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.
It was said that Katsa had the blessing of the Drowned God. A rare boon, for his nature was ever callous. No matter where the winds of chance carried her of to, the chaos that she sought, the dangers that she faced, she always managed to land upon both of her feet. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Yet, if Katsa was truly favoured then her younger sister might as well have been cursed.
Sarra Tully. The sound felt awkward upon Katsa’s tongue, but at least she could say it. Shadows would darken the already gloomy expression that seemed to be permanently fixed upon Sarra’s long pale face. Acting as if those two simple words caused her pain. If so, it was a joke that Kat could appreciate. Now the wife of one of Westeros’ most powerful families, likely Sarra had to endure that strange sound over and over, a cruel daily assault. Sarra Tully. Lady Tully. Kat wondered if a day would come when her sister would become numb to the sound, when she forgot the kraken that she once was.
But, if she had to wager, Katsa would have bet on her sister. Sarra was weak, pitiful. But she had eyes. She was ironborn. She knew their stories. All she had to do was stand where Katsa was standing, on the ramparts, and cast her gaze around. What the ironborn had once held and what they had lost. To be reminded that her father had exiled her to the lands of their dead and lost glory, to live and then to die among ghosts. Such bitterness would keep a kraken fed.
Eyes, sea-green and rimmed with kohl, watched the paling sky as dawn continued to rise. Moving only to refill her bronzed goblet with the wine contained within the glass-and-bronze decanter, resting beside her upon a table that a Tully guard had so helpfully provided for her. Dornish red, Katsa had brought her own supply with her. Only now did she wish that she had brought more. She had underestimated Sarra’s ability to aggravate her.
The edge of her cup pressed to her plump painted lips, Katsa’s ears picked up the echo of another’s approach. Heavy. All powerful commanding muscle. No attempt at subtlety.
OOCAZOR MARTELL. Intending for this to be set roughly 17 years ago.
“Milord. Milord pl-” Calloused and massive, Hans lifted his right hand into the air and silence all further pleas. Annoyance coursed through his veins and he had not the temperament to hear the common servant tell him what was or wasn’t expected of him. Sarra had finished her taxing labor mere days before and the world seemed to want nothing more than to unravel itself. His bastard sons, young as they were, had already seen fit to question him as to where they stood in his life with the arrival of more offspring and a legitimate air. His favorite whore had gone and died, crushed under his brutish force, and Sarra wasn’t in condition to service him. The finances his house commanded and those loyal to him seemed to wither and shrivel as the days transpired. And on top of this there was a rather unwanted guest in his keep.
Katsa Martell had never graced Riverrun with her presence. Hans had never had the luxury of meeting her, and it was to be somewhat expected that she might arrive shortly after the birth of both a nephew and niece. And yet even with that in mind the brutish fool felt a kindling desire to wring her little neck. The sun was merely beginning its journey into the dreary sky, and if the bastard had had his way, he would be sound asleep until it was near its summit. Servants had seen fit to stir him though, the first to do so being a poor soul who now had their skull half-caved in. The next proved successful and with minimal harm received, although such could swiftly be altered should they not cease in their incessant tailing.
Dribble reached his ears about how he wasn’t appropriately suited to encounter guests but he cared naught for it. The hulking man hadn’t spared a moment to cloth his chest, instead opting to leave it bare along with his feet. Flimsy cotton trousers decorated his legs and the various contours of muscles and other extremities were visible, and such attire suited the male just fine as he brushed open the massive doors to his hall. “Sarra would receive you if she were able but alas you are stuck with me.”
Last Edit: Jul 7, 2015 2:10:12 GMT by AZOR MARTELL
Many tales about Hans “the Kind” had reached Katsa’s ear, a lot of them unflattering. That he was a loud stumbling ox clearly carried some element of truth, indeed Kat would have been surprised if Sarra, exhausted and nursing her newborn babes within her chambers, had not awakened to her husband’s clamour. Still, Katsa gave her brother-in-law little in ways of a reaction as he slammed open the nearby set of doors and stormed into her presence. All too slowly, she turned her head towards his direction.
No apprehension or indignation smouldered within those bright green hues as he confronted her in his state of half undressed, a sight that likely would have unnerved the ideal Westerosi woman. Did Sarra make a habit of blanching at the sight of so much hulking muscle? If so, Hans would no doubt be disappointed by how shamelessly Katsa stared. Her gaze a slow assessing slither from one hardened plane of muscle to the next, one corner of her small dark mouth curled, amused.
