Extracts from the diaries of:
Lady Colianne Ramshore
Circa 100 A.C.
It was awful. The Sunset Plague hit us like a wave crashing into a ship caught unaware. Crittark, as stubborn as ever, believed that we would be spared, trusting in the Old Gods of The Vale to protect us, just as they had during the Spring Sickness. When Ondros 'Yellowhammer'—the man who tried to have him killed—and the 'Shoe Man'—who swore vengeance during our pilgrimage—were among the first to succumb, it almost felt like Crittark was right. The plague seemed like a divine judgment, clearing our enemies. Foolish as I may be, I began to believe it too. But the Old Gods can be cruel.
Then we began losing our own people. The likes of Fey Pathbreaker's scout husband, Lyanne the Barrow Giant, and even Lyn the Greedlyn all started to drop like flies. It was heartbreaking to witness, yet their deaths were just the beginning, as cold as it is to say—just the beginning of much greater losses.
One of our hardest blows came with Ryella Pridespur. She fought like the stubborn, arrogant beast she always was, refusing to surrender even to the plague. I admire her for that. But after being horribly disfigured by the sickness, she finally had to stop her duties as Master-at-Arms. For a brief moment, we tried to recover by appointing Valerion the Gallant to take over, Ironheart's husband, a man cloaked in mystery who had served faithfully in our court at the Sea Tyger's recommendation. His reputation as a chaste and gallant man was what we knew, and it seemed fitting for the post. But it was all for nothing—both Valerion and Ironheart followed Ryella into the grave not long after. The Old Gods spared no one this time, and I could do nothing but watch our strength crumble, one person at a time.
With Ryella Pridespur gone, Crittark seemed to finally grasp the full weight of the devastation. He was shaken, desperate, and utterly unlike the strong-willed man I knew. He came to me, the so-called "official physician" of his court, and pleaded for a cure. As if I were some sort of miracle worker. I may know how to mend bones and stitch wounds, but curing a plague? That is beyond anything I could hope to accomplish. I am not a Maester or a magician—I am a healer in the simplest, most practical sense. But I could not deny him. Not when he was looking at me like that. Not when our people were falling around us.
Crittark’s stress began to spiral out of control, and he started giving orders to seal us off—Portmouth Keep was isolated, the gates were shut tight, as if we could lock the sickness out. He kept talking about "holding out for the children," but even I knew the Old Gods weren’t going to take orders from a wooden door. The Fingermen, our subjects, were growing restless, and I cannot blame them. It’s as if they were locked in a cage, left to await their turn with the plague. Whispers of rebellion grew louder. People were desperate, they needed an explanation, and an apocalyptic cult took root, spreading more fear and unrest. Everything was unraveling.
In my shame, I admit—I let myself be led by desperation. When Crittark pleaded, I attempted things I never should have. I took measures, experimented in ways I will not describe here, lest anyone be foolish enough to try again. The results were disastrous. Instead of saving anyone, I caused even more pain and loss. More death. I do not know if the Old Gods are watching us still, but if they are, I can only beg forgiveness for the suffering my hands brought upon our people. This sickness turned me from a healer into a butcher, and I have never felt more lost.
Little Elly Rockham, once proudly called Lady Jonspur, has now returned to her maiden name, carrying the grief of her losses like a heavy mantle. After her husband Ser Criston Jonspur succumbed to the plague, and their newborn son followed soon after, it seemed like the Sunset Plague was determined to strip everything from her. But Elly, true to her reputation as the "Sister's Fury," refused to break. She has taken on the role of Master at Arms, stepping into the gap left by Ryella. She is fierce, hardened by grief, and somehow still burning with that relentless fire—ready to defend what remains of our people. I am both heartened by her resilience and terrified of what this role may cost her.
And poor Meliana... It is almost like a cruel twist of fate. Her infant son was taken by the very plague that had claimed her husband, Ser Qarlton Wiltwood. The same young man who once dared to stand against Crittark with nothing but his principles and bravery. I see the shadows of loss in her eyes, but she remains stoic, unyielding as the North. And then there’s Karene Wiltwood, who, in her own strange fervor, has sworn off men completely, embracing a celibate path in her zeal. It seems the Wiltwood line, once so full of promise, is practically extinct. There is an emptiness in this realization—a sense of finality that I cannot shake. One more noble name, one more lineage turned to dust by this cursed plague.
Another heartbreaking tragedy is the story of our Chancellor Jacene Coincharmer. She and Marlin, our dear Castellan, had brought a seemingly bright little girl into this bleak world. But it was all for naught—both father and babe were claimed by the cursed Sunset Plague, and now Jacene herself lies on her deathbed, a mere shadow of her former vivacious self. I once envied her charm and her confidence, but watching her fade like this, I can’t help but feel hollowed out. Each life lost feels like a pillar crumbling, and Portmouth feels ever more unstable as we lose those who kept it standing.
