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.
--- You are not welcome here. Return at your own peril. ---
[attr="class","boneshatter3"]Eryn had arrived in Riverrun a day or two ahead of the Dornish retinue that had ridden up all the way from the South to honour Lord Tully's invitation. Tourneys weren't a rare thing in the Seven Kingdoms but one to bring together more than a pair of Lords were worthy of being noted. And wasn't Hans Tully a lucky man? He got to host a Princess of Dorne. As well as her brother. Prince Dali. Alas, the male was late - a slow rider by nature, usually due to the pain his handsome guards put on his backside when he didn't behave.
Eryn had ridden through the open gates with no reason to halt her stallion. The Dornish beast had fumed with joy and pride, telling the mares of the river city that a new ruler was in town. Eryn liked them for a reason. The steward had told her of the Lord's absence. Most of the folk were busy preparing the tourney place just outside of Riverrun, he'd said. The Lord would return, he's said. And then he'd asked whom to introduce? "Eryn Martell. Prince of Dorne."
Thus Eryn had come to her position: She sat in the wooden chair of Lord Tully. The steward had told her to take a seat and then he'd left her alone... he'd never told her to not sit in the big chair at the head of the biggest table of the hall. The Tully's didn't have a history of being kings in their own right, the hall must have been the closest to a throne room the castle had to offer regardless.
Her heeled riding boots on the table, a cup of sour wine in her hand, Eryn looked too bored with herself and the surroundings. The empty castle was not the least bit exciting. "You can't sit here!" A barging voice shouted, finally offering some respite.
"Apparently I can," chuckled Eryn in reply, amber gaze lifting to look toward the two intruders that had made it into the hall from the doorway end, their colours making them guards of House Tully. Had the Lord returned? Eryn had no time to even think about this possibility, for the two warriors nearded her position with some fierceness to their steps.
One approaching on either side of the table, Eryn decided to go for the left one first. "How dare you deny me this seat. The dog of some Lord thinks he can order around a Prince.." Wine flew the the man's way, robbing him off his sight. And yet he failed to halt. A step to the side and he was thundering over Eryn's lowered leg, sent off into the very chair he'd been meaning to deny the long-haired intruder.
"Prince? I see but a wench!" the other guard scoffed, jumping on the table. Another jump would carry him to the intruder. Eryn took her time, however, answering, for she was polite. "A knight, too. Ser Eryn. At your service."
Drawn sword, the guard came down. Eryn took the blow, her saber coming up. She ducked away, though, letting her curved blade and fluit motion send the jumper off balance. Gliding around him, she sent her boot into his rearside, sending him to an offside wall.
Before she could mock on, bigger echoes filled the room - a bigger man? She had no time to sit down again, but she mounted the Tully throne with one of her legs. Prodding her sword against the first guard's shoulder, she shoved him off - "You're not supposed to sit on this chair," she mumbled a whisper to the groaning man, feline gaze upon the double door entrance.
There wasn’t an ounce of hostility to be found in the baritone that boomed from the entrance. But rather, as one took note of Hans, a plethora of humor to be found. His mane of fire was disheveled from hours of hustle, his eyes contained a seemingly everlasting weariness, and his attire was stained profusely with his own perspiration; all in an attempt to ready his people from the tournament. In spite of all of this his features showed nothing but mirth and appeasement as he focused his hollow gaze on what he could only assume was the Martell that had crept into his nest; her copper skin contrasting heavily with that of the rivermen, and her style of play having an air of invigoration. She was foretelling of the tourney to come, and hopefully it would prove to be every bit as lively as she was.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, Hans would garner the attention of the guards that had so easily been bested. “Leave us be my friends. I don’t want to see your prides hurt any more than they already are.”
Calmly the massive Lord would saunter into the room as the guards scurried out, wary not to disrupt his path. Whereas some would have met force with force, calling in more and more guards until ultimately the Martell was detained, and war broke out between houses – Hans opted to simply enjoy the spectacle that he had been shown. There was fluidity to her movements that couldn’t be denied, and in his current temperament it excited him that a woman could handle herself in such a manner. He felt the flesh between his thighs twitch as his mind reeled over what it would be like to force such strength out of her. To bend her into submission, or a positional equivalent.
“Now my dear princess..” there was an intense emphasis placed on the title as his eyes bore into her, eager for her to attempt to wrong him like she had his guards. He allowed for the sentence to drift off after the utterance of potential annoyance however, and instead merely slid his gaze to the chair upon which she sat. A visible suggestion that he wanted her to move. Although he truthfully doubted she would adhere to it.
"Rules are boundaries. Nothing tight. A curving river, if you will..."
No doubt she was facing the Lord of the Riverlands. Despite his ancestors lack of royalty the support of the Targaryens had made his family as strong a name as any other of the old houses. He couldn't very well be anybody else but the Lord of these halls, the owner of the chair, for no other man could have the audacity to near her with an erection starting to throb in his pants. And he wasn't even a Dornish man.