”One look at you and I’m only surprised that my sister has managed to greet any of her guests in the past, or that she’s still capable of walking. How haven’t you accidently split her into two?” Her impertinence was deliberate. And though the crooked smile that played at her lips carried no malice, the fire that danced within the ocean depths of her hues remained cold, insidious. Her feminine tone was distinctively lacking even a slither of sympathy in her mocking of Sarra. But, at such a point, Hans really shouldn’t have entertained the notion that any love existed between the two sisters.
”Oh well, your care has paid off, hasn’t it? A son. Biarvī manaeragon!” Goblet pressed to her lips, Katsa enthusiastically drank her cup dry. The motion one long swallow, her stance still steady by the time that she was done. Reaching to refill her cup, yet again, Katsa paused, to say, ”fetch a cup; we should have shared wine together a long time ago.” She waited, patiently. For Hans to call out for a nearby servant to fetch him something to drink from, or to outright refuse his sister-in-law’s generosity. Kat hoped for the former, even in the Iron Islands refusing to share a drink with one’s kin was a blatant insult. Regardless of the hour.
Amusement seeped from Hans. Gorgeous, splendid, fuckable, and perhaps to some lovable.
Hazy eyes stared upon the features of Katsa Martell and a myriad of adjectives rushed to mind, even a brutish one. The gaze she returned him sent his stomach into frenzy and tightness into his groin despite the wife that lingered inside of the halls. It wouldn’t be desire that lured him to embrace her, it wouldn’t be lust that made him empty himself into her, nor would it be a simple testament of control. The way she carried herself was alluring. Whereas Sarra had a spine it seemed her sister had Valyrian steel. Whereas Sarra merely observed him, her sister seemed keen to devour him with simply her gaze. As sweet honey dripped from her lips it would seem that she contained pools of humor to, her questioning of Sarra’s walking resulting in a laugh from the male – one that was as generous as it was voluminous.
“And a daughter,” drooled his baritone. Extending his thick fingers, he would run them through his own auburn mane, disturbing his ill-kept tufts, before snapping at a nearby servant. And with that routine motion, the snapping of fingers, the charm that had been cast upon him faded and he reflected upon the reality that was. He pondered what she thought of him in that moment, how much of her was acting and how much was real. Ultimately, how much she knew of him via her sister. Men were brutish and simple, while women were something else entirely. He had no way of knowing the truth. No way of knowing whether or not she desired to kill him for heinous acts or bed him due to profound physique as her gaze suggested.
Dismissing such thoughts in fear of rising agitation – as well as the fury that would follow – the massive Hans slid a chair backwards and took a seat. The lids of his eyes descended and he titled his head back slightly as he waited impatiently for his goblet. “Are the Dornish the drunkards that would have you drown yourself along with the dawn, or is it the Ironborn? Either way I fucking like it” Words polluted the air and sucked away the oxygen needed to fuel the flame that was Hans’s temper. If he allowed himself to merely sit there and fester, Katsa would be raped and killed before the sun reached its summit, at no fault of her own. She would meet her end with his hands wrapped harshly around her scrawny neck as he…
He exhaled deeply, eyes still firmly shut. Only one such as he could be both bloodthirsty and aroused all in the same instance.
Last Edit: Jul 9, 2015 5:58:41 GMT by AZOR MARTELL
”Both.” The seas of her stare maintained their consistent watch upon Hans. There was no hostility, no steel to her gaze. No discomforting weight. Cold though the flames dancing within her hues might have been, they were still fire. Bright. Alluring. Masterful. Rather than demanding attention, attentive care was expressed. Collecting, savouring, memorizing, hoarding. ”Never depriving oneself from indulgence, no matter how simplistic. Though, I suppose we Ironborn go about taking what we want in a more selfish manner.”
Deliberately, Katsa did not mimic Hans in sitting down. There were many ways in which Kat’s behaviour could have been interpreted. The most flattering would be because the Westerosi lord had not asked her to sit down in his presence – though, given that Katsa had made no attempt to play the demure maiden if Hans thoughts drifted to that side he was far more stupid and arrogant that any tale gave him credit for being. The least flattering would boast of arrogance. The Dornish princess unwilling to lower herself as to imply an equal social or political stature to the bastard turned fish lord.
