Darkness.

You wake with your cheek pressed to wet stone. The air is thick with rot—human and otherwise. Your mouth tastes like iron and ash, your head rings with a pain that feels… old. Heavy.

You try to sit up. Your limbs respond slowly, as if they’ve forgotten how. The world tilts. Your stomach lurches, empty. You catch yourself against the wall—rough-hewn and damp with something foul.

The smell here is ancient: mold, sweat, shit, smoke. You are not alone, though you can’t see anyone. You can barely see at all.

There’s no light. No fire. Not even the ghost of moonlight. You’re deep—deep—underground.

Somewhere nearby, a rat skitters. A chain clinks. A voice coughs. But none of it feels… familiar.

Not this place.

Not your body.

Not even your own name.

You reach for something—anything—a scrap of memory, a face, a word. Nothing comes.

No.

Not nothing. There’s something there, clawing at the edge of your mind. A flicker. A sound. A smell. A name, half-spoken in a dream.

You just have to reach for it.

Roll 1d100 for how much you remember:
1 - Critical Failure: The Burn
2-20 - Lost in the Fog
21-40 - Shards
41-60 - The Surface
61-80 - Threads
81-99 - The Truth
100 - Critical Success: The Flame That Remembers

Rolled 88 (1d100)

>>6223875

>>6223877
Right on.

>>6223877
Excellent. I'll try to include a bonus for that double as well. Writing.

And something... comes back.

You remember the Red Keep. The corridors, the stone steps that echo louder than they should. The smell of lemon oil on polished wood. You remember the banners—lions, everywhere. And the hush that fell over the court when Lord Stark was led in chains.

You remember the moment the blade fell. You remember screaming.

And then—nothing.

A name. Yours. It claws at the edge of your mind. Half-there, but blurred. You try to hold it, like a dream slipping through your fingers. You remember something else instead: why they took you. What you know.

You are not nobody. You're just… buried.

Who are you?
>The Witness: You were a page from a minor house in the Red Keep, quiet and mostly invisible. But one night you saw Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime together, in a way no siblings should, and whispered the truth into Ned Stark’s ear before the axe fell. You are the living witness to King Joffrey's true parentage.

>The Disgraced Knight: You were once a sworn sword to Renly Baratheon, a part of his household guard at court. When Lord Stark was arrested, Renly fled. But you you were still in the Red Keep, caught up in the chaos and struck down by the Gold Cloaks. You know what Renly intends to do, and which guards turned their cloaks.

>The Ravenkeeper: Ned Stark charged you with delivering a letter to Stannis Baratheon, but before you could do so, Grand Maester Pycelle ordered it burnt. You hesitated and didn't burn it immediately. Two days later, you were arrested.

>The Orphan Boy: You were raised in Maidenpool, the son of a barmaid and some noble too uncaring of where he spread his seed. You had barely arrived in King's Landing when the Hand of the King himself paid you a visit. You were picked up off the street without charges. No trial, no explanation.

>The Wolf's Shadow: You were a member of Lord Stark's household. When the purge came after his arrest, most of Lord Stark’s men were slaughtered or captured. You escaped the first wave. The second found you. You were entrusted with something meant for one of the Stark children—a token, not a message.

>>6223918
>The Wolf's Shadow: You were a member of Lord Stark's household. When the purge came after his arrest, most of Lord Stark’s men were slaughtered or captured. You escaped the first wave. The second found you. You were entrusted with something meant for one of the Stark children—a token, not a message.

Leaving this open for a few hours. For the system I'll use a rudimentary version of Forgotten's d100. This is intended to be a one-shot that finishes within a month.

>>6223918
>The Orphan Boy: You were raised in Maidenpool, the son of a barmaid and some noble too uncaring of where he spread his seed. You had barely arrived in King's Landing when the Hand of the King himself paid you a visit. You were picked up off the street without charges. No trial, no explanation.

>>6223918
>The Orphan Boy: You were raised in Maidenpool, the son of a barmaid and some noble too uncaring of where he spread his seed. You had barely arrived in King's Landing when the Hand of the King himself paid you a visit. You were picked up off the street without charges. No trial, no explanation.

>>6223918
>>The Witness: You were a page from a minor house in the Red Keep, quiet and mostly invisible. But one night you saw Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime together, in a way no siblings should, and whispered the truth into Ned Stark’s ear before the axe fell. You are the living witness to King Joffrey's true parentage.

>>6223918

>The Wolf's Shadow: You were a member of Lord Stark's household. When the purge came after his arrest, most of Lord Stark’s men were slaughtered or captured. You escaped the first wave. The second found you. You were entrusted with something meant for one of the Stark children—a token, not a message.
Norf FC

Wolf's Shadow and Orphan Boy currently tied 2-2. I'll wait a couple hours for a tiebreaker, otherwise we'll roll for it or I'll use QM fiat.

>>6223918
>>The Wolf's Shadow: You were a member of Lord Stark's household. When the purge came after his arrest, most of Lord Stark’s men were slaughtered or captured. You escaped the first wave. The second found you. You were entrusted with something meant for one of the Stark children—a token, not a message

Vote closed. Writing a bit later.

>You are the Wolf's Shadow

Memory comes not like a tide, but like knives.

The stone beneath you is slick with filth and old blood, and your back is half-dead from the cold. But the ache is familiar. You’ve slept in the snow. You’ve bled under pines. You’ve ridden through storms where the howling wind spoke your name.

You were Lord Stark’s man. Torrhen Blackweald was your name, though your father was no great noble. One of Lord Stark's shadows, quiet and iron-sworn. You were not among his knights—your blade bore no sigil—but you rode at his left hand when his household marched south. You ate salt and bread beneath his roof, and swore oaths before gods old and new. You remember the sound of his voice. The weight of his gaze.

You remember the Red Keep. You were there when the world ended.

After the Hand’s arrest, they came for you at night. Not through the gates. Through the tunnels—the old ways, the ones Lord Stark’s steward whispered of after too much wine. You ran. You killed. You bled. For a time, you were able to evade arrest and hide in the shadows. But in the end, you were caught like the rest.

The last thing you remember is the sound of hounds. And the thing in your hand. It was not a blade. It was a token—small, smooth, warm from the heat of your chest. Not a message. Not a weapon. A gift, perhaps. A keepsake. It had been meant for one of the Stark children.

You no longer have it. You don’t know if you dropped it. Or gave it away. Or if they took it when they dragged you into the dark.

Now you must be in the Black Cells, beneath the Red Keep, where sun and memory go to die. Your wrists are scabbed and stiff in rusted shackles. Your hair is matted with blood and straw. You’ve lost track of time. The only light comes when they open the door to beat someone else. To your left, someone whispers a name. It isn’t yours. To your right, someone weeps without breath.

Above, a voice says:

“He was one of Stark’s… no one important. Just a shadow.”
“Even shadows carry knives,” another replies.
“He had something. Didn’t he?”
“Burnt. Everything he had, we burned.”

But they lie. Or they don’t know. Or they missed it.