"Tsk.”
Eryn mocked, rolling her eyes.
"Do you think your tongue controls your man more than my sword?"
While he has whistled, the guard on the wall had scurried out of the room, but the one she'd strapped on the chair, she kept him down by re-aligning her sword, saber edge lingering inches above his throat. Heeding his Lord's command would mean slitting his throat - it took a special kind of loyalty. The man wasn't filled with anything but regret however. Looks traveled from the hulking red to the lithe brown, fear and hope an intermezzo. Eryn had only a grin for him, however, her finger cupping her lips for a gesture of silence. "Sh. I'm talking to your Lord."
The guard back to silence, Eryn looked to him. He said some words. Then paused. Did he think it was going to be easy? Sword lingering above his guard's throat, she grinned.
"I'm bored. Your men didn't do anything about that. What do you say? A game? The life of your man for the life of your throne. If you best me, I'll release him. If I best you, you'll chop down the chair in the middle of your courtyard with the biggest axe you can find in your city."
He hadn't brought a sword, had he? Eryn reached for the belt of the guard, cutting it loose. Lifting the man's sheathed sword, she sent it across the long table, covered weapon sliding across the wood toward the Lord of Riverrun.
She was a Princess all right. Remaining on the chair, back against the rest, she leaned lazily, free hand tugging on her scarf-like collar to reveal her tightly packed cleavage to the sweat-covered behemoth of a man.
Unique to their regions, two predators snarled and stalked each other as the threat of violence danced on the horizon. Hans was a brute, but there was still a miniscule amount of intelligence to him; the fact that made him dangerous. Thanks to this intelligence he knew the dangers of allowing his emotions to overtake him as per the usual, but this wench had barged into his keep and threatened not only him but his rivermen. He wouldn’t slay her – no, as he peacefully gazed upon the guard she held hostage, the bulge between his legs suggested his ultimate goal. Whether or not he would fall prey to his own animalistic nature and take it from her, only time would tell.
With swiftness uncanny for one with his size, Hans would snatch the weaponry from the air and remove the blade from its sheath. It was a tatty old thing, serving the purpose of intimidation more than practical use, and it likely wouldn’t fair well against Dornish workings; which meant that Hans would have to rely on more than just his savage strength. “While I am here for your entertainment, I must say a life for a thing is a rather unequal exchange indeed.” As the words dripped from his lips, containing a strange mixture of apathy and humor, the giant would hesitantly unsheathe the relatively light sword. Once what he said had been completed, he wouldn’t bother to wait with the words of the woman but rather launch himself into action.
Noting that he had other resources than merely himself and a blade, Hans would hurriedly switch his grip on both sword and sheath so that he held the sword by the handle and the sheath like a javelin. Throwing the sheath at the woman, he aimed for her center, hoping to force her to move or take the bludgeoning attack, either of the two options likely allowing for the guard to free himself and either put an end to this senseless debacle or enter into the fight on his own will. He didn’t wait to see what would follow of such a movement as he forced his body into action and raced toward her. The swiftest path would have been over the table, but his massive frame would have collapsed through the elegant wood and as a result he merely skated its edge, careful not to disturb the chairs as he closed upon his fellow prey.
"You either value your men very much or you have no regard for your furniture."
Which was it? Eryn couldn't tell, it was a very comfortable chair after all. Did the River Lord truly think it but a wooden chair, no symbolism engraved into it? Perhaps. But then he should have no problem with the Princess sitting or standing upon it.
"Should I spice up the offer for you? But what could I possibly sell you that you couldn't just take in case of victoy?”
She grinned. But his scabbard was already flying her way. Her time in the chair came to an end when she stood up ducked under the flying obstacle. The next: His hulking body on the side of the table. Normally Eryn would prefer the distance a spear offered; she could control her position and that of her opponent - if anyone stepped into the spacious guarding area a spear offered, they'd have to be armoured or mad. But in her hand there was but the handle of a curved sword. Not that she didn't know to use the weapon. It was capable of delivering savage cuts with little to no effort. A wrong couple of steps and she could just serve the River Lord on different platters, one shaved off portion after the other.
But they weren't in it for the lethalness, were they? They were in it for excitement. That they were of similar characters could be seen by the fact that they were fighting - a diplomatic incident - to them, it was but a joke. A lightness to lift the moods. Perhaps not the mood of the subdued guard but he would crawl away soon enough.
A pounce had her on the table, his frame to her side. If she let him hit her without putting a step to his stride he'd roll right over her.
Keeping on the far side of the table, balancing through the plates and chalices, Eryn grinned, not parting with the natural barrier of the table just yet. It was broad enough to not allow him to lung over it without climbing on top and with her keeping on the side opposite to him, she could just jump to safety. But for the time being she let him switch his positions, goading him with but her grin and looks. "It seems you're going to have to break more than just your chair to get me," she mused, saber lowering into an open chalice. Using the curve of the blade to 'grasp' the silver, she flicked it across the table toward the redhead, the wine in the cup coming for him first. It wasn't Dornish wine. Spilling it was no sin.
