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.
".. blood sputters from the mouth of the victim, his skin is incredibly pale and the whites of his eyes are so engorged with blood that it is hard to separate iris from eyeball. "The Drowner" is a potent mixture, filled with coagulants and pain enhancers that set aflame each and every nerve in a victims body while thickening the blood, causing their organs to feel every liter of blood that rushes through them, seeking an open orifice to expel the pressure. Created by Yoren the Salty of the Iron Is-..."
".. ridiculous."
Ever too often these books discredited themselves with works of folly, citing barbarians and men with intellects no sharper than the rocks they bed their fat and disgusting salt wives on. "Sundries, Potions and Poisons: The Life Blood of the Essos Criminal Underbelly" was the book I was promised on the cover, which I grumpily turned to as if to confirm I hadn't picked up some tavern stories instead. The author of this book was not named, rightfully, but I was promised by father that it was purchased in Essos. "Absolute tripe." I thought, more insulted that my father was relieved of his coin for worthless words than his promise of interesting learning. "Learned words are food for smart young men." I mocked aloud, mimicking my fathers assurance that I could get something useful out it. Truthfully, I think he simply wanted me to read something applicable to the Iron Islands, or maybe he was hoping I'd rush off to the Citadel to become a Maester, if he were any other man I'd even believe the latter theory but a Maester is more likely to repair an arm than he is to break it.
".. Not fit to serve as readings in a sailor's privy."
I scoffed, throwing the hefty book to the far corner of my room where it landed with a dull thud. Crossing over to my bed, I grasped another one of the "intriguing" books I was supplied with and lifted it up to my face, flat facial expressions and deadened eyes unmoving as I read the title aloud. "Making the Eight--" I stopped before processing the rest of the words, throwing the book to the same corner of the room as the last, books of whoring and sexual conquest didn't interest me. My first and last would be with a woman of high birth somewhere in the South with a stomach full of moderate amounts of wine, good food and perfect atmosphere. I wouldn't lower myself to the piss stained sheets of a tavern, surrounded by burping boys worshiping a salty squid at the bottom of the sea. My father all too often provided me with books like this, whether he gleamed enjoyment from watching me squirm in my retained physical innocence or he was imploring me to undertake a path similar to his own was still not known to me. Moving through the stack of books, titles such as "Become the God of Fertility", "Six Sexy Tales of Saucy Salt Wives", "The Kraken's Tits" and "Break the Ice, Bedding the Women of the North" jumped out to me, separated only by books I had already read. Either this was an elaborate ruse or my father accidentally gave me his private collection. One after another the books landed, thud, thud, thud, thud, forming a loosely formed pile of disappointment with the other two sources of frustration. Stomping out of my private chambers, a lone guard patrolling the halls turned to face me, eyes wide when he saw the irate look on my face.
".. Fetch my father for me."
The guard looked to protest but ultimately sighed and began moving to Rorion Greyjoy's chambers. I was not one to get frustrated, externally least of all, but the frustration of being stuck on this barnacle of an island with the substandard reading materials I had been provided with in the passing few days, brought me close to my breaking point. If my father would not commit to contact with another house, I'd simply escape on a smuggler's boat or coerce some old, fat and pale woman to let me ride her to the docks, situated opposite of the keep.
"I thought you were a man?" Rorion Greyjoy's voice was smooth as silk and soft as the wind, but his tone was unmistakably one of of aggression. His cold blue eyes were squinted with annoyance. "All I see in front of me is a blithering woman!" he shouted louder, and then all at once the small crowd of men around him would burst into laughter. He didn't mean to stop by the training yard, but when he'd caught sight of a couple soldiers having a good old fashioned finger dance he couldn't help himself. Rorion was naturally competitive and enjoyed winning regardless of what the game was - even more so when it involved throwing an axe at somebody.
"S-sorry Captain . . But . . " The voice of the wounded man was quiet and strained with pain. He looked like a boy standing before Rorion, a third of his left hand completely severed leaving him with his first 3 fingers remaining. Blood was dripping in steady beads that quickly began to form a stream down his chainmail-clad arm. Rorion almost felt bad for him, but any sympathy he may have had quickly left when the soldier boasted about how good he was. It was no secret that Rorion had yet to lose a game in his lifetime (something he was quite proud of) and it had always been an open invitation to challenge him. "Please Captain . . ." the soldier pleaded once more for permission to forfeit the game, an option he had not been given by the Greyjoy on account of his claim. "PleaseCaptain" Rorion mocked him as he reached down for one of the small hand axes stuck in the ground in front of him, a slick smirk worn with confidence.
"Where is all that bravado from before? I thought you could take a finger?" Rorion had heard the claim from the man when he had been approaching the yard. Although a physically large and imposing man, they had somehow failed to see him coming. He had been successfully beating the other men in the camp, taking a few fingers here and there in the process. Apparently this new found success had been giving him the idea that he was good enough to take any man's finger. "What about the Devil?" one had asked. "I reckon I could at least take a finger! He answered with a smile on his face, one that was quick to disappear when he turned around. With a flick of his wrist Rorion spun the axe around his fingers before deftly catching it back into his throwing position, poised to take his next throw. "I wouldn't want to leave you without your chance for glory!" he lifted his arm quickly and prepared to throw.
"Sir! Your son is requesting your presence in his chambers!" the guard had his eyes to the floor, but when Rorion moved towards him he nervously looked up for a brief glance before shooting back to the dirt. Rorion sighed, his gaze shifting to the wounded solider, to the guard, then back to the soldier. "You are dismissed. We'll finish our game later." He bowed his head then took off running and Rorion headed for his son's chambers, the small crowed of men quickly dispersing. He lead the way followed by the guard, but upon entering the hallway he was quickly dismissed with a wave while the Devil would make a beeline for his son's chambers.
"What is the meaning of this?" His eyes darted from left to right, quickly noticing the pile of books just recklessly thrown in the corner - some that Rorion had gotten specifically for his son. Well, after reading them himself of course. "These are perfectly good books, boy. You could learn a thing or two just yet." he moved to the corner of the room with long strides and began digging through the pile, curious to see which of these had been rejected by his heir. Large, leathery hands clutched a large green book, the pages soft and worn down with use. "What's wrong with the Kraken's Tits?" Rorion flipped open to book to no particular spot, thumbing through page after page, his smirk growing with each picture. "How are you ever going to keep a woman if you can't fuck her right?" he flipped to a page with a particularly detailed picture of a woman doing something interesting with an axe handle. "Didn't I tell you to get a saltwife and practice?" He threw the book at his son's chest, anticipating that he'd catch it and witness the image in all its glory.
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