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.
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jun 21, 2015 23:56:24 GMT
The day had been long and it had been glorious. Few things in the world brought Tybalt as much joy as battle did. His muscles ached in every spot and he was certain his body must have been mottled with bruises underneath his armour. The moment he stepped in to his tent and tossed his mace carelessly to the side he found his bench and promptly dropped his arse on top of it, the wood creaking woefully under the full weight and force of his armour.
For a minute, Tybalt sat alone in his tent, his eyes closed and his breathing deep as he rode off the last of his adrenaline. The Tourney was not yet over, but the day was. There would be no more tilts and no more fights, just all the wine and song he needed to loosen up the knots that a full day of jousting had tied in his back.
The sun was just beginning to set and the noise of the crowds outside began to move away and further towards wherever the rest of the day’s revelry was to take place. A moment of calm seeped its way in to Tybalt’s mind as lights dimmed with the sound of distant minstrels and for many warriors this may have been a source of respite. However, Tybalt was a man of action and after a full day of fighting the last thing he wanted was to spend hours just sitting alone in the dark before going to bed.
No, Tybalt wanted to get his armour off, change in to some more comfortable clothing and drink himself in to a stupor. That would be perfect.
”Squire!” His voice carried harshly across the now still evening air. He let the words hover for a second as he waited for his squire (a nameless boy gifted to him for the duration of the tourney) to appear. ”Boy! Where are you?”
Evidently, the squire was nowhere to be found. Not that Tybalt could blame the lad. The White Lion had refused the boy’s help to do anything more than hold his lance between tilts and rebuffed any other help he had offered. On the one hand the squire may have gotten the hint and left Tybalt to his own devices. On the other, he may have just been a shit squire.
”Well damn him to the seven hells, then.” Tybalt made no attempt to stay quiet as he pulled off his right gauntlet and used his freshly freed hand to fiddle ineffectively with the buckles keeping his armour together. What was at the start of the day a veritable mirror of silver plate mail had become scratched and scarred from endless battle. However battered it was, however, it was no easier for him to remove by himself.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Jun 22, 2015 0:13:26 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]@senpai
[attr="class","gold"]500-ish
[attr="class","gold"]Lance ahead.
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]A Falling Star *
The likeness which I seek
It had been a battering day, indeed, but not for the likes of Arkas. Although it might be claimed that he was more of a knight than most of those riding in the tourney, he had not. No swords swung in the melee had dented his shield and no lances had bludgeoned his armour - infact, he was not wearing one at all. A simple tunic and a light cloak were all that he had required during the day, the cloak less while the sun was shining, but the dampness of the evening made it a considerable asset - It must be the river-riddled lands of House Tully which made the climate have a penchant for being chilly in a nasty way.
And yet there was a sword on the man's belt, a simple one, but handsome. Carrying it came naturally to him, drawing it did not. The hand reaching for a blade must be possessed by fear. While brave warriors were numerously accumulated, judging by the tourney place's gallery of flying sigils, the bravest were those that dared not to stop the violence sent their way. They had hope and nothing else for a shield. Arkas had vowed to be one such principle of safeguard. Getting killed in a tourney where there was nothing to gain but honour and nothing to lose but one's life would not help him in his quest.
Which did not mean that he thought any less of the men which rode. They were fierce. Their passion and glory-seeking was an aspect of knighthood he had often denied, simply for not finding joy in it. But looking from the sidelines brought forth other pleasures derived from the different point of view. He had not only guarded the daughter of Lord Tully upon this day, he had also feasted his eyes upon a warrior most formidable. A White Lion - the men called it out. And the women swooned with a helpless passion in their eyes as though they were prey.
It was rare to find a being or an instance that filled him with the vibrance of life. It was either the clash of battle the tourney had simulated or the fierce warrior, a son of Lord Lannister. Or it had been the combination of both. Hardly a lustful man, it was personal agenda that drove the tall but narrow figure of Arkas Dayne through the unguarded tent of Tybalt Lannister all the same.
