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 ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 18, 2017 21:40:18 GMT
The Lord of the Stormlands stood within the solar of his private quarters. The area included his study. His bedroom was much deeper in the thickness of the drum tower that was the castle's storm-breaking body of one shape. When he was working, he liked the whirling howl of the wind that blew in from the bay directly below him. He didn't necassarily like being haunted in his dreams, however. But when deciding the fate of his kingdom, it had always inspired him, after all, in legends, these very summer storms had motivated his ancestors to defy the Gods.
One of the strongest castles in the realm, Storm's End was once the ancestral seat of the Storm Kings of House Durrandon extending back many thousands of years. The castle was protected by spells woven into its very walls that were meant to prevent magic from affecting it. But these were stories that he had been told as a child.
Granted, he had seen the machinations of illusions and trickery during his traves in Essos, but what magical force could hope to penetrate the very walls of his home when not the storms could that the wind god had thrown against the fortress above Shipbreaker Bay for years.
A raven had arrived, bringing news from the capital. Having sent Maester Ludgar to find his wife, Arkas patiently waited, wrapped up in his thoughts. The political problems at hand had been brewing for years, like the autmn storms that whirled the sea below him, they were the result of sweltering summer heat and calm currents.
The issue of Jaehaerys' succession had been caused by the man's good heart. Could Arkas blame that fact? He had been granted a pardon by the workings of that heart, allowed to find his own love, and to see it succeed. But apparently, the favour that was owed returned to remind him of his duty. But what duty was that? A duty to a dying king's wishes? Duty to the right of passage, the law of the land? Or duty to the needs of the realm?
The more he thought about it, the more realized it. Master Ludgar wouldn't wake his hour at this wife. The Maester sworn to Storm's End was more fearful of the sleeping dragon lady than he was loyal to Arkas. Calling outside the room, he told one of the guards to summon his issue.
Post by NAERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 24, 2017 20:52:19 GMT
A clap of thunder sounded in the distance causing Naerys to look up from his book. This place did nothing for his sleep. If he had one gripe about anything concerning Storm's End, it was that. So stormy! Huddled in his canopy bed, a candle on the bedside table to provide him just enough light to see the words, the young dragon was fighting his sleeplessness with an old story. His violet eyes settled back on the dimly lit texts on the pages.
This particular tome detailed the story of a ranger of the Nightwatch beyond the wall, pure fiction as far as he could tell. Pouring over a few hundred words, the thunder came again from far away. The boy huffed. Snatching a hardened leather slip he marked his place and sat the book beside him on the unmolested covers. There was plenty of real estate on the grand feather bed. He figured he should try to sleep again before the storm came. There would be no hope of it with it raging above the castle.
Laying directly back on his pillow and pulling the covers up to his chest, Naerys didn't bother blowing out the candle. It would burn out in time. He had always been scolded by his minders for it, all warned that he may wake up burning. It had never happened though. It was never enough to persuade him to endure the pure darkness and the terrors that could hide within. His eyelids slid closed, the tales of the land of always winter on his mind.
Relaxed, the slow embrace of unconsciousness encroached on him. It almost took him too. Then another clap of thunder came, except it low, bassy, guttural, like the snarl of a beast. The inebriation of slumber quickly died away. It was just thunder, that's what he told himself. And for a moment his chambers were quiet, dead quiet. He almost felt like he might drift off again. But then another growl came. Close. Within his very room. Naerys' eyes flashed open.
''Please no,'' he thought in pure dread. The boy went to sit up so he might peer into the darkness, banish it with the flame of his candle. Except he didn't. He couldn't. His body wouldn't move. Staring at the canopy across the top of his bed, his breathing got faster, heavier. Once again the growl came, long and low as before with a mighty nasal exhale the punctuate it. It sounded as close as the far corner by the window.
''A shadow cat? Do they live in the Stormlands?'' A weighty thump came followed by another. Footfalls. It sounded way bigger than a shadow cat. His eyes, the only thing he could still move peered into the darkness as best as he could from his low angle. Brief illumination came as a flash of lightening poured through the windows. A dark shape moved along the wall towards his bed. Naerys whimpered. His eyes teared.