In truth, Katsa saw a chair as dangerous. It would hold her in place, for a time, within reach of those powerful muscle-roped arms. Physically, Hans could easily crush her smaller, more fragile, body; Katsa could only accurately rely on her agility being the more superior between the two of them. But, no matter how fleet of foot she might have been, rising off of a seat would demand a moment of her time. A moment less than if she were to remain on her feet.
It would have been unfair to say that Katsa was expecting for her brother-in-law to attack her. But it also would have been equally unfair to claim that she held an iota of trust towards him. The commonfolk of the Riverlands were not shy in their approval of their lord. They saw him as a fair lord, but better than that they celebrated him. Once one of “them” and now one of the most powerful men within the realm, Hans perfectly embodied the heroic figure of any peasant story. Yet, within the castle walls, Katsa was conscious of the chill that was ever present. A wordless tension. Shared by every occupant, including the lad who hurried forward, his lord’s goblet carried in his hands.
Fear. The aroma was a nostalgic perfume to Katsa’s senses. It was by far the most curious of events yet. For people had no reason to fear heroes.
With this in mind, watching the manner in which Hans continued to rest with his eyes shut; Katsa stepped forward, intercepting the cupbearer. Taking the goblet from the lad’s fingers before he could object, Katsa filled both cups. The dark liquid flowed generously, the manoeuvring of her pale slender wrists was graceful but deliberate, boasting of careful training learnt in what might as well have been another life. Yet, the lessons remained both sharp and clear within Katsa’s mind. Never spilling a drop.
”Has Sarra not spoken to you about our people?” Curiosity coated Katsa’s words, with honeyed sweetness. Hiding the poison. ”No stories? Songs and tales are one of the few things Ironborn are generous with, you know. We enjoy sharing them over drinks. At the point of steel. In darkened rooms … when flesh presses against flesh …”
If her last few words, a soft murmur, enticed Hans’s attention, he would find Katsa standing with one hand holding out his filled goblet in his direction. A gesture for him to come to her.
Lulled to a near slumber by the darkness, Hans maintained only a slight attentiveness to the world around him. The wooden door creaking upon its hinging as a servant entered into the room. The subtle pound of footsteps, soon joined by a second pair. The sloth of gently poured liquid. It all reached the drums of the massive brute but it was the siren’s voice that caused his hues to become visible once more, kindled by a momentary lust.
The urge to force himself upon her flared once more, his gaze focused upon her ample bosom. And yet, besides a simple hardening, there was little to no immediate action as a result. “There might have been one of two,” he exhaled as he slid from his chair and stood to his full erect height, not caring to avert her eyes from the contours of his muscles or the stiffness of other extremities. With an air of dismal confidence that only he could muster, The Lord Paramount of the Trident would reduce the distance between the two so that not even a child could squeeze between them, unlike her however the brunt of his weight being shifted from the soles of his feet to lean against the table. With a casual motion, he would remove the chalice from her grasp, attempting to rub the ridges of his hardness flesh against her own softness in the process.
“I find that stories are often times greatly exaggerated.” Fables and legends of the ironborn had polluted his ear since he was but a wee lad. The filtering of said pollution altering in its flow only after his engagement to what was once formerly Sarra Greyjoy. He had found that nearly all of what he was heard was merely fear and grandeur blowing billows of smoke into the atmosphere. If Sarra were a true representation of the iron islanders than they were all lacking. She was subjugated and bent all the same as the others. She maintained semblances of resistance, but if she had been broken under the weight of his massive frame. And even she had failed to tame him in the realm of romance as one would expect from said fables. The ironborn were just people. No better, and in his mind no worse.
If uninhibited he would raise the goblet to his lips and dispose of the contents in one gulp. So enamored was he with the lady that he didn’t even spare concern to the contents. Sarra could have very well contacted her sister for the simple purpose of executing Hans after the birthing of their children, and he would have been none the wiser, a seemingly flawless plan in that particular moment. But it would take an abundance of even Dornish poison to down the rumored half-giant.
With a calculated movement, he disposed of his own chalice, leisurely placing it upon the table before reaching for her own. The movement was inviting, pleading for her to finish her own drink so that they could either refill the contents or simply discuss as expected of people of their position. “I prefer experiences.”
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