What will you do?
>Call out into the dark. Someone out there might still remember your name.
>Stay silent and listen. The cells speak if you let them.
>Search the filth and stone for what they missed.
>Close your eyes. Follow the memory. What did they give you—and why?
>Write-in

>>6224329
>Search the filth and stone for what they missed.
Probably don't want to antagonise the guards.

>>6224329
>>Stay silent and listen. The cells speak if you let them

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Ah well, I don't think we're getting more votes on this one. I'll roll for it to keep the momentum going. Hope you guys don't mind.

1 - >>6224347
2 - >>6224388

>Stay silent and listen. The cells speak if you let them

You are the Wolf’s Shadow.

You do not move. You do not speak. You listen. The chains dig into your wrists, iron biting skin gone half-dead from cold. Your breath is shallow. You will it quieter still. You’ve hunted before. In snowdrifts and shadowed halls. Sometimes it is not the arrow that strikes, but the breath that holds before the draw.

So you wait. And in that waiting, the Black Cells begin to speak.

There are sounds here older than you. Water dripping from ceilings so thick with moss it drips green. Rats, bold and unafraid, scratching in corners. Footsteps above—heavy leather, a rusted ring of keys, a muttered curse. You hear a man cough blood. You hear a woman praying in a tongue older than the Seven.

And then—

A whisper. Not the wind. Not a rat. A voice. Low and broken like wind over old snow.

"...wolves do not bury their dead in stone... no... only fire... only ice..."

The cell to your immediate left. You turn your head—slow, slow enough that your vertebrae click—and see a hunched figure through the bars, shadow-wrapped and motionless. He whispers again, softer than breath. You catch only pieces.

"...the prince had silver in his blood... not his eyes, not his sword..."

You shiver. Not from cold.

Farther to the left, someone hums a snatch of melody—an old sailor’s song, but too tuneless to carry warmth. The voice is nasal, nervous. “Down to the bay where the black sails sleep...” he trails off into muttering. He kicks at his door and the metal rings. Then silence.

Still farther: a girl’s voice, lyrical and strange, speaking words not meant for you. “The Mother drinks poison, the Father burns the glass... the Stranger never blinks.”

And then coughing. Wet, rasping, from your immediate right. A man groans and spits. “Fuck your ghosts,” he growls, to no one in particular. His voice is thick with old rage. Chains rattle, muscles strain, and something slams against stone—flesh or bone, it's hard to tell.

Across from you: the smell of rot. As your eyes adjust, you see what lies opposite your cell. A man, slumped and unmoving. Cloak still around him, half-moldered. The stink of death thick enough to taste. The guards haven't removed him. Perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they want him there.

A whisper again, from the cell beside you. The same voice.

“...shadows cannot die. They slip between.”

You are Torrhen Blackweald. And you are not alone in the dark.

What will you do?
>Speak to the whispering voice beside you
>Call to the man on your right—if his anger allows him to talk
>Try to listen further down the row
>Search your room on your hands and knees
>Write-in

>>6224542
>Speak to the whispering voice beside you

>>6224542
>>Speak to the whispering voice beside you

>>6224644
>>6224714

You speak.

Your voice is raw from disuse, rasping like rust dragged over stone. “You. Whispering. Are you talking to me?”

Silence answers first. A stillness so deep you wonder if he’s slipped away entirely, melted into the dark like breath on a mirror.

Then—

“…no.”
The whisper is patient. Dry as old paper. “I speak to the stones. The rats. The ghosts. You merely happened to listen.”

You shift, slowly, letting the chains rattle just enough to say you’re still alive. “What are you, then? A priest? A prophet?”

A breath. Not quite a chuckle.
“I was a man once. Perhaps a maester. Perhaps more.” A pause. “I served… a prince who loved songs more than war. That was a long time ago.”

You hear the drag of cloth over rough stone. The rustle of parchment. The faint tapping of fingernails against metal.

“They call me mad. Or they would, if they remembered me at all. But I remember. I remember the ravens that didn’t fly. The letters that were never read. I remember a song of ice… and ash.”

You inch closer to the bars, careful not to catch your cuffs. “What’s your name?”

A long silence. Then:
“I had one. I gave it up. Names are chains, and chains are heavy things in this place. But you… you have the smell of wolves. Of snow and blood.”

Another whisper, lower now, conspiratorial.

“You carry the shadow of someone important. Someone who trusted you. And the shape of that trust…”
A finger taps metal again.
“…was carved in wood.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t mention it. You couldn’t have.

“Where is it?” you ask. “Do you know?”

The whispering man doesn’t answer right away.

“I know what was carried. And what was taken. But not by whom. You came in broken, brother. Not all your pieces arrived.”

You grip the bars. “Tell me.”

He hisses softly. Not unkindly.

“Not yet. You have more ears than you know. And some of them don’t bleed when they listen.”

Something scuttles across the ceiling. A rat, or something worse. The whisper resumes.

"You're marked, you know. Even down here, something clings to you. Something colder than chains, and older than thrones. They smell it on you. The rats. The guards. Even the dead man opposite."

You glance across the hall.

That cell door hangs open a crack, the torchlight faintly illuminating a pale, slumped figure within. A dead man, unmoving for days, weeks—long enough for the stink to become part of the stone. Something dangles from his wrist—a thread of cloth, possibly Northern in design—but the shadows don't let you look long.

(1/2)

>>6224893

“But for now—look to the third cell on your left. The girl. She sings like her mother did, folding cloaks for ladies who never remembered her name. The girl remembers more. Listens to things even Varys’ birds forget. She knows about doors not drawn on maps. Fires that burn green. Steps that echo wrong.”

A voice begins to hum softly to your left. A gentle song in Rhoynish, half lullaby, half lament.

“Speak to her,” the whisper comes. “But gently. Her trust is a broken mirror.”

A sudden noise cuts through the stillness—a clatter of chain and boot from above. Someone curses. A second voice calls down the stairwell:

"Mace says torch patrols double tonight. I want eyes on the Black Cells every hour."

The Whispering Man falls silent.

"Choose wisely, wolf. There’s time for only one more thread before the web tightens.”

To your right, a deep voice growls something half-muttered, half-sung.

“The Seven are false… only the old gods watch… from the eyes of the rats…”

You glance toward the bars. Your neighbor on the right—a hulking man with tangled hair and a ruined ear—sits cross-legged, humming an Ironborn dirge and thumbing the bone beads of what once might have been a septon’s necklace. His eyes flick toward you. He does not smile.

What do you do?
>Speak to the girl in the third cell on your left
>Examine the dead man in the cell opposite
>Try speaking to the brute on your right
>Inspect your cell for clues
>Wait and keep listening
>Write-in

>>6224897
>>Speak to the girl in the third cell on your left

>>6224897
>Speak to the girl in the third cell on your left

>>6224897
>Speak to the girl in the third cell on your left

Rolled 79 (1d100)

Don't mind this. Nothing at all.

>>6225288
High number is good, right? Right?

>>6224897
>>Speak to the girl in the third cell on your left

>>6224948
>>6224959
>>6225067
>>6225300

You turn toward the left.