He wanted to move more than anything, but his body refused. The baseboard of the bed creaked. The child let out a meek noise again. The comfy feather mattress beside his leg depressed. Naerys shut his eyes tight, as if that would help. A burden was laid upon him, as if the monster set its foot upon his chest. His rapid breathing slowed as it became hard to breath at all. Wheezing, Naerys opened a single eye. A single eye stared back, purple like his own, large and serpentine.
The eye of a dragon.
Both of the boy's own eyes opened wide in sheer terror. He was going to die. The severity of the situation drowned out the rapping at the door of his bed chambers. He couldn't hear his name being called. Naerys shut his eyes once more. He couldn't watch, he couldn't. The dragon's threatening grumbling sneers were supplemented by rapid footsteps. The gentle touch on his shoulder made him want to leap from the bed in panic, but only his eyes responded.
''Lord Naerys!'' The candle stick in the servant's hand was held low to survey the boy. His eyes, tearful and terrorized, recognized the wrinkled face of Bense, one of the night servants of the castle. It wasn't the first time he had found the young Targaryen like this either. Ever since this had started a year ago it had typically been Bense who heard his wailing. Setting his own candle with the much shorter Targaryen's, the man snatched the covers back.
''Bloody hells,'' He mumbled. There was nothing wrong with the boy, but he couldn't help but remark on the situation. Dressed for bed, Naerys only wore a long night shirt made from the most comfortable linens. It stopped just short of his knees, behind which Bense scooped his hand, the other dipping under the boy's neck. Pulling his legs off the bed he inclined Naerys' upper body and sat him upright on the edge. Keeping braced with one hand he took one of the Targaryen's in his other.
''Come now, little dragon.'' Bense squeezed his fingers slightly and then released before repeating the process. The maester had come up with this methodology. ''Start small. You can wiggle them.'' His heavy breathing slowed somewhat. ''That's it. Calm down now. Everything's going to be alright.'' Stooping down in front of the boy, Bense strained his own old eyes to look into those of Naerys, as if he would see something there.
''When you get to moving again, Lord Baratheon has summoned you.'' His old eyes glanced down to the Targaryen's bare legs. He looked back up setting both hands on Naerys' shoulders to steady him. ''You solid enough to sit up? I'll fetch you some trousers.'' Bense felt boy lean into each hand a moment before the dead weight got lighter. He was getting to where he could right himself well enough.
Finally Naerys' hanging head nodded once and weakly. The servant let loose of him, watching him sway a moment before looking satisfied. Standing, he took his candle in hand and moved across the bedroom to the chifferobe. Naerys continued to clench and loose his fists until he got more of a hold on himself. As Bense approached with the pants, he stood on his own albeit shakily. A smile creased the leather of Bense's face.
''There's a good lad.'' Now that that was out of the way… ''What did the dreams show you this time?'' Every time. Every time Bense asked him. And every time his answer was the same.
''I don't want to talk about it.''
Later, probably far later than Arkas would have liked, Bense cracked the door to where the lord waited holding it for Naerys to pass. In he walked dressed only in boots and trousers with his night shirt stuffed within haphazardly. His hair was a mess and the young dragon prayed that his eyes weren't too puffy from his panicked weeping. Still, he was eager to see the man. As Bense closed the door behind him, Naerys approached his master and bowed.
''Is something amiss my lord?'' He feared something might have happened to the other Baratheons, his own family, or most importantly, Oisin.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 25, 2017 17:33:10 GMT
By the time Naerys showed up in Arkas' study, the Lord of Storm's End had stopped expecting his wife - perhaps he hadn't expected any man in Storm's End to be brave enough of the deed of waking her. The Stormlands produced fine knights, not as chivalrous as the Reach, but strong in durability and with a tenacity to rival the Knights of the Vale. Arkas liked to think that they were the combination of gallantry turned into duty and pride turned into idealism. Perhaps he was being poetic about it, but a part of knighthood were the songs of the bards and the service to a greater good in place of one's interest of self.
But there would be no dragon slaying in the Storm's End that night, no man brave enough to disturb the slumbering dragon in the Lord's chamber. Indeed.
It was, perhaps, for the better. For if Arkas plans went into motion, he would have to wake her up one way or another. She'd be on her legs from before dusk until after dawn, preparing Storm's End for the things to come.
