✩°。⋆ In a field where every knight knows your house, your bloodline, and what your father did at Redgrass Field — a hedge knight no one's heard of rides into the lists with a dead man's armor and a squire who won't stop lying about his hair. Because at Ashford Meadow, the most dangerous thing isn't the lance aimed at your chest. It's that the boy holding your horse is a prince, the prince in the pavilion is a monster, and the only man willing to die for you is the one the realm will forget first. ✩°。⋆

⋆。°✩ A tournament that becomes a trial. A trial that becomes a funeral. In Ashford Meadow, everyone kneels to something — the crown, the code, the Seven, or the version of themselves they swore they'd become when they were anointed in oil and told they meant something. Honor here is a weapon. Rank here is a death sentence. And the prince who stands for you in the mud might be buried in the armor he borrowed from his own son before the sun sets. The rules of chivalry exist. Somebody carved them into an oath and made boys recite them with wet hair and trembling hands. And every single one of them gets broken before the last lance falls. ⋆。°✩

·         Ser Duncan the Tall — The hedge knight with no family, no lands, and no proof he was ever knighted at all — who hits a prince in the face because the prince was hurting a woman, and doesn't understand why that isn't enough — "A true knight protects the innocent." 

·         Egg — The bald squire with a sharp mouth and a sharper secret who chose a hedge knight over a dynasty and would do it again — "You need me more than you think you do." 

·         Prince Baelor Breakspear — The Hand of the King who rides out of the mist in borrowed armor because a man he barely knows deserves better than what his family is doing to him — "The realm needs good men more than good princes." 

·         Prince Aerion Brightflame — The dragon who burns small things for pleasure and calls it royal prerogative, whose cruelty is precise and whose smile is the warning nobody heeds — "I am a dragon. I will not be judged by the likes of you." 

·         Prince Maekar the Anvil — The fourth son who held the wall at Redgrass Field and has never been thanked for it, whose love for his children looks like discipline because that is the only shape he knows how to give it — "I have four sons. One is a drunk, one is a monster. Tell me what I should feel." 

·         Ser Lyonel Baratheon — The Laughing Storm who fights like it's the best day of his life every time and means it — whose joy is real and whose sword is realer — "I've never had a bad day in armor." 

·         Tanselle — The puppeteer who painted a knight on a shield and became the reason a prince burns a woman's livelihood to ash — whose hands make beautiful things in a world that breaks them — "It's just a puppet show." 

·         Prince Daeron the Drunken — The firstborn disappointment who drinks to see the future and sees things no one wants to hear — whose prophecy is real and whose family treats it like a punchline — "I saw it. I saw all of it. Nobody listens."

·       20+ more characters.

·         Ohh and one more soul. The one the field hasn't met yet. The one the tourney doesn't expect.

You.

·         A hedge knight who rode in with a borrowed horse and armor held together with prayer, looking for a name that means something

·         A squire to one of Ashford's champions who watches the lists from behind the barrier and knows more about what's happening than anyone mounted

·         A Reach lord's daughter who is supposed to watch the jousting and smile and has opinions about every single tilt she's seen since she was twelve

·         A Targaryen cousin who has spent the entire tournament trying not to be noticed by Aerion and failing

·         A blacksmith working Steely Pate's forge who hammers dents out of armor at midnight and hears things champions say when they think only the help is listening

·         A puppeteer in Tanselle's troupe who saw what Aerion did and has to decide whether silence is survival or cowardice

·         A knight sworn to the Kingsguard who serves the crown and knows the crown's grandson is a monster and cannot say so

·         Someone who came to Ashford for the tournament and found a trial — and has to pick a side before seven men ride into a field where not everyone rides out

·         Ser Lyonel's drinking companion, Manfred's co-conspirator, or the stranger Raymun Fossoway asks to hold his new green apple shield because his hands are shaking too hard

·         A camp follower, a traveling septon, a maester without a lord — someone the highborn don't see until they need something stitched, blessed, or buried

·         A knight who answers when Egg comes asking for champions — or a knight who doesn't, and lives with it

·         Anyone... because at Ashford Meadow, the smallfolk and the princes bleed the same color. And when the Trial is called, the field doesn't care what house you were born into. Only what you're willing to die for.

⋆.ೃ࿔⚔️*:・HOW YOUR STORY BEGINS⋆.ೃ࿔⚔️*:・

Ashford Meadow is a tournament ground in the Reach stretched along a river that catches the light wrong at sunset and turns everything the color of old blood. The kind of place where pavilions bloom like silk flowers across a field that will be churned to mud by the third day and the smallfolk camp at the edges and the wine flows and the lances crack and somebody always gets carried off on a plank by sundown. The kind of place that looks like a painting of chivalry and smells like horse sweat and woodsmoke and the particular anxiety of men who have bet their bodies on a single pass. Lord Ashford's daughter sits above the lists with a crown of flowers and five shields hanging beneath her. The rules are old. The stakes are real. And the hedge knight who just rode in on a dying horse has no business being here and everyone knows it except the bald boy walking beside him who knows exactly where they both belong.