The whispering fades behind you, swallowed by stone. In its place, the girl’s song threads softly through the dark. It’s in Rhoynish—fluid and strange, the syllables curling like river reeds. A lullaby, maybe. Or a prayer. Or both. The kind of song meant for children who never woke up, or mothers who never came back.

You edge closer to the bars, trying not to startle her.

The cell is three down from yours, across a narrow stone recess that’s slick with moisture. The torchlight doesn’t reach far, but you glimpse a shape curled at the edge of the straw. Slender arms. Tangled hair. Eyes that glint like wet glass in the gloom.

“…you’re listening,” she says, not looking up. Her voice is low, clear, and tired. Not frightened.

“I thought you might. The others don’t, not really. Not the guards, not the bones, not the big one with the ear.” Her fingers curl around something in the straw. A scrap of thread, maybe. “But you… your silence had teeth in it. So I hummed to see what kind of animal you were.”

“My name’s Torrhen,” you offer. “We should know each other if we are to survive.”

The slightest pause. Then a nod.

“Vaella. That’s what they called me. Before this place. Before the gold cloaks. Before Ser Harlan broke my hand for trying the lock.”

She stretches her fingers slowly, showing the way they bend wrong.

“I was almost out. Would’ve made it, too. But the steps were louder than I thought. The stone echoes when it’s cold. I forgot that.”

You crouch low, your cuffs clinking. “Why try it alone?”

Vaella shrugs, barely more than a twitch.

“Because no one else listens. Because escape isn’t something you talk about down here. It’s something you do… once. And if you fail, they remember.”

Her voice softens, almost wistful.

“And because I know things. Things I shouldn’t. My mother used to say secrets stick to the poor like soot. She worked in the Red Keep, did you know that? Cloak-mender for the queen’s ladies. Listened more than she sewed.”

Her hands move again, shaping thread into something: a knot, a pattern, a symbol that doesn’t last.

“She told me stories. About doors with no handles. About the King’s Shadow. About a raven that never left the rookery.”

You look at her anew. “Then why stay quiet? If you know all this…”

Her eyes drop to the stones. “Because one escape costs more than most lives. Because I’m not ready to pay again.”

Footsteps crash above—metal on stone. A torch flares beyond the stairwell.

“Oi! Shift change! Ser Harlan wants a sweep before the hour turns!”

You both freeze. She curls back into her corner, cloak drawn over her head. Gone.

>>6225327
You barely have time to shift before the dungeon door slams open and the torchlight stabs down the stairwell like a blade. Two guards descend. One carries a torch. The other, a thick cudgel stained dark along the grain.

"Oi, wolf," the cudgel-man sneers, rapping your cell door. "King in the North, is it? Thought you'd want the news. Your pup's gone and put a crown on his shaggy head."

You don’t rise. You don't even look up. But inside, something twists—hot and cold, pride and dread knotted together.

King in the North. Robb. You see his face—so young, too young. You’d helped him mount his first pony. Watched him try to scowl like his father. And now they’ve crowned him. Is it true? Did he win a battle so grand they gave him a throne? Or is this a desperate act by old men who know winter’s come and all the rules are breaking?

The guard doesn’t wait for your thoughts to catch up.

"Marches now with half the North at his back. Heard the queen didn’t take it well." He chuckles low. "Guess what that means for you."

The man with the torch doesn’t speak, just unlocks your door with a metallic clink. He doesn't need to speak.

"Orders, they say. Punishment for kin of traitors. But between you and me..." The cudgel-man steps inside, grinning, "Some of us just like getting ahead. Might get noticed for giving you what you deserve."

The first strike lands in your gut. You try not to cry out. The second crashes across your back.

"You wolves think you're different," he growls, punctuating each word with pain. "But you stink like the rest. Bleed like the rest."

Your legs fold beneath you. Another kick. Your temple strikes the cold stone. Dazed, you hear him wind up again. Just before darkness claims the edge of your vision, something jingles. His belt swings free for half a second, keys jangling loose when he throws his weight behind the blow.

>You are now Battered

Then the guards are gone. The dungeon door slams shut, and you’re left in the dark, blood in your mouth, ribs flaring. Silence returns. Then—

“You take a beating well, wolf,” comes the rumble from the brute next door—low, almost approving. “Next time, fall left. His belt jingles when he swings hard.”

You lie there, aching—but alive. Something stirs in your chest. A thought. A thread. The guards are patterns now. Habits waiting to be bent. A blade can be found. A key can be taken. All it will cost… is pain.

What do you do next?
>Call out to the brute. Why did he help you? What else has he seen?
>Look toward the cell opposite—the dead man and what he held.
>Lick your wounds and rest. Let your body knit what it can.
>Search the cell. You’ve been staring in the dark, perhaps it’s time to look.
>Write-in.

Leaving this open for ~12ish hours. I'm getting two blocks of writing time a day. If the votes were faster I could squeeze in more updates, but we'll figure it out, I think. The choices may seem a bit repetitive, but such is life in a prison cell.

>>6225291
Missed the DC by 1 unfortunately.

>>6225328
>Call out to the brute. Why did he help you? What else has he seen?
We might stand a better chance together.
>>6225329
/qst/'s not the most active board around for better or for worse. Still, I'm liking where this is going.

>>6225328
>Call out to the brute. Why did he help you? What else has he seen?

Good stuff so far QM.

>>6225328
>>Call out to the brute. Why did he help you? What else has he seen?
time for friends

>>6225328
>Search the cell. You’ve been staring in the dark, perhaps it’s time to look.

Rolled 13 (1d100)

Background roll.

>>6225352
>>6225710
>>6225835
>>6225849

The ache in your ribs is like a second heartbeat. Each breath drags it sharper.

You shift onto your side, cold stone scraping your cheek, blood wetting the straw beneath you. The world swims—torch shadows still flickering behind your eyes—and you hear the guards’ boots fading up the stairwell, their laughter echoing long after they’re gone. The silence feels heavier than before.

“…Why?” you rasp. It’s barely more than a whisper, but in the quiet, it carries.

“Why help me?” A pause. Then the low voice grates through the dark like a whetstone on steel.

“Didn’t.”

You wait. Pain gnaws at your patience.

“But you spoke,” you say. Another silence. Then, the sound of weight shifting—iron links clinking, straw rustling.

“You’ve got eyes,” the brute mutters. “And blood still in you. Means you ain’t broken yet.” You don’t know if it’s approval or disappointment.

“You see what matters, wolf? Keys jingle loose when he swings hard. Means he's lazy with his belt. Means there’s a rhythm.”

You push yourself upright, every movement a dull fire in your limbs. “You've been watching.”

“I count steps. Count beatings. Smell oil on hinges. Some men pass time thinking on women. I think on doors.”

You lean closer to the bars, squinting into the gloom. Still, you haven’t seen his face clearly—only the shape of him, broad and hunched, like something carved from driftwood and hate. A brute, yes—but not just muscle. A mind built for pattern. And patience. The kind that waits with the tide.