"I came to congratulate you," he smiled through the curses, pretending he had never heard the foul language - for it had not found an offended ear. "But it seems I could aid you in another way, Ser."
The sweetness of wine to cure the sourness of a tongue? Arkas glid to a side table on feet as lightly as the rays of stars. His presence was a humble one, distant, but illuminating all the same. Not putting his hands on the Lord's silver hide just yet, Arkas collected a bottle of no doubt expensive wine - he was in a Lannister tent, after all - filling a golden cup, he approached Tybalt. Standing before the tested knight, he offered the chalice, the gift riding along a smile of brotherhood.
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jun 22, 2015 1:32:29 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]Arkas
[attr="class","gold"]336
[attr="class","gold"]--
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]Hear Me Roar
When Tybalt heard the folds of his tent rustle and the padding of feet invade his ears he had automatically assumed his squire had finally heeded his call and shown up to do his job. The young knight was about to chastise the young man, and give him a stern word or two about ‘duty’ and such until he spotted the man in front of him was not the squire he had been given but a complete stranger.
Tybalt froze at the man’s intrusion, perplexed at the comfort with which the stranger walked in to his tent and spoke to the Lannister. Tybalt was used to strangers being more nervous and especially of them addressing him with more respect. As much as this change of attitude would be refreshing, it was not so much so from a stranger. If the man wore any symbol denoting his family, then Tybalt could not see it in the darkened half-light of the tent.
”Your praise is well-met, stranger. Thank you.” Tybalt’s voice was cautious in tone as he watched the man pour a goblet of wine and hold it out for the Lannister knight. As thirsty as Tybalt was, accepting drinks from strange men was something he had been taught not to do from youth. He was aware that it was his own wine and cup, but assassins were crafty folk.
”As much as I appreciate the gesture, It’d be foolish of me to take wine from unknown parties. I do hope you understand.” With that, Tybalt gave a warm smile and returned to struggling with the buckles about his armour, only succeeding in managing to loosen his left pauldron to the point where it dangled pathetically from his shoulder. He gave a coarse sigh and turned back to the man, assumed he had not left.
”You wouldn’t happen to have seen my squire, would you? Small boy with brown hair and thin arms? Teeth like his mother was a boar? I don’t know his name.”
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Jun 22, 2015 1:52:44 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]@senpai
[attr="class","gold"]300-ish
[attr="class","gold"]Lance ahead.
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]A Falling Star *
The likeness which I seek
"It seems that you are not a naive man," offered Arkas, pulling the chalice away. "That either makes you wise or condems you to a life of doubt."
He put the goblet to his lips and sipped from the wine - as expected - a fancy drink for a man not quite as fancy as could be. Arkas smiled, toasting. He set the cup to the side, not offering it up again. Tybalt seemed most capable of tending to himself.
And despite the drinking, Arkas had yet to fall dead. He watched the clumsy fiddling of the other, wondering if it was the sin of pride or just stubbornness. "He's as much a stranger to me as I'm a stranger to you.." Arkas remained in the light, no longer prone to the half-shadows of the wine-bearing corner. The illumination had no choice but to reflect in a pin the size of two fingers - it kept Arkas' cloak in place and was like the sigil of House Dayne styled after a falling star - and as radiant, for it was dusted in the speckles of a metal not from this world. It seemed only darkness and light at the same time revealed the humble accessoires' true worth. Not that Arkas considered it for monetary reasons. It was beautiful and reminded him of home: A gift by his mother. "Perhaps I should have ridden in the tourney. It would have let you known my name: Ser Arkas Dayne of Starfall, at your service. Forgive my intrusion. Just don't blame it on the absence of your squire. Poor boy. He's already being cursed for so much."
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jun 22, 2015 2:45:49 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]Arkas
[attr="class","gold"]384
[attr="class","gold"]--
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]Hear Me Roar
When the stranger finally introduced himself, Tybalt’s face lit up with warmth. He had not yet met Arkas Dayne, though he had certainly heard of the young knight. House Dayne was very well-regarded so it was unlikely that anyone would dare impersonate one of them.