"Has your day been so straining, my lord? Perhaps a bath would do you good."
Humor intertwined with pride and before he could catch it, the curtain opened and Hans was forced into a play of utter lunacy. The distortion of time was severe, as blood coursed through his veins and he found the movements of his body blurred. A tumble, the fall, even the roll back to his feet; it all seemed alien to Hans, as if he was watching the scene unfold from a different position in reality. And damn did he enjoy the show. Shameful that such a spectacle wasn’t to occur under the public eye of the tourney, albeit Hans would revel in it all the same.
Cool liquid splashed against his brazen features and elicited a hearty chuckle from the bastard. “A bath of wine…” Though his mirthful humor filtered into the air, it was soon apparent that he wasn’t contempt with allowing the woman to have her way with him. Hurriedly he would shift the weight of his body and thrust his free-hand high into the air before arcing downward and slamming it into the elegant table that decorated the main hall of his keep. In a swift act of savagery, accompanied with the loud ‘thump’ of flesh against wooden, the table would shudder and split upon contact as it collapsed under the force of the massive male’s strength. He knew such a move was foolhardy. It exposed him, and destroyed his belongings but he cared not. This was not a skirmish for blood, not an encounter for victory, but merely a little dance for pleasure And the throb between his thighs would be attended.
Ignoring the pain that radiated from his soon-to-be bruised hand, Hans twisted his body and leaped backward from the table – eager to evade any aggression that the princess would attempt to unleash upon him, or to simply put a breath of space between their two warring souls. “Here for but a moment and you’re already breaking both my men and my tables. Shame, shame my Dornish beauty.” Although sentient words the droll with which they came at and the insatiable hunger polluting Hans’s eyes would make one question as to whether he had completely forsaken what it was that had made him a man and transformed himself into some feral beast.
Last Edit: Jun 26, 2015 2:38:31 GMT by AZOR MARTELL
Eryn jumped off the table, her frame skidding backward until her boots touched down with a smooth landing. She had fallen from a lot of horses, it seemed, but she had learned to do it with grace - like a cat. Had she even been falling? Or was she just looking for excuses to move in ways that would drive him to an even greater fury?
"Dorne does not abandon those conceived of passion. You would not need the validation of a King to stop being a bastard. In Dorne, that is not a bad thing," Eryn snickered, mocking away at him and his royal overlord, the distance still between them, but only a pile of ruble serving as barrier now, no table remaining thanks to the fierce strength. If the curl of his grin became flat and he was no longer amused by the wheeling Princess of Dorne, he could snap her neck like a twig.
An exciting thought.
More comments about his bastard days were swallowed by the rumbling of wood. Eryn reached forward, managing to salvage one of the pickets that had made for the table surface. The breaking point of Hans' fist had left the tip sharp, the length close to two yards. It looked like Eryn had found herself a spear, true to the colours of House Martell of Sunspear.
Letting her sword sink back into its sheath, she darted forward, moving through the rubble field as though she had nothing to fear of the sharp pieces of scattered wood. A two-handed guidance of the weapon brought the sharp tip toward the thick outlet between Hans's legs, long weapon purposely threatening the manhood what would ultimately be one of their demises. Either Eryn's or the Lord of Riverrun's. But for him to save the possibility of fathering more daughters, he had to overcome the distance and the field of rubble.
"If you win I might let you have some Dornish wine. The piss you drink is not worthy of the title. We breed fine things in the desert. Kissed by sunshine, there is nothing sweater to the tongue."
Like a predator awaiting its prey, Hans would happily allow for Eryn to near him. Sanity would prompt the common man to evade. The makeshift weaponry of the princess had the advantage of distance, and given her intended target the male population wouldn’t respond kindly to her aggression. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Hans was neither common nor sane – one could simply look into his visage to see the madness that loomed behind his humored eyes.
Maintaining his ground, the brute would merely raise his hand into the air and arc it down sharply. The timing of the maneuver was done simply and without thought. The wood was sharp; dangerous enough to pierce into his flesh and knick an artery, but such thoughts didn’t concern him. His limb swung through the air in such a manner that it would connect with the side of the wood a safe distance away from his groin, forcing it to the side. The strength that coursed through his veins combined with the distance the strike would occur away from Eryn’s hand proving to likely generate to much torque for her to simply drive it forward and continue to pierce him. He was no fool however and prepared to slow his attempted redirection should the princess due something wicked such as draw back on the weapon and lash out a moment later.
Regardless of the outcome with her attack, Hans would release a counter of his own. Using the momentum generated by his free handed defense, he would twist his torso while keeping his feet planed; the result of such movement being the blade reaching high into the sky before being jerked down – the intent being to cleave Eryn in two. Her momentum preventing her from gently being able to stop on a dime and the length of his arm combined with that of the sword being more than enough to overcome a distance slightly above two yards and scathe her should she not take this little debacle seriously.
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