“What else have you seen?”

A dry chuckle. Not warm.

“Too much. Not enough. The girl—Vaella—mutters names when the moon’s high. Places too. I heard ‘Maegor’s Steps’ once. And ‘the door with no handle.’ The singer stops breathing when the rats come near—like he’s waiting to hear them whisper. Old man Tom," he points to a thin figure in one of the cells on the other side of the wall, "talks to shadows when the light’s gone. Says they answer back, too.” He shifts again. You hear the dull scrape of knuckles on stone.

“And the man opposite you? With the rot? Dead near a week. Guards don’t clean him out.”

Your stomach tightens.

“They don’t see the cloth on his wrist. But I did. Northern stitch. Wolfshead pattern.”

You freeze.

>>6225918
“You weren’t the only Northman sent down here, wolf.”

A pulse slams behind your ribs. The pain forgotten for a breath.

“He carried something too, wrapped in cloth,” the brute says, voice now quieter, closer to your ear through the stone. “Clutched it like it mattered. Could be it’s still there… could be they took it. Hard to tell what the dead keep.”

And just before the quiet settles for good, he speaks once more.

“I was called the Inkleaver. Once. On the Iron Isles, they name you for what you do. Or what you undo.”

Then he's quiet again. But the weight of his presence stays with you.

What do you do next?
>Crawl toward the bars and look across at the dead man. You have to see. Have to know what he carried.
>Ask more about the Inkleaver. The name is grim, and the Isles darker still. What kind of man sits counting locks in the dark?
>Call softly to Vaella. She heard all of that. She knows things. Maybe now, she’ll share more.
>Rest. The pain is too much. You need your strength. If you're to take the keys next time, you must endure.
>Search the cell. You’ve ignored it long enough. The walls, the floor… what might be hidden here?
>Write-in.

>>6225921
>Crawl toward the bars and look across at the dead man. You have to see. Have to know what he carried.
We have our duty.

>>6225921
>Call softly to Vaella. She heard all of that. She knows things. Maybe now, she’ll share more.

>>6225921
>>Call softly to Vaella. She heard all of that. She knows things. Maybe now, she’ll share more.

>>6225921
>Crawl toward the bars and look across at the dead man. You have to see. Have to know what he carried.
I do wonder what could possibly have been given to us.

>>6225922
>>6225943
>>6225953
>>6226049
Sitting at 2-2 currently. I want to get another update out now, so I'll roll for a tiebreaker in half an hour, then possibly call for a roll from the players.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

1 - >>6225922 >>6226049
2 - >>6225943 >>6225953

You shift closer to the other side of the bars, breath still tight in your chest.

"Vaella," you murmur, careful to keep your voice soft. "I know you’re awake. You heard all that, didn’t you?”

A beat. Two. Then, from the darkness across the corridor, the faintest breath.

"I always hear," she says. Her voice is fragile, like thread pulled too thin. "I listen so I don’t dream."

You wait. A moment stretches.

“You said names in your sleep,” you say. “Places. A door with no handle. Maegor’s Steps. What do they mean?”

She flinches, almost imperceptibly. “I talk too much when I dream. Should’ve bitten my tongue clean off.”

“Don’t listen too close to the brute,” she says after a beat. “He counts things like a maester, but maesters don’t cleave men in half. They don’t get named for undoing.” There's no fear in her tone—just quiet recognition. “The Inkleaver forgets to mention the screams.”

You hear her breath catch, just slightly. She’s drawing away again.

You feel it plainly: To press her now would be to tear something open. She’s afraid. Of memories. Of being known. And yet—beneath it—there’s a desire to speak. To be heard. But only by someone who earns it.

--

Vaella's words settle into silence. Nothing stirs, save the slow drip of water and the rustle of something unseen deeper in the dark.

You exhale, slow and shaky. Pain coils tighter around your ribs with every breath. Your hand trembles as you reach to brace yourself—but there's no strength left. Just straw. Blood. Stone. The cell tilts.

You blink once. The torches above are long gone, but your eyes still see flickers. A face. A flash of steel. A boy in grey. Then black. You were going to rise. Crawl to the bars. Call out again.

You don’t.

Your limbs betray you—too heavy, too slow. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hear the Whispering Man’s voice again, but the words slip away like tide from shore.

Then all is quiet.

>You are now Exhausted. All rolls regarding physical and mental activity will have a -10 modifier until this condition is removed.

Darkness takes you. Not kindly.

What do you dream?

Roll a 1d100 for your dreams.
>Critical Failure - Nightmare of the North. Wake up Frightened/Despaired
>2-15 - Unsettling visions.
>16-40 - Blurred Memory.
>41-65 - Fragment of home. Gain Resolve.
>66-85 - Hidden Truth. A clear memory, buried too long. Gain Insight.
>86-99 - Prophetic Visions.
>Critical Success - The Direwolf Dreams

Rolled 60 (1d100)

>>6226098
Watch this hundo

>>6226099
Damn knigga did you even read the update before rolling lol

Anyway, writing with that 60. I have the post-dream sequence partially written out so shouldn't take too long.

Darkness stirs, but does not hold. Something warmer rises through it - the crackle of fire, the hush of wind in tall pine.

You are ten years old again. Just Torrhen.

The air smells of charwood and horsehair, the copper tang of sweat. You’re sitting on the split log by the campfire. A soft breeze stirs your hair, lifting it like a mother’s hand. The camp is on the edge of a field. Blackweald, the locals call it. Your father says no Northmen have fought this far south since the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

A blade, blunted and notched, rests across your knees. Your knuckles are scraped. You’re still breathing hard. He stands over you, dark against the firelight, arms crossed. Harran, your father.

“Dead men never learn,” he says, not unkindly. His beard is rough with grey, his hair tied back with river-twine. His tone is firm but amused. “But boys who lose and listen? They live long enough to win.”

He drops to a knee. Eye-level. He smells of pine tar, leather, and the ale he only drinks after sparring.

“You’ve got too much pride for a ten-year-old. Just like your mother. But pride is a sword with no hilt, Torr.” He taps the blade on your lap. “Next time you face someone bigger, don’t meet them where they’re strongest. Step sideways. Let the wind carry you.”

A beat passes. He reaches out - a rough, calloused hand - and ruffles your hair. Then you hear it. The distant thump of hooves, approaching fast. A horn, low and sharp.

Your father’s head turns. His eyes narrow, jaw set. “Get behind the treeline, now.”

You try to speak. Ask what’s wrong. But he’s already moving - toward the other tents, toward the sound. Toward the end. The sky above darkens suddenly, clouds curling like smoke. The trees bend inward. Black pines twist like grasping hands. The fire sputters to embers, and his silhouette fades.

You run to follow, but your legs don’t carry you. You're still a boy. Still too slow. Too late.
--

>>6226136

You wake. Not from pain. Not from hunger. But from warmth.

The stone beneath you is still hard. The dark is still absolute. Yet something within you has shifted. You draw a breath. Slow. Centered. There’s still ache in your ribs, and stiffness in your limbs. but the weight pressing down on your chest is gone. No more drowning in it. The memory of the field - Blackweald - burns steady in your mind. His voice, his hand, the firelight flickering in his eyes.