”Ser Arkas! I didn’t recognise you! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you; I have heard many things and most of them good, rest assured.” With the pleasantries afforded and a mutual respect somewhat established, Tybalt was finally let himself ease back in to his more comfortable persona, grunting comically at the difficulty of his armour.
”I wonder, Ser: what good is my own armour if it presents a tougher challenge for me to surpass than a man on horseback swinging a lance at my face?” Self-deprecation was one of Tybalt’s finer points of humor. It’s why he was able to take defeat so graciously and people generally loved him for it. For them it was refreshing to see a lord who wasn’t so up his own rear end about his reputation.
Tybalt’s finger slipped on a buckled and slid down to where he banged his nail on the corner of his breastplate, eliciting a shock of pain and a growl of disapproval from the knight. It wasn’t anger that boiled in the man, but frustration. Even as he struggled helplessly against his clothing he wore a smile of genuine amusement on his face. One would wonder that they could leave the young Lannister here alone for hours and he’d entertain himself.
”I’m sorry to ask this of you but since my squire is probably lying drunk somewhere in the middle of a sty, could you possibly help me with my armour? I know it’s beneath you but, as you can see, I am all too helpless.” It was an unusually intimate request. To ask a full-fledged knight to act as a squire to his peer was usually a mark of disrespect. The way Tybalt looked at Arkas, however, showed that no such disrespect was intended. In truth this was a man who was so awful at removing his own armour that it humbled him to even have to ask.
”Come on, I’ll buy you a round later when we’re at the party. Sound good?”
What a drab place. Rivverrun was the land of wet dogs, a horrid marsh that left the most questionable residue on one's boots. That swampy smell...Truly not a region reigned by mirth and ease, and on any other occasion, the Prince of Dorne would not have made an appearance, but the promise of challenging competition...Well how could he resist? Now that's a reason if any to embark on a moist journey through the greenland slop of Westeros. Cultureless, colorless, but the men weren't so bad.
The tournament hosted by House Tully was an extended invitation to all the most powerful houses of the realm. Dali Martell had always been interested in travel, he was a man, who despite his opinions, was curious to see the way the world spun on its political axis. How could I understand the rest of these men if I don't live among their lands? For many years, Dali's interest in King's Landing and Targaryen politics was next to none. However, his twentieth birthday summoned an epiphany of maturity. One day he might rule Dorne, and if he did he had to be prepared and well versed and familiarized with the various cultures (no matter how stale they might be) of Westeros. The Tully tournament was the perfect learning opportunity.
Unfortunately, he was fairly disappointed by the mindless battles between the brute and the strong. Dim wits clubbing themselves with metal weapons without a drop of invigoration. Where was the strategy? Where was the drama? These men only had one goal in mind: subdue my enemy. But how? The creativity was lackluster, practically nonexistent.
Dali yawned; "I've had enough." he turned to leave, the Dornish guards trailing behind him.
Now, where is Arkas? Since the Tully's have decided to absorb his youth through the boredom of barbaric tradition, Dali decided the day needed a bit of a turnaround. Arkas Dayne, a shooting star shining bright over the Martells, accompanied the Prince to the Riverlands. The man looked graceful and angelic, hair as blonde as the celestial seraphim's the Faith constantly described in their tomes. But little did they know the aggressive waters that lied behind his still eyes. He had a way of bashing the Prince's insides with a mallet even the Storm Gods couldn't forge.
"Hm?" There he was, Arkas slipping into a tent with...A Lannister banner donning it's top? Dali's eyebrows raised inquisitively. All Dornish men knew how to move like serpents, in the grass without sparking attention. The Prince turned to his guards; "Watch this lion's tent, don't let anyone in or out." he smiled slyly as he slithered through the canvas.