In the midst of all this despair, I took on the difficult task of arranging for a new Castellan. I secured another match for Elly Rockham—Norwin Ledyn, a young Westerlander with a reputation for diligence, stubbornness, and vengeful determination. He’s extremely capable, and although I’d rather have spent all my time in the healer’s quarters, I knew this appointment could not wait until the plague had passed. We need stability now, not when it's all over—if it ever will be over. The appointment of Norwin was necessary, even if it meant my focus was divided. Desperation has a way of forcing one’s hand, and I will do what is needed, even if it costs me.
Steward Bradwyn Half-a-Haggle, one of our oldest supporters and one of the few I could rely on, didn't make it through the Sunset Plague either. But he was so diligent in his work, and everything he handled was meticulously organized. His wife stepped up, taking on his duties seamlessly at first, a temporary measure I thought. But as I watched her work and assessed her capabilities, I realized that she was more than capable on her own merit. So, the temporary appointment became permanent—at least until this nightmare subsides. Someone had to keep the ship steady, and she seemed to have the sense and tenacity for it.
Her name is Allyne, a young Upper Valeman woman who is ambitious, honest, and, thankfully, chaste, with a sharp mind that seems to turn problems into opportunities. She didn’t mourn for long—instead, she turned her husband’s death into her own promotion, and she didn't stop there. Soon after her appointment, she managed to broker a deal with the head of the mason guilds, a deal that restored control and actually sped up the harbor construction ahead of schedule. She knew how to find leverage—the guild head was opposing the local death cult, and in desperation, she seized the opportunity. Allyne has shown herself to be a sharp and necessary addition in these desperate times, even if she is a bit too opportunistic for my taste. But I won’t argue results, not now.
Thank The Mother, The Seven, The Old Gods—whoever was listening, I thank them. Both my children fell sick, and both survived! First, it was Dryn. He caught it, and it seemed like no sooner did he have a fever than he fought it off. The clansmen call him Warborn, and now he’s truly living up to it—add the war against the Sunset Plague to his tally. Born amidst the rebellion we squashed in the Riverlands, survived the plague—he might just be unstoppable. For once, I allowed myself a sigh of relief when I saw his bright eyes again.
But then it was my eldest, Crittark son of Crittark. He got sick, and it was much, much worse. The fever almost took him. To her credit, Karene Wiltwood, the Seer of the Golden Leaves, never left his side, sitting beside him day and night, whispering prayers, encouraging him, keeping his spirit strong. Miraculously, he survived, and now he’s utterly convinced that it was divine intervention by the Old Gods of the Vale that healed him. He’s become even more zealous than before, almost fanatic. And the irony isn’t lost on me—Karene, the very Seer who helped save him, now lies sick herself, barely clinging to life. I can only hope she finds the strength to survive, but these times are cruel, and hope is in short supply.
With Ser Criston Jonspur gone, taken by the plague, Dryn lost his mentor. While Crittark who had been squired under Criston, was left without a knight to train under. It fell to me to find new mentors for my boys, even amidst all this chaos. I asked Meliana Kedge to take on Dryn—her resolve will help shape him, I hope. For Crittark, I turned to Ser Valarr Aegatyger, our Admiral. Let him take the boy to sea, away from the blighted land. I don’t care for Valarr much, but I know he’ll keep my son busy and safe, and hopefully, the salt air will do him some good. He deserves better than what the plague has left us.
After two long, grueling years, it seems the Sunset Plague—the blight that has ravaged us all—is finally beginning to wind down. It took too much from us, but with its retreat, something else has surfaced. The Moon Clansmen are now the majority in Portmouth, and with that shift, the people have started calling the land "Ramshore." It began with the clansmen, but it didn’t take long for the locals to pick it up, and once Crittark saw the name sticking, he made it official. We are no longer just Portmouth—we are Ramshore, the land where the Ramlord holds sway.
I used this opportunity to push Crittark further, to rebrand not just the land but ourselves. The plague brought devastation, but it also brought change, and now Crittark is viewed as the head of Moon Clansman culture—the closest thing the clansmen have to a leader or a king. It was time we acted like it. I nudged and prodded until he agreed to let go of the "Hoofcrag Clan" name. It was too small, too isolated. We needed to be bigger, to unify and embrace a broader identity. I convinced him to adopt the Andal tradition, to become the Ramshore Family. We are more than a clan now—we are a true family, a house. It took some convincing, but in the end, as always, I got my way.
Portmouth Keep is now Ramshore Keep, and Anchorlight has been renamed Ramport. These changes might seem trivial, but they matter. Image matters, and I’ve always said so. The name, the way we present ourselves—it shapes how others see us. We are no longer an isolated, wandering clan; we are House Ramshore, and we will be known across the Vale and beyond.