You shift slightly. Pain grits in your joints, but you move. One arm beneath you, then the other. Your body remembers the rhythm. The breath. The balance.

“Next time you face someone bigger,” he’d said, “don’t meet them where they’re strongest. Step sideways.”

It wasn’t just about fighting. You sit up fully now, straw stuck to your cheek, lips dry, but focus sharpening. The Black Cells haven’t grown kinder, but you are no longer crushed beneath them.

>Gained: The Wind Carries You
>Your father’s teaching lingers. The next time you must avoid or outwit a direct attack or overwhelming force, you may choose to “step sideways.” +1 Re-Roll (One-time use)

A bell tolls faintly through stone. Three times. The hour is past noon. You’ve slept through a full turn of the day.

>Condition Removed: Exhausted
>Through the clarity of memory and the fullness of sleep, your spirit steadies and your strength returns. You may act without penalty.

From across the corridor, a voice mutters low. A man’s voice, worn at the edges, dry as dust.

“Well look at that. The wolf still breathes. Would’ve been a shame. Northmen make such good ghosts.”

You blink, vision slowly sharpening. The speaker leans against the bars of the far cell - more bone than man, with a lattice of scars drawn like rivers across his skull. The brute called him Old Man Tom the previous day.

“Best get your feet under you, pup,” he mutters. “They’re comin’ with the buckets.”

He’s right. Iron creaks above and the gate swinging open. Footsteps. Three sets. The scrape of buckets. Keys on a hook. One of them whistles something low and tuneless, a Reach song warped by dust and echo.

As they descend the spiral, you hear a cough. Tired. Wet.

“Don’t take the left too fast,” one mutters. “Stairs near took my foot last round.”

“You’d be prettier with one less,” another snorts. “Maybe your girl’d come back.”

“I ain’t got a girl.”

You catch a pause. A beat too long.

“Shame,” the third says quietly. The tone’s different. Not mocking. Just… present.

>>6226141

They round the last step. One wears the steel plate of a Goldcloak sergeant, spit-shined and proud. Another, younger, leans a bit too casual on the pail, missing two teeth, sneering already. But the last one - his eyes linger on you. Just for a moment. He says nothing, but his mouth tightens at the sight of your bruises, then he looks away.

Then the sergeant barks: “Meal run. No whining. If you shit yourself, now’s the time.”

They move down the row, cell by cell. Buckets thud. Lids clang. Rats scatter. They’ll be at your door in moments.

What do you do?
>Sit tall. Meet their eyes. You won’t flinch. Not again. Let them see the wolf still lives.
>Stay low. Keep silent. Let the moment pass. You’ve learned how not to be noticed. Let them think you’re no threat.. yet.
>Ask for aid. Your wounds are real. Your voice might buy something… or test who’s listening.
>Watch their boots. Mark their belts. Count keys. Study hands. Learn what you can.
>Speak first. Ask a question. About the day. The news. The hour. Anything to draw them out.

Rolled 19 (1d100)

Rollan' for opportunity cost. Vote open till tomorrow.

>>6226142
>>Watch their boots. Mark their belts. Count keys. Study hands. Learn what you can.

>>6226142
>Watch their boots. Mark their belts. Count keys. Study hands. Learn what you can.

>>6226141
>+1 Re-Roll (One-time use)
Hah, dad's teaching didn't really stick, huh.
>>6226142
>Watch their boots. Mark their belts. Count keys. Study hands. Learn what you can.

>>6226147
>>6226162
>>6226174
I was going to leave it open for much longer but given that we've not exceeded 5 votes past character creation, I'll call this vote now, and get the write-up done later.

Roll a 1d100 for how much you notice.
>Critical failure - The sergeant catches you staring. Beatdown ensues.
>2-20 - Your head throbs, your injuries make it too difficult to focus
>21-40 - You catch bits and scraps. Not enough.
>41-60 - You mark keys and limps.
>61-80 - You catch more than movements. Patterns emerge.
>81-99 - Habits, signals, a whispered word.
>Critical Success - The wolf watches. Nothing escapes you.

>>6226174
I was thinking of making it permanent, but that's too much of a reward for a 60. Maybe the flavor could have been better.

Rolled 5 (1d100)

>>6226181
>thinking of making it permanent
rip

Rolled 8 (1d100)

>>6226184
Heh, low enough that there's a possibility of it working in your favor. Last background roll. Update in ~12ish hours, maybe earlier.

>>6226181
Yeah, permanent +1 reroll seems a bit too powerful for a quest this grim.
>>6226184
W e l p.

>>6226186
>>6226184

>>6226186
Dang we really don't have much luck at all do we. Fits given out situation, but oh well.

You tried. Gods, you tried. But the pain is louder than your thoughts. Louder than your dreams.

Your ribs are cracked reeds under skin, every breath pulled through a throat that tastes of iron. One eye swollen to a slit, vision swimming with blood and shadow. You thought you’d watch the guards - catch the rhythm of their steps, the jingle of keys. A twitch of fingers. A limp. Something. Anything.

But the pain wins. Your head droops. Your stomach turns. You can barely sit up straight. When the guards return, you’re not feigning weakness. You are weak. Broken.

One of them jests, flicking a crumb of crust from your tray with his boot. Another grunts.

But the youngest - quiet-eyed, no sigil on his belt - pauses. You feel it more than see it. Just long enough to matter. Pity, or guilt, or doubt. A crack in the wall.

“Move,” the sergeant growls.

The younger man jerks back to duty. But your bowl is pushed through without a kick.

Small mercies.

You sit still for a long while. The bucket steams faintly. Some manner of stew - or something meant to be. It smells of lard and barley, with a whiff of salt meat gone slightly off. But it’s hot. That alone makes it the richest thing you’ve touched in days.

Your stomach growls, weakly. The hunger is there, but the body’s still slow to obey. Every movement costs. Lifting your hand to your side feels like shifting stone. You manage it eventually. One elbow, then the other. Breathing through the ache. No one rushes you. No one mocks you. Even Old Man Tom says nothing more. The corridor quiets. The guards have gone.

You take your first bite of food in the Black Cells. It’s thick and cloying, the texture more paste than broth, but it sits warm in your gut. The second mouthful goes down easier. The third easier still. There is no spoon. Just your fingers, shaking and stiff.

“He eats,” someone croaks, “so he ain’t dead. Shame, that. You looked more convincing before you moved.”

The voice is cracked and crawling with dust. An older man, full of quiet bitterness. A wet cough follows. Then ragged laughter.

Suddenly, nearer than the rest - too near: A wet rasp of breath, long and deliberate.

“Smells like meat,” a voice murmurs. Thick. Low. Slurred through missing teeth or worse. A grin you can hear in the dark.

“Soft. Hurt. Not ready, though.”

You go still. No sound of chains. No shifting straw. Just breathing. Then a lick of lips.

“Soon.”