"Now, when did I give you permission to leave my side?" The Prince, wearing a cloak the color of aged boysenberry sangria, swept into the scene. He draped his arms around the Arkas neck from behind, his lips pressing into the side of the knights neck. "Care to remind me?" His serpentine eyes flirted to the golden lion a few steps ahead. A bright young man, a Lannister highborn. Lord Lannister's second child, first son.
Dali knew exactly what Arkas was trying to do. It was comical really, attempting to find release in such a idle dump. And without me? How adventurous...
"I saw you fighting today..." The Black Mamba snaked away from Arkas to the halo haired man before him. Dali sized him from boot heel to the blues of his eyes. His build was strong, with thighs as thick as pine....Tree sap as potent no doubt.
His naughty thoughts made him smile. "I could hear the lion roar from my seat. But I admit, I was a bit disappointed with your performance my lord." Dali's glowing amber irises side eyed Arkas daringly.
"For I didn't get to see the famous Lannister claws." The Martell highborn smiled politely.
Maybe the Riverlands wouldn't be a waste of a journey after all.
MADE BY MINNIE OF GS
Last Edit: Jun 22, 2015 4:11:02 GMT by Dali Martell
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Jun 24, 2015 2:09:08 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]@senpai
[attr="class","gold"]300-ish
[attr="class","gold"]Lance ahead.
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]A Falling Star *
The likeness which I seek
Before Arkas could reply to the request of his fellow knight, another presence snaked into the room. A snake by every definition of the word, and yet Arkas had only a smile on his lips. He greeted the man, first of all, with a bow, no less. "My Prince." He handled him gently, at least while people were watching.
But the Prince was talking - a loose, running tongue. It tried its best to remain sharp but the dark-skinned son of his liege must have kissed a couple of cups of wine to not suffer the boredom of the tourney. He had probably cursed the fact that knights were running in armour and not bare-chested. He probably would have to travel further up North to see such a spectacle.
"My Prince," Arkas began, meeting the Prince's sharp gaze with well-behaved softness. "I didn't ride." Arkas did not ride in battle that was for simply the notion of honour and selfish gain. "Neither lies my oath with serving your every whim. Forgive me," he smiled toward the Prince, softly albeit with sharpness all the same.
"Has your memory suffered, My Prince? We met on the Kingsroad a couple of days ago. We did not share all the way from Dorne. You were all alone with your guards," reminded Arkas, not able to think of what might have happened between the young Prince and the hand-picked guards. "I was with the escort of Lady Stark, heading South from my time spent up North. And this day I spent guarding House Tully's beautiful maiden."
Would jealousy spark in the denied Prince's eyes? If only for a moment? Arkas knew it to be true. He stepped forward all the same, aiding the brother-in-arms. It would aid both the man and his Prince. Under the skillfull work of Arkas' almost nimble fingers, the battered silver steel was carved away. One leather strip after the other found itself removed and dropped upon the floor, carefully set aside to no longer bother the Lannister. "Would you care to have your shirt removed, Ser Tybalt? It is a mess," offered the Dayne, remaining with no steel to strip off the other. There was only an undershirt soaked with sweat, the lines of a strong body painting against its clutching fabric.
Awaiting the tent-owner's reply, Arkas remaining on one knee before the sitting man. "You were not among the knights vying for the right of championing Lord Tully's daughter..." he recalled, otherwise they would have met before the fall of the tourney day.
His gaze wandered, ever-soft. "Your sister is riding, my Prince. Did you cheer for her? Or were your eyes so busy, seeking my face among the crowd?"
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jun 24, 2015 9:00:46 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]the gays
[attr="class","gold"]383
[attr="class","gold"]--
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]Hear Me Roar
”I have to admit that a tourney is just play fighting to me, My Lords.” Tybalt replied to the new stranger, eyeing Arkas carefully as the fellow knight deftly removed the armour from his with little to no effort. From the way Ser Dayne referred to the stranger, this newcomer was clearly a Martell. ”If I brought out my claws, well… I’ll just say that there would have been many grieving lords and ladies tonight.”
