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 THE REAVING KING on Aug 18, 2017 0:46:36 GMT
It was raining.
It was always fucking raining.
Quellon’s brother, were he still breathing, would be preaching about how the Storm God has come to swallow Pyke and her sisters whole once again. With the King dead and the royal family in shambles, one would be hard-pressed to disagree.
But history was cyclical, just as the maester’s said storms were. No water meant no clouds, no lightning, no gods. The foolish children of the crown had yet to learn this basic fact, or what it meant.
Quellon, horn of mead in hand, was staring through the solitary window in his study. Rain and hail crashed against the glass. Behind him, a dying fire began to sputter. If he were a man of poetry, he’d liken that to the political climate too. But poetics had a habit of fostering the wrong type of pride—the type of pride that turned men’s brains into jelly and their wits to shit.
Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaver of Pyke, was not a man eager to be compared to jellies and shits. He was a man eager to learn, and to do. And now was the time to do.
“Saltblade.” The hinge of his study door opening was all the confirmation he needed. Turning, Quellon looked at the bastard Lord Captain. “I have need of the Fleet.”
Rare were the men that did not fear Saltblade. Generally speaking, the entirety of those brave few could be split into two camps. There were zealots that believed in truths that echoed louder than the fear of Saltblade's exploits, but these stubborn men could be defeated if one removed the source of their strength, their faith - stem and root.
Saltblade had never considered Quellon Greyjoy a faithful man, making the Lord Reaper belong to the second camp of fearless men: One with knowledge that perceived deception and found the root of explanation. That kind of man was more dangerous, for in time, such a man would overcome the mysteries of the world.
As a man untouched by the considerations of tact, Saltblade could tread with a freedom that some would find respectless. Be that as it might have been, Saltblade had the record that allowed a degree of extravaganza. Entering the Lord's study, Saltblade awaited no command or word, making himself at home. Finding something worthy of his attention, eyes beset Lord Greyjoy's desk.
Thus he picked up the dagger that lay scattered across the books, hardly a tool meant to disembowl a man. No. This 'weapon' was used to disembowel scrolls and letters, breaking seals instead of skin so that information might flow out to reading eyes, like blood leaves the wound of a stabbed schlimazel. There was no scroll, though, it had undoubtedly been moved to Lord Greyjoy's person.
"I don't think the wind told you that," Saltblade pointed out, playing with the blade. The room was dimly lit. Saltblade's eyes gleamed at the steel, peering into its soul. He was no farseer. But there were remants of wax on the blade where it had broken the seal, the purple colour of the Braavosi war galleys; the purple colour of their lagoon; the purple colour of their sealord.
"I'm not stealing you another wife, am I? Try a Lyseni boy. Getting fucked by fat sailors all day, they're quite resilient. And shouldn't they need that around you? Lord Greyjoy."
The Fleet was ready. Saltblade didn't need to tell him that.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 18, 2017 1:34:17 GMT
Mead always tasted stale in Saltblade’s presence. It was like eating while watching a corpse rot, or a child get raped. Putting the horn down, Quellon strode to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and prodded the flames. Sunbursts of embers filled the room, died down, echoed out again.
“No wife this time. I have an heir and I have a trading tool.” Quellon slid the poker back into place and turned.
Saltblade was already looming over the documents. “Princess Alysannae has a daughter. That daughter is a ward of the sealord. And the King just died. She’ll be expected to return.”
Calloused fingers moved aside scrolls and leather-bound tomes. A map under the mess, stained by coffee and blood, showed the dotted line of a ship’s path from Braavos to King’s Landing.
“Saera Targaryen will return home on this path. It’s the quickest, safest, and most logical. And the one she took to reach Braavos in the first place.”
Quellon looked up to Saltblade. His lone eye, scarred still, had seen much, could read a man just as easily as they read a book. Saerra’s friends on that ship, her servants, the sailors, the guards—Saltblade would kill them all. He always did. But if there was one thing he would not do, it would be raping or beating Saerra herself.
Treasures need not be defaced, especially when they were so valuable.
