Severer, of The North

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Severer, of The North

PostPosted by foxwillow » Wed May 10, 2017 15:56

This is played with AGOT 1.4.1, with only my mod, Traits Expanded, running. I'm sticking to realism, as even though some really powerful characters with great attributes are willing to come to my court, I do not think they actually would. I am playing the same way my friends and I play -- a created character as lord of a single county. It starts from the point of view of the heir of my first character.


I am a Severer. I don't particularly like seeing it written. I actually prefer hearing it, especially as people address my father as what sounds more like "Lord Sevra."

He is a powerful, smart man. But he is inherently awful, and I can tell he is disliked. Making that dislike even worse, at least back before the wall fell, he married my wildling mother. Nowadays, I imagine that means much less to people. The free folk are at least human, and the constant threat of The Others and their armies of undead marching through the North, in three waves now, has probably softened the people's hatred of wildlings.

But I am just a 13-year-old disappointment who hasn't left Widow's Watch. And with father's three melee wins in a row, lengthening rule, and ability to destroy his opponents, I also assume some whispers remain unwhispered. I remember hearing more gossip when I was younger. It seems to have faded fast.

I don't know if I was simply wrong, if people respect or fear my father's rule and now are tighter-lipped, or if I'm more of a threat as I age. I imagine that a 13-year-old overhearing a stallworker insulting the Lord is probably much more damning than a 6-year-old overhearing it.

I want to know why I am the heir to Widow's Watch. Why am I a Severer? In fact, why is Dorren a Severer? Our name itself, and our sigil, are definitely brooding. With my father's penchant with a sword, my assumption is that our lands and our name are a reward for something he once did for someone powerful. I don't dare ask him.

I am afraid of him. He tolerates me, which I am pathetically grateful for. I can tell he prefers my brother, Osric, but even he, I know, will never live up to our father's example. But he does not have the belly I do. He doesn't lose his breath. He doesn't stumble. And he certainly isn't as damned slow as I am. At our age, being two years his elder should give me an easy win whenever we spar. But I can't remember the last time I won. I almost wonder if I ever have.

It pains me that what little information I had access to, the common-man's street speak, has gone dry. If any of the answers I seek would reflect poorly on my father, I'm smart enough to know that no one would utter them. Maester Hallis fears my father, and for good reason, as our previous maester died in jail.

I don't think mother fears father. When I was toying with asking her, she abruptly told me that "the truest answers only come in time." I know she is patient, but I suspect she doesn't know. Somehow, that makes my father even more frightening to me.


Father is a touch less frightening. I overheard him mention to our Master-at-Arms, Rickard Liddle, that we would be supplying more men than requested to fight the wights in White Knife.

I entered the room, and he was holding mother close. He told her the children would be safe. His eyes were as calculating and spiteful as usual, but I thought I saw a glimpse of worry before he noticed me.

"Liddle!" he yelled to his exiting councilman.


"See to it my little roundling trains half as well as he skulks about."

Roundling was a new one. When chided by peers I was often referred to as a wildling, due to mother. I complained, but liked it, it made me feel more daring and robust than I ever would be. Roundling.

I really hope no one else heard that, and that Rickard Liddle hasn't reason to repeat it.


I do not understand why my father refused to command Lord Paramount Errold Stark's army when summoned. When I found out I was shocked.

Even without him, the armies of the North and Iron Throne, finally united under King Wallace Lannister we able to finally end The Others and their rule north of The Wall.

A child in the street threw a pebble at me and called me roundling. We both knew I wasn't going to give chase.
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Re: Severer, of The North

PostPosted by JDSweet » Thu May 11, 2017 17:29

Good start, though I would like more screenshots if at all possible.
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Re: Severer, of The North

PostPosted by pvt900 » Fri May 12, 2017 16:29

Love the POV it's unique and quite entertaining, looking forward to his elder years. Quick Q? We possible get a SOTW ( State of the World/Westeros) Post. I'm curious to know the LP's the King's Story and Errold Stark's Lineage(Whom did he spawn from?)
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Re: Severer, of The North

PostPosted by foxwillow » Sat May 13, 2017 04:01

State of Westeros - 8320
Jone Severer is now 18 years old.

On the Iron Throne sits young King Wallace Lannister.

After a childless Joffrey died of the flue in 8304 at the age of 18, his brother Tommen ruled until 8311. Tommen's death remains suspicious and unsolved. As with Joffrey, he was childless.

Wallace is Tommen's nephew through his sister Myrcella Lannister and their cousin Lucion Lannister. He took control 9 years ago in 8311 at the age of 2, his rule now longer than either of his uncles'. The Lannister line is surprisingly strong despite the frequent deaths, as Dowager Queen Myrcella and Lucion have had 5 other children after 11-year-old Wallace. Joanna is 6, twins Genna and Joanna (..really?) are 4, and twins Devan and Marya you-shouldn't-have-married-your-cousin are 0.