Tybalt’s smile took upon an almost sinister shade as the last piece of his armour was pulled from his body. He did not like to make light of war but he wasn’t exactly speaking falsehood. The Lion was in the habit of pulling his blows and should he have cared to, he could have mortally felled many combatants on the field this day.
Shaking his head at Arkas, Tybalt removed his own shirt and stood from up off of his bench. Though he struggled with armour, wet cloth was no adversary. Now shirtless, he tossed his garment aside and walked up to the Martell before sizing him up. He caught a distinct whiff of lavender from the young Martell, a skill of detection Tybalt had mastered early on. Arkas had been harder to read, but considering how he and his Prince spoke to each other there was no hiding their preferences from Tybalt.
”You must be Prince… Dali Martell, is it? I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” The Lannister’s back stiffened, emphasising his superior height over the man before him before offering a strong arm for the Prince to shake. ”I was surprised to hear that your sister was riding in the joust but not yourself. Tell me: if she is the warrior of your kin, should we expect to see you wed a lord any time soon?”
The joke may have been hard on the nose, perhaps even grossly insensitive but if the peaked eyebrow and cocky smirk on Tybalt’s face said anything it was that Dali’s preference for men was of no secret to anyone in the tent. Whether or not Dali appreciated the teasing was anyone’s guess but Tybalt certainly bore no ill will about it. Clearly certain things were more acceptable in Dorne than they were in The Westerlands.
Oh, maybe the sneaking fervor of wine had already reached his head. He chuckled, a bit embarrassed with himself; "Oh, that's right isn't it?" Dali pressed his lips closed as his face riddled with silent laughter. "Forgive me, oblivion has claimed my memory." He felt a bit silly, but it was all in good fun.
Dali watched carefully as Arkas removed his armor. It was slow and calculating, but that was a mere illusion cast by the falling star. The man didn't care for gentle practices, his slow syrupy seductions was only meant to allure, before he became a ravaging beast from the wild. Ensnaring his prey and tearing it to pieces...Then again, the Lannister had the air of an animal far more savage. Dali playfully wondered who was a rougher contender.
When Arkas spoke again, Dali couldn't help but emit an audible squeak. "Eryn's here? Oh yes, that's right." The Martell chuckled some more; had his mind sunk into a pool nonsense? Why couldn't he make any sense, of course his sister was here jousting. Dali shook his head, "I suppose my mind has wondered elsewhere. It happens when your not around to hold its attention." He felt a bit giddy, Arkas always made him feel that way. Like a young damsel waiting to be rescued by her shining knight.
The Prince's line of sight sharpened as soon as Tybalt removed his sweat stained shirt. His gleaming muscles etched into his flesh must have been carefully molded by the Gods themselves. His chest hair like gold straw, had a slight glint to it. He was a mesmerizing being. A Lannister devoid of physical flaw. Even his scar was perfectly carved in place.
When he approached him, his rather large looming stature almost had Dali shivering with uncertainty. "Your so kind to know my name." The Prince's more delicate hand went to Tybalt's large one, yet the the handshake was strong. Dali made sure to let the Lannister know he wasn't as dainty as he may appear.
”I was surprised to hear that your sister was riding in the joust but not yourself. Tell me: if she is the warrior of your kin, should we expect to see you wed a lord any time soon?”
Dali 's smile spread into a gleeful grin as his dark skinned cheeks flushed into a charred red. He used his sleeve to try and hide it, failing miserably, as he let out an embarrassed laugh. "Are you volunteering Ser?" Tybalt's cocky smirk, his suggestive words lingering into the Dornishman's ears was inviting..
"But I must warn you, I'm no flower maiden." Dali decided to run with the joke. Just because the man was better suited to a submissive position doesn't mean he needed to be treated like a fragile creature. He wasn't a woman. He was a man who enjoyed the passion of life, the heat of battle, and the warmth of a tall, blonde, broad shouldered thick man.... Eryn was a talented warrior, but he had a feeling Tybalt would be surprised if he witnessed his own mastery with a spear.
