at that.
"Oh. Revolution, ser."
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