Even the old man who muttered rhymes about spiders and kings has gone quiet.

You sit there, breath shallow, pain blooming behind your eyes.

The dream of Blackweald was not so long ago. Your father’s words still echo—but fainter now, like wind losing strength in a tunnel too deep.

You're not alone in the dark. But gods help you, you might wish you were.

>>6226654
What do you do?
>Whisper to Old Man Tom. The only one who showed a flicker of care. Maybe it was kindness.
>Call out to the cruel one. The kind of man who delights in weakness. Why is he watching?
>Tend to your wounds. Your hands still work. Barely. Tear strips from your tunic. Press to the worst bruises.
>Search the cell. Feel along the mortar. Check under the straw. Look for loose stone, nail, hidden crack.
>Look to the man across from you. Still unmoving. Why does the sight of him twist something in your chest?
>Write-in

--

Apologies for the delay, IRL stuff caught up. Just to clarify, this >>6226186
roll was on a reverse table so lower ended up being better for you. Instead of studying their patterns and weaknesses you got so overwhelmed with pain that you triggered a flicker of pity instead.

>>6226657
>>Call out to the cruel one. The kind of man who delights in weakness. Why is he watching?

>>6226657
>Call out to the cruel one. The kind of man who delights in weakness. Why is he watching?

>>6226657
>>Look to the man across from you. Still unmoving. Why does the sight of him twist something in your chest?

>>6226657
>Look to the man across from you. Still unmoving. Why does the sight of him twist something in your chest?

Rolled 2 (1d2)

1 - >>6226736 >>6226802
2 - >>6226812 >>6226877

Man, we have to do this with surprising frequency, don't we?

>Look to the man across from you. Still unmoving. Why does the sight of him twist something in your chest?

Roll a 1d100 for insight.
>Critical Failure - You stare too long. Something stares back. Gain Disquiet.
>2-99 - Spoilers. Higher the better.
>Critical Success - Kindred Soul.

Rolled 38 (1d100)

>>6226959
yes

Rolled 5 (1d100)

>>6226959
Please God, give us a success.

Rolled 70 (1d100)

>>6227024
Doesn't seem likely so far, good thing for your roll this is not a best of 3.

Next post will take a while, need to map some things out first. In the meanwhile, the bell tolls, but not for thee. Not just yet.
Critical Failure - No actually it does toll for thee
2-90 - Various options
91-95 - Huh? Who is this?
96-99 - Something left behind
Critical Success - A message

Seeing the rolls so far maybe it would have been better to copy Forgotten's 'lower roll is better' too lol. Anyway see you guys tomorrow.

Rolled 25 (1d100)

>>6227046
Thanks, I hate it.

>>6227047
Problem with that, as soon as you switch over we'll start rolling high. The dice giveth and taketh, ours not to reason why.

>Look to the man across from you. Still unmoving. Why does the sight of him twist something in your chest?
>Rolled 38 for Insight - Partial Success

Your eyes, still swimming with ache, squint through the gloom. The cell opposite lies mostly in shadow, but there’s light enough now - just enough - to catch more than before. His form is slumped, legs sprawled in a way no man sleeps. A stain darkens the straw beneath his side. Dried. Sunk in.

There’s no mistaking it: he’s dead. You blink, chest tight, and almost look away.

But something pulls at you. His wrist, pale and half-exposed, bears a strip of cloth, weathered and soiled with time. But even so, you recognize the pattern: the grey and white bands. Ending with a stitched wolfshead. Northern weave. Northern hands. You know that cloth. You wore the same, once, when Lord Stark rode south to serve as Hand. So did others. Riders. Stewards. Men sworn and quiet in their duty.

Your breath catches as your thoughts claw backward, piecing names to faces: Vayon Poole, the attentive steward. Hal from the Rills, who played at dice with a knife’s point. Willum, grim and loyal, who’d lost a thumb in the Rebellion.

Was it one of them? You can’t say. The face is too still. Too wrong. Too long in the dark. But something about him feels known. Like the shape of a shadow you forgot was cast behind you.

And then it hits you, hard and quiet. You were not the first. You’re not alone in this place - but others have come before. And not all of them got as far as you. Not all of them woke.

The weight of the missing token and your duty presses down like a stone in your gut. The memory of your father’s voice still echoes behind your ribs.

Ahead and to the left, Old Man Tom speaks. Not to you. Not to anyone. “Ghosts talk, sometimes,” he mutters, “if you’re too long in the dark. That one’s been quiet, though. Quiet as stone.”

--

The effort finally catches up with you. Your ribs clench like iron bands. The bruise across your side flares white-hot, and your leg folds beneath you as if it had forgotten how to hold weight. You sink to the cold stone, trembling. The dream of your father fades like mist on the frost. The resolve it brought now burns under your skin like shame. Resolve could not knit flesh. Will alone could not keep you upright.

Then begin the slow days. You do not black out. You suffer through. You try to keep count. Scratches on the stone blur together, days bleeding one into the next. The aches dull, but only because your body dulls too. Survival means rationing pain - ignoring the lesser to endure the worse. You wrap your wounds with scraps of your own shirt. You wet cloth from the dripping wall and press it to your eye. It does little. But it’s all you have.

One of the guards pauses by your cell every time. Never speaks. You think he’s waiting for you to look up. You don’t.

>>6227311
And while you suffer, the Black Cells move around you. The Whispering Man offers no riddles now, only breath and silence. Perhaps he senses your condition. Perhaps he waits for your strength to return. The Inkleaver hums softly. A sailor's dirge. He paces when the guards come, slow as a bear in a too-small cage, and sometimes growls under his breath about gods who see nothing. Old Man Tom, on the far side, scratches the stones with his nails. Seven times a day. Seven scratches. Seven murmured names. One day he says, “You missed your chance, wolf. Miss too many more and you'll be bones in the dark like the rest.”

The walls speak more than the prisoners do. But each hour you cannot plan is a blade against your throat.

You start to measure your failure in footsteps. The guards walk by. You don’t watch them. Can’t. The clink of keys you meant to memorize? Lost. The belt with the hidden dagger? Forgotten. You were supposed to study their hands, their habits. Instead you count cracks in the wall. You hear the iron door close and realize, too late, that you didn’t even see which way the patrol turned.

Time, you realize, is the only coin in this place. And you are spending yours on healing. Worse: others are not.

One day - three sleeps after you collapsed, or four - you hear more than one set of boots. The sound of many guards.

Then a voice, unmistakable: smooth, sharp, and amused.
“Well now, what’s the charge? Being too charming for the Queen’s liking? Come now, lads, you needn’t-”

A grunt. A blow.

“I do know people. Important ones. Highborn. One word and you’ll be promoted to the Lord Commander of -agh! Seven hells, be careful! This coat’s worth more than your sergeant’s horse!”

Metal rattles. A door opens near you. The guards do not speak.

“Wait. Wait, I have coin. Stashed where no one would think to look. I can tell you - listen to me-listen to me! You don't want to do this. I'm worth more alive.”