In the North, Errold Stark rules. He is the son of Robb Stark and Jeyne Westerling. Robb died in battle with Victarion Greyjoy when Errold was only 10 months old. Jon Snow died in the long battle with the White Walkers in 8311, and Rickon died cause eating is difficult.

Sansa, Arya, and current-heir-of-The-North Brandon Stark still live. As with the Myrcella-Lannisters, Brandon's current three children give some probable guarantee that the Starks continue on.

When Balon Greyjoy died of the plague in 8308, Asha Greyjoy became ruler of the Iron Islands. They are currently independent of the Iron Throne. She married -- get this -- Robert Arryn, and birthed two Arryns.

The Trident is run by Melene Tully -- daughter to the now-deseased Edmure Tully -- whose been in charge since she was two. Her mother is the also-dead Obara Sand (Oberyn Martell's daughter).

The Vale is... confusing. In 8311 -- because everything happened in 8311 -- Robert Arryn, who had been running the Vale, and married Asha Greyjoy during his reign -- lost the vale to his cousin Tarysa's son Harrold Arryn. He's been in charge since. I don't know why he "inherited" from a living character, maybe a plot?

As is usually the case, Tyrion winds up ruling the Westerlands, but when he died in 8310, his only son, then-newborn Lester Lannister, took over. As seems to be the frequent case, many of these infant Lord Paramounts manage to keep power for more than a decade.

Willas Tyrell inherited the Reach from Mace in 8308.

Arianne Martell inherited Dorne from her father, Doran, in 8306 when he died of Gout.

The interesting one is Daenerys Targaryen, who is Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Stannis died and Shireen inherited (which is common), but when Shireen died in 8303 and Joffrey inherited the Stormlands, it appears as though he immediately gave them to Dany.

Right now, Dorne, The Reach, and the Stormlands are united in a war against the Iron Throne to lower authority. For some reason Pentos and the Iron Throne are also fighting over Duskendale.
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Re: Severer, of The North

PostPosted by foxwillow » Sat May 13, 2017 05:10

8320, Jone Severer, 18.

Father and Owen, who is both our Spymaster and currently Widow's Watch's only commander, are sparring with blunted blades.

We watch. It's what we do.

It's been years since I've withdrawn my own participation in all combat training. As I recall, father was as furious as expected, but did not overrule, question, or even punish me.

To be fair, it was shortly after my marriage to Dalla Silversword (whose father was lord of a small keep in the Stormlands), and during dinner. With my new wife present. I played my cards cautiously, hoping my father would not emasculate his eldest son in front of said son's wife. It, thankfully, worked.

Their battle continues.

To my right stands Osric, who is also now married, to Lesley Sward -- the daughter of a sellsword captain. He wears a hell of a scar across his right cheek -- proof that training with father was never a particularly safe affair, blunted blades or not.

Every time father swings, it seems like his blade bellows on impact with Owen's. The spymaster impressively holds his own against father, but it's usually clear that he gives everything he has just to stay on his feet.

A kick -- always a kick -- and father has Owen on his knees again. They've fought for years and still Owen cannot counter father's lead-kick. Father turns his back to Owen.

This is the particular etiquette to these matches. Three times down before you've lost. When you go down, your opponent turns his back. You may rise and move, stay five or so paces from he who lost you your footing, and clank your blade into the ground. The second your steel touches earth, the next round begins.

Owen stands and looks about him. Osric snickers to himself, taps me in the shoulder, and points to where he thinks Owen will stand for the next bout.

He isn't right.

I can tell father and Owen are talking as they spar. This is how father likes to discuss the goings-on of Widow's Watch.

I'm sure they are discussing the commander vacancy. It hasn't been a secret that Owen supports Ramsey for the role.

Osric is annoyed he was wrong about Owen's chosen round position. He leans against the wall of the ten-stable, sweat dripping from his brow. He is casually holding his lower ribs, where minutes earlier Owen ended their bout with a hilt jab. He's trying to mask the massaging motion of his hand... but subtle Osric is not.

If father and Owen are indeed discussing commanders, it's because father has, recently, while drunk, been making comments about Osric's leading an army one day.

My sister Munda and brother Jorah are nowhere to be seen. The all-too-familiar clank of steel starts ringing again as Owen and father tangle once more.

My son Torren, 2, and my brother Barthogan, 3, play in the dirt together. As the pitchy metal echoes off our surroundings, they both cover their ears. Every time. It's still weird to watch my brother and son play together.

Owen stumbles, but recovers. He thrusts and connects square with my father's chest.

Even the children seem to acknowledge the occasion.

Our swords are dulled, but these matches are carried out in one's everyday clothing.

Dorren Severer falls to his knees -- it is the first time I have ever seen him bested, in any round, of any bout, in this Widow's Watch yard. His face was already flushed from exertion, but a new crimson of shame seeps into his cheeks as he slowly raises his left arm. It was one's own call if a would-be fatal blow was to be the end of the round or loss of the entire bout.