“Bring her back here with no detours. If you somehow find yourselves losing, kill yourself and burn your ships. I’ve written a missive that names you a traitor should such a thing occur.” Quellon picked his horn back up. “And should you find it impossible to bring her back, slit her throat and give her to the Drowned God.”
Lord Greyjoy didn't want to talk about Lyseni ass meat? How strange. Having only one eye left, one would think he'd come to appreciate beauty in his fading years.
"The King has been dying since the day he was born." Jaehaerys, ever sick and weakly, had been a peaceful king. Under his rule,the Seven Kingdoms had become riper than a peach in the Reach. The population had exploded. There was enough food for everybody. At times such as these, ambitions grew. When summers were long and winters were lush, the hearts forgot the terror of darker days.
Did Lord Greyjoy feel like reminding Westeros?
"Even if the King has finally shit his last shit," Saltblade began, following the map workings that were displayed, "That doesn't make the situation any clearer. The King doesn't have a dedicated heir." Even though, the influence of the King's youngest daughter at court could not be denied. Alysanne Targaryen had shaped the realm with her politics under the authority of her father.
But would that continue?
"Our ships sail faster than any other ships in the world. If we want to intercept her, we'll have to cut the continent every corner of the coast. Somebody will see the ships. Somebody will find out the princess is missing. Somebody will connect the dots and they'll start looking for a missing Princess."
Saltblade was a daring man, but he liked base his plan of action on reason. Not on sheer luck. Flicking the blade he'd been placing with until his hand grasped it firmly, he stabbed it into the map off the coast of the Reach. "Assemble the Fleet close to the Shield Islands. That'll keep the Reach Lords and the Lannisters worrying where ships might strike, possibly abusing the situations."
Saltblade traced his finger along the coastal outline of Westeros' southern shoreline. "Fly the banner of the Lord Reaper of Pyke. Every ship will be sent to deal with the movement of the Ironfleet. While you're traveling to the King's funeral in full power, drawing all attention upon you, I'll intercept the ship from Essos. Returning the King's grand-daughter is going to be your token."
Saltblade met the One-Eye's gaze.
"You're the ruler of the scum of the Earth. You'll neet to bring your own invitation to their party!" Saltblade gleamed a joyless smile.
"If you deliver the Princess, they will not be able to deny your presence."
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 18, 2017 2:31:56 GMT
Quellon downed his mead in one gulp.
Disgusting.
As Saltblade ranted about his plan, Quellon listened, watched. A man’s body was a dictionary to his mind. Saltblade’s described someone who was meant to be wielded, a sword without a master—and without a guard. But that was good. That danger kept Quellon aware, prepared.
“I’ve already assembled my ships for King’s Landing. I’ll arrive, I’ll mingle with the nobles, and then I’ll bring word that I’ve rescued a royal daughter.”
With a dirty fingernail, Quellon undid the binding of a scroll. As it unfurled, the names of various Targaryens rolled off the desk and to the ground. The empty horn was used to press down one corner of the scroll to keep it from sliding off.
At the end of this royal list was Alysannae—the most likely to be named heir. And she was not the eldest child.
“House Greyjoy and all the Iron Islands will back one daughter. We’ll help that daughter, give her ships, give her control of the sea. Fire and blood, as her kin say.”
Quellon looked back to Saltblade. “I’ll be talking to the Tullys, the Starks, the Lannisters. The Tyrells. I’ll see who they want to back, who they want to support. I’ll help them, under the cover of treason and alliance.
“And at the most crucial moment, I’ll destroy their fleets, rob their coffers, bleed dry their armies and leave them stranded and dependent on the Iron Islands. No ship will sail without my consent. No trade route will be safe without my blessing.”
It was a foolhardy plan—one that many would-be Iron Kings had attempted in the past. But this would not be a war of land invasion—the Ironborn could never hope to win such a cursed prize as land kingdoms. But the seas were a different field. Time and time again, Greyjoys lost because they did not play to their strengths. But now was different.
Now, the chance to be the Iron King was a sure as Quellon was drowned.
He nodded towards something behind Saltblade. When the bastard turned, he would see a replica of the Seastone Chair, housed in the mouth of Nagga. “The Iron King will rise from the sea.”