Chains drag. He passes your cell. Gulian of Gulltown, you know by now. Hair askew, lips split, still smiling despite it. Then the mask slips. His voice drops, desperate now.

“You bastards. I have names. Varys-Varys himself knows me. Ask him! ASK HIM, YOU GODSFORSAKEN WHORES--”

The words vanish into echo. And then he is gone. The cell door slams. The boots fade.

Judgment has come for someone. Soon it may come again.

No one speaks for a long while. Then-

>>6227326
“You hear that, wolf?” It’s the Inkleaver, voice low, deliberate. “That’s the sound of the end getting closer.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not this time.

“You think it’ll be the rope for him?” Old Man Tom’s voice, like a rasp across dry bark. “Or the headsman’s axe? Nah. They’ll use him for sport. A gull from Gulltown? Too pretty to waste on mercy. King or Queen Mother, they'll have their fun.”

“He might talk to save his own skin,” Vaella murmurs. “He said he knew things. And he has heard us whisper secrets to one another. If he tells them... they might come for any of us next.”

Another long pause. Then:

“They always come in twos.”

You don't know who said it. Could’ve been the Whispering Man, hidden in breath. Could’ve been your own thoughts. But you believe it.

And time, you feel, is moving again.

What do you do?
>Conserve your strength. Heal what you can. One more day might restore your edge. You'll need strength when the moment comes.
>Someone knows something. Maybe the Inkleaver, maybe the Whispering Man, maybe even Old Tom. Ask: who do they think is next?
>Speak to Vaella. She hinted at secrets before, almost escaped. You may have to persuade her to part with them, gently or otherwise.
>Search your cell more thoroughly. Every crack, every stone, every patch of dark might hide a way forward—or a way out.
>Draw a guard’s attention. Dangerous. But Gulian tried words, and so can you. Try to find the one with the soft steps. Or the one who looked away.
>Write-in

>>6227333
>Draw a guard’s attention. Dangerous. But Gulian tried words, and so can you. Try to find the one with the soft steps. Or the one who looked away.
It's time. We've had so much bad luck, it's finally time for some good luck. I can feel it.

>>6227333
>Search your cell more thoroughly. Every crack, every stone, every patch of dark might hide a way forward—or a way out.

>>6227333
>Search your cell more thoroughly. Every crack, every stone, every patch of dark might hide a way forward—or a way out.

>>6227333
>Conserve your strength. Heal what you can. One more day might restore your edge. You'll need strength when the moment comes.
Need to actually get our of here without dying as soon as we see sunlight.

>>6227355
>>6227410
>>6227414
>>6227465
>Search your cell more thoroughly. Every crack, every stone, every patch of dark might hide a way forward—or a way out.

The torchlight is long gone, but you’ve grown used to the dark. It lives in your bones now, as familiar as breath. Pain laces your side each time you shift. Your ribs bark when you breathe too deep. But movement is its own defiance.

You search. Slowly, carefully, you run your fingers along the walls. Cold stone. Damp lichen. Old gouges where other hands once clawed. Perhaps they searched too. Perhaps they found nothing. But you keep going. Time stretches. The ache behind your eyes grows. This cell is small, but it feels endless when you crawl across it inch by inch. Dust crusts your fingertips. A faint trickle of water somewhere to your right. Rats have been through here, recently. Then:

“Seven bricks bleed, but the eighth remembers.”
“Where the rats never linger, the stones lie loose.”
“Even kings need pissholes, boy.”

The Whispering Man again, rambling to no one. Or so it seems. But the rhythm of his nonsense stumbles just as your hand brushes a wall. And when you shift, chasing the meaning behind his murmurs, your palm finds something faint- You glance back through the bars. He’s facing the opposite way. Still speaking. Still riddling.

But it’s enough.

Need 2 rolls of 1d100.
Critical Failure - The bricks are loose.
2-99 - Higher the roll, more significant the discovery
Critical Success - The bricks are loose.

>>6227484
Forgot the trip and the
>implying

Rolled 70 (1d100)

>>6227484
DICE GODS GIVE US SOMETHING GOOD

>>6227507
Funny how the only time the players rolled really well so far was right at the beginning >>6223877 to keep most of their memories. Otherwise this would have been a pretty different quest.

Need 1 more 1d100 roll.

Rolled 4 (1d100)

>>6227484
come on discovery skills

>>6227507
>>6227523
The dice are fickle today.

>Investigation rolls: 4 and 70

You'd nearly given up.

Each movement carved pain through your ribs, where bruises had blossomed dark and deep. Your breath still hitched from the beating days ago, and a constant ringing haunted your ears like a bell that would not stop tolling.

But there was nothing else. No strength left to barter. No time to wait for rescue. Only stone and silence, and the certainty that doing nothing meant death.

So you search. At first, it's desperation: clawing at old grout, testing loose stones, sifting through straw long fouled with filth and years. Your arms shake. Once, you slip and strike your shoulder against the wall so hard you black out. But even after that, you keep searching.

Then, under the bench, near the wall that always seemed a touch colder, your fingers find a line. A groove. Not carved, but worn. A push. A shift. A soft release of stale air.

Behind the stone: a pouch of waxed leather, small as a child’s hand. You pause, looking at it like it might vanish. Then you open it.

Inside, you find:
>Two strips of salted meat, still dense and hard, cured. Hunger makes you cautious, but you know food this clean is a treasure.
>A small vial, the liquid inside thick and bitter-scented. You recognize it at once: milk of the poppy. Old, perhaps too strong - but it could dull your pain. It could buy you clarity. Or sleep. Or silence.
>A sliver of iron, cruel and jagged, filed to a point. Not a blade… not yet. But it could be shaped. Or used. A tool. A weapon. A key, in desperate hands.

Your thumb runs over the edge. A whisper in the dark sounds out.

"Ahhh… clever fingers find clever things." He takes a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you'd imagined it.

"He left it for the moment, not the man. That was his way. Never stayed long. Never stayed the same. Kept repeating under his breath that 'a man was Jaqen'. But I heard. I always hear."

There's a note of amusement, even pride, in his tone - like a teacher pleased his pupil has begun to see.

"You breathe his dust now. But you move forward. Yes... the current changes."

The vial is cool in your hand. The meat hard as bone. The shard of iron, crude but sharp enough to bleed. You press your thumb to the edge, testing it. It could slit a throat in silence, or pry a lock, or maybe do nothing but give you a hope shaped like a weapon. And yet… Jaqen. That name was never spoken among the Stark men, nor in the halls of the Red Keep. Not in the light, at least.

You look toward the Whispering Man's cell, though you still can't see his face. A rasp of breath. Then, almost gently:

"He said the walls remembered him. Perhaps they remember you too."

Somewhere above, a muffled sound: a door, a voice, iron-shod boots on stone. Time moves again. The Black Cells are never truly still.

Your hands close around your new prize.

>>6227561
>You are now Injured - All rolls regarding physical activity will have a -10 modifier.