He yields.

Owen raises an eyebrow, then looks to the dirt.

I'm a man grown. I have my own son. I fear and respect my father, but it is not childish idolizing that leads me to think he's one of the greatest fighters in the realm. I have watched him frighten hordes of men in a melee. I have seen him fight in these bouts here, and handfuls of other kinds of matches numbering easily into the thousands. He has taken hits but he has never lost.

He has never been on his knees, red-faced.

For the first time in my entire life, I am worried about my father.
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Re: Severer, of The North

PostPosted by foxwillow » Sat May 13, 2017 06:55

1820, Osric Severer, 16

"By total FFFFFFUCKING damnation!"

I don't have Dorren's stutter, but when angry, I tend to do that. Especially with "fuck."

"By the Maiden, mind yourself!" My wife, Lesley, was both keeping me grounded and annoying the fuck out of me. Married three damn months and she didn't even hesitate to caw at me.

"Maiden? Are you a cursed sevenstar now?"


"Well then?"

"I just said it, does it matter? I don't care if it's a Maiden or a sea monster or a damned twig. Whatever god keeps you from being so damned loud."

Without father around, I felt much more bold. It was very upsetting to be told to mind my voice. Part of me wanted to strike her, which just makes me mad with myself, which just makes me more irritable in general. Plus my father just died. I know she's right.

"He isn't in the ground yet, Les. He isn't in the ground. He isn't in the ground." I sat on the floor. "He isn't in the ground."

Jone acted like Owen besting father was an event as gigantic as if a new White Walker had sprouted from the ground in front of us. He lost. It happens. No, it had never happened to him, so it was noteworthy, but it wasn't the end of Westeros.

Then our fucking father, three days later, drinks himself to a gods-damned death. Jone thinks he's a prophet because our drunkard father drank too much.

I never actually believed Jone would rule Widow's Watch. For as long as I can recall, I figured he would die young and I would take his place. Or maybe I didn't think that. I don't know. I'm mixed up and pissed off. Maybe him actually heading the family is just too much right now. I'm more fit for this than he is. I wouldn't act on the notion, but if he were to die...

Would people seriously accept 2-year-old Torren? That's the succession line. I like Torren, I couldn't rob him of his father. What if they were to both die? I love Torren. I'm thinking thoughts I should never be thinking. I'm not crying but I feel like I should be. I am so pissed off at Jone.

"He does need to take care of affairs, Oz."

"I know." I say it through gritted teeth, and I feel a tiring combination of sad, petty, juvenile, and angry.

The day after father's death, our Master-at-Arms, Rickard Liddle, went to Jone about making Ramsey a fucking commander. He knew that I wanted it, he knew that our now-dead father wanted it, and he goes and gives it to fucking Ramsey.

"They say rule changes a man. I do not mean to further your anger, but it's probably best you not be too loud in --"

"I know."

"Well, it's just --"

"You don't have to finish. I know." I cut her off. I didn't want her to say it. I think I get her general point -- what if Jone catches wind that I'm pissed at him? If I was him in that situation, I would be worried about a threat. I'd probably take action against a threat.

" -- I care." She folds her lips to the side and her little chin wrinkles a bit. She's worried that if I get too loud and obvious Jone might feel he has reason to do something about it.

She's closer now. I'm still sitting on the floor. I reach out for her and tug her toward me and kiss her. She stumbles awkwardly but doesn't resist my pull, slamming her knees into the wooden floor without complaint.

I want to hit Jone. Or hug him. We bury Dorren tomorrow.


Lesley is going to pick on me. No, she won't actually say anything.

She's just going to look at me. Blankly. But I'll know exactly what it means.

Father was buried not even an hour ago. I feel much more at ease now, though I'm not really sure why. Each of his sons, and Torren, dropped a clump of soil into his grave, so that he may grow. And we dropped a rock, so that he may endure. And we dropped a raven's feather, so that we get his messages.

After the ceremony, I heard Jone.

"Go give it to Uncle Oz."

Torren, who still doesn't talk, stumbled up to me and said what sounded like "Yum." In his outstretched hand was a small rock.

I took it, cause it was clear I was supposed to. Jone and Owen approached me, and after patting Torren on the head, I held the rock outward with my best attempt at a tell-me-what-the-hell-this-means expression on my face.

"It's so you endure, too. It seems dumb, I don't know why it made sense to me at the time. But I want you to endure. For our family, for our little corner of the North."

"Okay?" He made no sense, really.

"Owen will be our spymaster and only our spymaster. He will be stepping down as one of the commanders of Widow's Watch, and -- if you accept -- you are his replacement."

Of course I said yes.

Jone is a frustrating son of a bitch.

I haven't told Lesley yet.

Torren's rock feels very good in the palm of my hand.
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