"I'm sure you already know that sort of treatment isn't fit for a Prince of my preferences." Dali returned Tybalt's cocky smile with a confident smirk of his own. He wasn't afraid to challenge the Lannister if that may be. Sure, the White Lion must have shared his bed with many men from the green lands of Westeros. These skinny, fair skinned boys who knew how to exude pure lust and stamina with their enduring bodies.
However....
Has Tybalt been with a man from Dorne? More specifically, a Dornish Prince? This arrogant knight had no idea what he was in for if he decided to wade in these waters. Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken was the Martell creed.
The lion could clamp Dali with his sharpest set of fangs, slash his skin to shreds with his claws, or even subdue him with a harsh pouncing...
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Jun 29, 2015 0:14:18 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]@senpai
[attr="class","gold"]300-ish
[attr="class","gold"]Lance ahead.
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]A Falling Star *
The likeness which I seek
@Tybalt Lannister @Dali Martell [Can you two forgive me? I was out of town. I was watching the boys play football, though. Such a hot day, too. It made me think of this thread. Lewd.]
"Whatever you might have heard of me, let me pray that only half of it is true," Arkas smiled toward the Lannister, a humbling gesture coming in the form of a small bow to the man, almost nothing more than a nod. Truthfully there was nothing that could blemish the knight's reputation, he had guarded many daughters of many lords and he had returned all of them to their fathers with honour untouched. How flawless a knight, truly.
There might have been one thing able to scrape the flawlessness of the reputation and it walked into the tent, smelling of lavender and a bit of whine - sweet, Dornish produce. He liked it as sweet as his sister, did he? But only for long could that taste be enjoyed until the saltiness of harsh work washed it away. Prince Dali was a troublesome creature, living up to the name of his House. His sister was a troublemaker of her own but the depravity the Prince was capable of made one truly wonder: Did they even have different mothers?
The son of a Greyjoy and a Martell, one would think the Prince a perfect raider, bred for the sea and the sand, a being of ambush - uncatchable and flawless in all things poisonous and treacherous. In a way, he was. Arkas would testify it before the High Septon. But he fought from the shadows. His skills might have been so superior that it was no longer a challenge and he just enjoyed getting caught.
"I think you had enough, My Prince," Arkas decided with a forgivable softness to his voice, despite the act of speaking up to a Prince. Was the dark-skinned royal headed for another cup of wine or something else entirely? Arkas chest eased against the Prince's back, half a hand taller, he could look over the Prince's shoulder with hardly a struggle. One of his palms placed on the Prince's hip, the other snaked around his chest to restrain the vyper in a secure hold of arms that were used to struggle with the weight of armour slowing them down. The last chance for escape was sealed by the palm that pressed against Dali's taut stomach, keeping him against the Dornish' knight's chest.
Dornish fashion didn't have a thing for necklines. They were deep things in the desert, falling for forever and revealing ample chest and skin. Within the folds of Dali's attire, Arkas' bare palms found bare skin, nails gliding over a body that was not easily broken but not yet the steel of a lion's battle-forged physique.
"Ser Tybalt." Arkas sent his gaze over the Prince's shoulder toward the seated knight. "Might I ask you the favour of helping the Prince out of his attire? I helped you, after all," mused Arkas with a gallant softness - did Lannisters not repay their debts? Not the words of their House but a creed all the same.
"My Prince," Arkas muttered, eyes on the lion, "Has my absence of Dorne left you especially reckless? Or is that the work of Ser Tybalt's valor on display all day while you sat under the parasol and had nothing for your lips but the wine you brought from home."
Was that even a question? With a soft turn of a wrist, Arkas ripped a path into Dali's low-cut shirt, revealing skin that had remained hidden despite the little fabric Dornish fashion provided.
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