"By all means, Lord Greyjoy. Enjoy yourself in the capital." The bastard enjoyed knife-based back-stabbing, not intrigues.
Saltblade favoured the ocean. There were no set directions upon the surface of the waves. Lesser sailors were forced to sail with the wind, but the Ironborn were a sea-faring people, they could cross against the wind, ruling the waves and bringing fear to any coastline of the known world.
The Seven Kingdoms having grown rich and ripe once again during two generations of peace, it was no wonder that Lord Greyjoy wanted to prey on them. It was in the nature of the Ironborn, reflected by the words of House Greyjoy - We Do Not Sow. And at large: The Iron Price.
Ironborn valued nothing as much as the things they had claimed as spoils.
"If you plan to back Alysanne Targaryen, you'll have to deal with both her brothers. They say that Daeron Targaryen sits at Harrenhall, amassing knights and soldiers. He's been waiting for this day for years. Blame the King's softness, but they never disowned him. The throne is his by law of the land. They say his children are poluted by the blood of his bastard wife, but let me tell you, bastards do not die so easily."
Saltblade chuckled, eyes gleaming at the Greyjoy, burning slowly, like the heat within the remnants of that fire he had stoked not moments ago. Saltblade's eyes wandered back to the map. "If you sail the entire Ironfleet into Blackwater Bay, the Royal Fleet could box you in. We'll have to be ready to strike Dragonstone. Half the royal navy's force rests between Dragonstone and Driftmark. Rhaegar Targaryen sits upon that cunt of an island. The man is equally a cunt, but with his Dornish witch of a wife, you can be sure that at least the captains stationed upon Dragonstone will be loyal to him."
Daeron commanded the land. They had other worries than standing armies.
"If you back Alysanne, tell her to strike Dragonstone. If she agrees, it wouldn't be a raid. It would be a justified attack by Her Grace, the Queen, against her rebel brother..."
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 19, 2017 18:11:40 GMT
“Backing her is just a temporary state of affairs. A step towards a greater end.” Quellon sat behind his desk. “I don’t care what her brothers on land do. We Greyjoys have no business repeating Harran the Black’s mistakes.”
Harren Hoarse, King of Isles and Rivers, ruined the Ironborn for a generation by bringing forth Aegon’s fire. Though dragons were dead, the dangers of his silver-haired brood still lurked. A land campaign would spell the end of Quellon’s plans before they began.
But Dragonstone…
“If we took Dragonstone, the Baratheons and the other half of the Royal Fleet would still be but a few day’s sail away. We would need one of the parties cowed before then.”
Quellon didn't want to make Alysanne Queen for the sake of making her Queen. As much has been clear when Quellon had made it apparent that Saltblade wouldn't be deployed to find another wife.
Since the Targaryens no longer ruled the skies with dragons, another power ruled supreme - and that was naval control. The great fleets of the Seven Kingdom were the Iron Fleet of the Iron Islands, the Redwyne Fleet of the Arbor, serving the Lords of the Reach, and the Royal Fleet.
Ruling the seas meant ruling trade and fast deployment. Other houses had to worry about attacks from the land, but the Iron Islands were defended from the planks of their ships. Not threatened by Winged Beasts, if they laid fire to all the ships of Westeros, they would truly be unassailable.
Saltblade had no trouble realizing the value of this development for Quellon Greyjoy. Personally, he could care less. But he wasn't in it for the result. He participated for the process - getting to scare princess and getting to run down the royal fleet to the bottom of Blackwater Bay was its own reward.
"Take half the fleet around the south end of Westeros to draw their attention. I'll sail around Essos and join you from the other side. After the funeral, we'll rendezvous the fleets at Dragonstone and strike the royal fleet."
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 19, 2017 20:56:09 GMT
Quellon did not respond. He walked back towards the window, and looked out into the storm, dismissing Saltblade with the silence of thought.
The Iron Islands, for years now, had been the weakest power in the Seven Kingdoms. Now that the Targaryen family was weakened, they were the strongest. The North, the South—those distinctions were arbitrary. Without ships, they could not fight their new rulers. Even with ships, they had no hope.
The Grey King had been dead a long time. But what is dead may never die, but instead rises harder and stronger.
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