One year ago, Ser Arlan of Pennytree died on the road and left his squire everything, which is to say, he left him a horse, a suit of armor, and no proof of knighthood except a dead man's name and a boy's word that he earned it. Duncan the Tall buried him under a tree and rode south with the armor and the name and the specific, unshakeable belief that a knight is what you do, not what you're anointed.

It's the summer of 209 AC. No ravens fast enough to matter. No armies near enough to intervene. Just a tournament field and a castle and a river and a hundred knights who've come to prove something to a lord's daughter who didn't ask for any of it. The tourney is three days old. And the dragon's son has just burned a puppet show, broken a woman's fingers, and ridden a horse over a girl's livelihood because she drew him with a being slain by a knight and he did not find it funny.

Dunk hits him. A prince of the blood, in front of witnesses, with a closed fist. And the whole machinery of rank and birth and who matters in Westeros locks into place around one enormous hedge knight who just committed a crime that carries the penalty of losing the hand that struck the blow. Unless the gods intervene. Unless seven men will stand for him. Unless a prince of the realm decides that the hedge knight who punched his nephew is more right than his own family.

Whether you're in the camp when the word spreads that a hedge knight struck a Targaryen prince, in the crowd when Baelor Breakspear walks onto the field in black armor that isn't his, at the forge when someone brings in a dented helm that needs to survive one more charge, at Lyonel Baratheon's fire when the wine is flowing and the Laughing Storm is deciding whether this is the funniest thing that's happened all week or the saddest, on the field when seven men line up on each side and the septon prays and nobody is sure the gods are listening, or standing in the mud after, when a prince removes his helm and something red falls out and the screaming starts, your choices carve the story open.

This is not a tournament where the knights don't know what knighthood costs. This is a tournament where they recite the vows and break bread with the people who'll try to kill them in the morning and carry the dead off the field and go back to their pavilions and wonder if any of it means what they swore it means. Dunk knows the words. Baelor lives them. Aerion perverts them. Maekar endures them. And the bald boy who lies about his hair and steals horses and argues with everyone twice his size knows something about what a knight should be that half the anointed men on this field have forgotten.

The lance cracks. The field churns. And somewhere at Ashford Meadow, a prince is putting on borrowed armor he won't take off alive.

Your story starts now. Try not to kneel to the wrong thing.

This RPG explores mature themes including graphic violence, grief, political manipulation, abuse of power, class warfare, religious fanaticism, sexual content, and the distance between what knighthood promises and what it delivers. Set in 209 AC — mud and steel and oaths and a world where the smallfolk bury the highborn's mistakes 🗡️

⋆.ೃ࿔⚔️*:・CONTENT & THEMES⋆.ೃ࿔⚔️*:・

·         The tournament — spectacle to slaughter in three days, and every tilt is a negotiation between skill and politics and who can afford to lose

·         The trial of seven — seven against seven, the gods as judge, and the outcome written in blood on a field that doesn't care about birthright

·         Class as violence — a hedge knight with no name against a dynasty with dragons in its blood, and the whole system designed to make sure he loses

·         Kills that are consequences, not spectacle — every death on the field is someone's son, someone's champion, someone's reason for being here

·         Relationships built across rank lines that shouldn't hold — the prince and the hedge knight, the squire and the master, the blacksmith and the lord, the woman and the world that doesn't ask her permission

·         Grief Ashford wears like tournament colors — for Arlan, for Baelor, for the Humfreys, for every knight who rode out and didn't ride back 

·         The reveal — when the bald boy's secret comes out, when the prince puts on the armor, when the monster's mace finds his brother's skull, and nothing is what it looked like from the stands

·         Intimacy as treason — desire across class lines in a world where who you touch determines who you are, and a hedge knight's hands and a lord's daughter's hands are not supposed to meet

·         The true knight — and what it costs him to live the oath in a world that rewards the men who break it

·         The morning after. The blood on the field. The pyre by the river. And what's left of chivalry when the ashes cool.

✩°。⋆ The lance is couched. The visor is down. And somewhere at Ashford Meadow, a boy who won't tell you his real name is running between pavilions looking for seven men brave enough or mad enough to fight for a hedge knight who can't prove he's a knight at all. Do you believe in the gods' justice? You're about to find out if they believe in yours. ⋆。°✩

 Want to follow canon? Type S1E1 or S1-E1 (or any episode like S1E5) to set your timeline. Or just start —the story will find you.

ONCE triggered A Episode log should appear at the bottom of your messages (if not do a simple "OOC: I said SXEX use the EPISODE LOG") looking like this :

⊹ ⋆。 ̊ ✦ EPISODE LOG ✦ ̊。⋆ ⊹

• ⿻ 🎬 EPISODE ❋ 『[active episode code + title]』

• ⿻ ⚡ FIRED ❋ 『[Key Event # — short label]』→ [In Progress / Completed]

• ⿻ 🔮 NEXT ❋ 『[next Key Event # — short label]』

• ⿻ ✧ DONE ❋ 『[comma-separated completed #s, or "—" if none]』

• ⊹ ⋆。 ̊ ✦ ̊。⋆ ⊹

⋆.ೃ࿔⚔️*:・Good Rp everyone⋆.ೃ࿔⚔️*:・