What do you do now?
>Test the cell again. Now with a tool in hand, perhaps a stone can be shifted. A hole widened. A lock nudged. With patience and silence.
>Whisper to the Whisperer. Press him, now that he's spoken true. What does he really want from you? What else does this cryptic prisoner know?
>Persuade Vaella. She's broken, but not beaten. You have things she might need: food, relief, even a weapon. Use them wisely. Secrets might follow.
>Use a few drops of the vial’s contents, just enough to take the edge off. Heal in the dark, gather what strength you can. One more day without pain might change everything.
>Look to the guards. If one is weak, if one turns his back… you now have something sharp. Dangerous. Reckless. Tempting.
>Write-in

Assuming that you hide the contents you're not using back where you found them, as well as you can.

>>6227565
>Use a few drops of the vial’s contents, just enough to take the edge off. Heal in the dark, gather what strength you can. One more day without pain might change everything.
Need to heal.

Rolled 16 (1d100)

Rolling for the man of the Gulls. Higher is better for him, but not necessarily for the rest of the cast.

>>6227568
No one's rolling high this quest. What an authentic ASOIAF quest.

>>6227565
>Use a few drops of the vial’s contents, just enough to take the edge off. Heal in the dark, gather what strength you can. One more day without pain might change everything.

>>6227565
>Use a few drops of the vial’s contents, just enough to take the edge off. Heal in the dark, gather what strength you can. One more day without pain might change everything.

>>6227565
>Use a few drops of the vial’s contents, just enough to take the edge off. Heal in the dark, gather what strength you can. One more day without pain might change everything.
Patience now.
>>6227568
>Low roll
Good, if we have to suffer he has to suffer.

>>6227567
>>6227625
>>6227642
>>6227769
Pretty one-sided.

Give me 1 roll of 1d100+15 for the recovery (due to the vial)
>Critical Failure - Overdose
>2-30 - Uneasy relief
>31-60 - Steadying hand
>61-85 - Strength returns
>86-99 - The wolf awakens
>Critical Success - The Old Gods stir

Then give me 1 roll of 1d100 for poppy-induced dreams.
>Critical Failure - The feast of flies
>2-20 - The false escape
>21-40 - Voices beneath the stone
>41-60 - Dead men awake
>61-80 - A raven with three eyes
>81-98 - The watcher from the cold
>Critical Success - A time for wolves
>Doubles (11,22, etc) - The man with many faces

I understand this is not the most active time for players, so one person can roll twice. I'll wait a couple hours and if nobody has rolled yet, I'll roll myself to give me time to push an update out.

Rolled 61 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6227777

>>6227779
>votes within a minute of calling for one at sleepy time
Uh... buddy we're not beating the sock puppet allegations with this. Do you have the tab open and set to alert for new messages or something?

Rolled 15 (1d100)

>>6227777
For the dream.

>>6227783
I'm never fucking rolling again.

The iron shard slices the cork with a faint pop. Just a drop. Two, perhaps. Enough to dull the edge of pain without blunting the mind. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s the plan. The vial tilts in trembling fingers. Bitter liquid clings to your tongue and burns the back of your throat. A warmth - not comfort, but numbness - spreads.

You wrap the salted meat back into its waxed cloth, tuck the shard beneath it back into the hidden alcove. Carefully. Slowly. The rhythm of survival.

It creeps inward, the milk of the poppy - not like water, but like moss, thick and quiet. You lower yourself onto the straw and stone, the pain dulling from fire to ember. Still there, but containable. Your breathing grows deeper. Slower. You fold yourself around the ache and will it into stillness.

--

Snow crunches beneath your boots.

You lift your face to Winterfell’s cold. Real cold. Not damp or rot or mildew, but honest cold, skyborne and clean. The towers rise around you, unburnt. Smoke coils from the chimneys. You smell bread. Pine. Wolves.

You walk the courtyard. The gates stand open. There are no chains. Your shadow is long. From the hall, a voice calls your name. Ned Stark waits atop the steps, his face neither smiling nor stern. He regards you with something quieter - something that aches.

“You kept the promise,” he says.

You want to speak. Tell him what you endured. What you’ve lost. But the words don’t come. He steps toward you, places a hand on your shoulder.

“Then you know what must come next-”

The world fractures.

The wind screams. The snow melts to ash. The sky splits and you fall-

Down into the dark. Down into your cell.

--

Your body jolts upright, breath sharp in your chest. The ache is there- but it's not the same. No longer drowning in it. No longer afraid of it. You're not whole. But you're healing. You feel the difference in your breath, in the way your spine sets when you sit, the way your fingers flex around an unseen hilt.

Your strength is returning- but not as mere muscle or will. It’s resolve. It’s the memory of snow and home and the promise you made to a man who never got to see it kept.

You won't die here. You won’t let that dream be a lie.

From the gloom beside you, the Whispering Man stirs.

“Ahh… not every dream is a mercy. Some chase us backward. Some… forward. But you remember it now. Don’t you?”

You say nothing. But the cold has returned- not from the stone floor, but from inside. A blade of purpose beneath your ribs.

You will not forget.

>Injured condition removed.
>Gain +10 on the next endurance-related test

>>6227796

What do you do?
>Test the cell again. Now with a tool in hand, perhaps a stone can be shifted. A hole widened. A lock nudged. With patience and silence.
>Whisper to the Whisperer. He wanted you to find the cache. And now he names names. What does he want in return? What else does he know? Push him. Gently or not.
>Persuade Vaella. She's broken, but not beaten. You have things she might need: food, relief, even a weapon. Use them wisely. Secrets might follow.
>Rest again. Try to dream deeper. The poppy is still warm in your blood. A couple more drops might grant you another vision—of past or future, truth or madness.
>Call softly to Old Tom. He’s seen things. Remembered things. Trade him a strip of salted meat for a story: about tunnels, vaults, or even Varys’ birds.
>Write-in

>>6227797
>Whisper to the Whisperer. He wanted you to find the cache. And now he names names. What does he want in return? What else does he know? Push him. Gently or not.
Torn between this as testing the cell.

>>6227797
>Whisper to the Whisperer. He wanted you to find the cache. And now he names names. What does he want in return? What else does he know? Push him. Gently or not.

>>6227781
bruh i was just jorkin it before bed

>>6227797
>>Persuade Vaella. She's broken, but not beaten. You have things she might need: food, relief, even a weapon. Use them wisely. Secrets might follow.

>>6227797
>>Whisper to the Whisperer. He wanted you to find the cache. And now he names names. What does he want in return? What else does he know? Push him. Gently or not.

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>6227805
>>6227807
>>6228044
>>6228122
>Whisper to the Whisperer. He wanted you to find the cache. And now he names names. What does he want in return? What else does he know? Push him. Gently or not.

Help me figure out the next scene so I can have a cohesive write-up.

Memory roll: Give me 2 rolls of 1d100
>Critical Failure - Poppy-induced hallucination
>2-20 - Fragmented Echoes
>21-40 - Partial Recall
>41-60 - Clarity in shadows
>61-80 - The words return
>81-99 - Sealed truth
>100 - Prophetic clarity

Rolled 27 (1d100)

>>6228194