The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
in the latest midnight hours when the world has gone to sleep, you've gotta get up. when doubts begin to rise and the world is at your feet, you've gotta get up. reach, it's not as bad as it seems. i cleanse in the river for somebody else, for anyone but myself. i'm not a selfless man, i'm not a man of wealth.
❞
" You call this thing a whore, get this abomination out of my sight." calloused fingers sought freedom from the ire the raven haired man felt. Promised by owners of this house of whores an evening that his thoughts would never cease to forget. Yet here he sat dissapointed at the third rate excuse they sent before him. No mortal was gifted with the ability to waste his valuable time or cheat him of his wealth. Pulling himself up he dressed himself with his pitch black attire and headed out of the establishment. A long sword carried across the brunt of his chest and shoulder. Marching down cobble steps to Braavos.
Passing through woven beads to exit the house of scandalous intent, knowing precisely where to find those who had robbed him of his valuable time and wealth. Coming before the seated indivuals counting their coin near the Iron Bank. " Valar Morghulus " spoken on a soft whisper as his blade was drawn. Fortune would not favor the poor bastards as the steel of his blade cut them en-twain. Limbs dropping to his feet, the false vendors blood spilled across the ground as he wrung the blade free of any impurities. Sheathing his weapon back into its holster and collecting his coin from the dead that no longer needed it.
Had it been any other denizen of Braavos the act would have been questioned but the Sealords dominance was absolute. Exiting the establishment with a coin purse swollen with golden trinkets. No longer would his mood be sated by the likes of women and sex. Aimlessly he wandered into the streets, passing through out of focus. Until something caught his attention, eyes of azure brought themselves upon a street brawl. The fighters declaring they would become the next sword of the Sealord. Pausing his advance through Braavos he watched the encounter from a distance. A firm frown displayed upon his face, they would need to be far better then street thugs to work beneath the Sealord.
Baring his fangs, Marko descended upon prey with the veracity of a true predator. None had seen him arrive in Braavos, just as none had seen him erupt from the shadows cast by the midday sun. Whisking a single blade from his person, a tatty old dagger at that, the former First Sword ripped into the ruffians and ended their insignificant scuffle before it evolved into anything of note. Splitting one from navel to collarbone, and puncturing the other’s lower neck; both fell to the ground knowing naught but pure agony before they were removed from this realm. Such was the appropriate death for the rodents that this city had become overrun with.
And without displaying an ounce of remorse, the outlaw would wipe the blade clean on his trousers before sliding it back into its resting place – conveniently located in the small of his back. “Valar Morghulis ,” sighed a raspy voice as Marko gazed upward and into the eyes of a familiar visage. Ice coursed through his aged veins as his fury was a delicate one. Leviathan. A pompous little wretch if Marko had ever seen one. It had been some years since he had visited Braavos, when he was last there the supposed Leviathan was just another boy lurking for scraps, but that boy had since grown and was now begging for his attention. The city was still near and dear to his heart and this sadist was holding the reigns like a madman fearing their loss.
in the latest midnight hours when the world has gone to sleep, you've gotta get up. when doubts begin to rise and the world is at your feet, you've gotta get up. reach, it's not as bad as it seems. i cleanse in the river for somebody else, for anyone but myself. i'm not a selfless man, i'm not a man of wealth.
❞
Braavos afforded the young Sealord many opportunities to rise to this seat of power, though it took far more then acting upon them to acquire his seat upon his palace throne. The boy was a natural with the sword, wielding his words with an equal degree of danger. Verbose in the proper terms to break the spirit of a man. Calloused fingers sought the edge of his blade as a distinct pressure filled the air. A feeling the man knew all to well as words the Essosi had just spoke arrived upon his ears.
" Valar Dohaeris." Damien replied to coarse voice, his eyes narrowing upon a forgotten figure of a man. Knowing all to well who it was, names who acquired power here in Braavos had their weight. " Marko Harlaw." the Sealord greeted the man. Last he recalled they weren't to fond of the other, perhaps his strong dislike for the Ironborn was seeded from this man. Just what had brought back Harlaw to Braavos. " When did your dirty lil' iron born cunt end up back here?" believing that Marko had gone to Westeros for good.
" Before you spew any shit from your mouth, let us find somewhere private to sit. You can get your fill of food and drink." Leviathan offer and suggested to the unseated lord of the Harlaw House. Guiding the man towards an old spot that the prior sealord adorned, entering the decorated establishment as whores and servers came up to the two likes flies to a pile of shit. " You didn't even write." Damien jested about Marko's surprise turn up in Braavos.
Silence emanated from the figure of Marko as little Damien saw fit to pollute the world with measly insults. The tongue of a fool wagged and the dribble that one would expect filtered into the air. It was disheartening to say the least; that such an arrogant piece of filth, not even worthy of joining the scum that covered the bottom of Marko’s boot, could manage to seize Braavos by the nuts and hold it there. An overwhelming urge to separate head from body flooded the former First Sword and the idea of freeing his beloved nearly saw him to the task. He paused in such aggression however as the newfound ruler pivoted and led him away to some gaudy tavern that Marko couldn’t give two fucks for.
Idly the outlaw would once more shift his hand into the small of his back, unsheathing the dagger that had been used moments prior to end lives. Jerking his arm forward and down, he would twist the blade through the air and stab it downward into a nearby table – the whole while watching the sealord. Still refuting to grace the man with words, Marko would instead shift his gaze from the various patrons of the tavern somewhat curious as to why Leviathan felt comfortable in taking him there. There were whores and the hustle and bustle of other activities but it didn’t scream at him as to the reasoning for its choosing. Perhaps the sealord had filled the various attendees with the gall to attack Marko and found this place a suitable ambush but even then, little Damien had to remember his place in the world. And the simple fact that the sealord would never be the same as the First Sword, and never be as lethal.
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