But while he still contemplated, he could let her sleep. Just as well. And he too did not want to perish by her fury.
Did that make him a coward? Perhaps.
But wisdom isn't gained by dead men.
"See the sigil," Arkas began the tell of fate, facing the questions of his squire. He did not need a man to clad him in armour for battle. Naerys wasn't that kind of squire to begin with, was he?
The letter upon the desk of Lord Baratheon held a broken sigil composed of red and black, the colours of the royal house, the Targaryens. Fire and Blood.
"The King has come down with a sickness. The next fever will kill him. Perhaps he'll make it for another month. Perhaps less. Perhaps a little more."
Arkas wasn't in the business of predicting the future. And neither were the Maesters. But if they admitted their defeat before an obstacle, the end was likely a given. For rarely did the keepers of knowledge admit the few holes left in their perceived completeness of wisdom.
Naerys had such a gift, didn't he? Or so the stable boys claimed, and sometimes the girl that brought the milk. Summerhall was a haunted place, not one of beauty, but one of chasing lost dreams. Perhaps the return of the dragons had touched the boy. Perhaps his mixed blood had infused him with the superstition of the common folk.
Who knew.
All Arkas knew, was that Naerys hadn't been touched by a lack of wit. The boy seemed frail enough, people underestimated him. For his blood and his stature. But Arkas didn't believe in arrogance the way the Dornish applied it to their behaviour on the border and always had. He beleived in defensive positions, and Naerys had taken to that study well, for he had the need to keep himself guarded.
With nothing but survival as motivation, Arkas could predict those ends much better. For all that live want to keep on living. Only rarely does a soul long for peace.
That's why his wife was still asleep.
For beyond the superficial, there existed deeper laws.
"Read the letter. It's titled in the name of the King. But signed by Lord Rykker, Hand of the King. Which can only mean one thing: The King's time really has come. And for his last days below the light of the sun, he desires another man at his side.
Long ago, I was made to owe Jaehaerys a favour. And now, the credit of faith is being liquidized."
Post by NAERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 26, 2017 1:27:11 GMT
At his lord's query the squire came closer to the table to ogle the letter, easily recognizing the broken seal that once held the parchment closed. His violet eyes flicked to Arkas. At first wondered if this was something of a recall from his father, and the prospect filled him with dread. He like how things were working out at Storm's End. He wasn't considered a man yet. Certainly things like marriage could wait until then at least. There was no running from the future however.
When the Storm Lord spilled the beans, the weight of that future was a little heavier than he thought. While it wasn't as bad to him personally, the prospect of the good king dying was dire enough. Transfers of power, the power to rule all the seven kingdoms of Westeros, were tenuous, especially with three able bodied sons. At the behest of Arkas, Naerys approached even closer and took the missive in hand. Eyes poured over the words but for a moment.
''A favor, my lord? To replace the Hand at this late hour... That is a monumental favor.'' The letter was sat back onto the table's surface, just as he found it. ''I take it you full well intend to repay this favor?'' As if he had to ask. It had only been three years but he knew the man at least that well. ''The final rites of a king, the king will surely make your hair turn gray, my lord.'' In the boy's opinion the master of Storm's End has been lucky to evade the wiles of age this long.
''What do you require of me? I am willing to assist in any way I can, Lord Arkas.'' Closing his eyes he dipped his head in a slight bow again, shallow and brief. ''I take it my discretion is expected at the very least.'' He wasn't a total a fool however. ''Though I am sure anyone in King's Landing or beyond that's of any import will already know of this.'' There was a short, nervous pause. Apprehension. ''Do you expect trouble? Will the sons war for that hideous chair?''
His cousins, all big and strong... Bigger than him. Stronger than him too. Any could decide they were more fitting than the eldest, though Naerys knew none as well as he might have liked. He was a half dragon. He didn't spend as much time with the 'pure' blooded Targaryens. Though if the youth was honest, he was fairly pleased with how things had turned out. To study under a man like Arkas Baratheon. To grow with a lad like Oisin. To confide with a girl like Aoife.
He prayed to all the Seven that it wouldn't change.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 26, 2017 12:33:43 GMT
"They will," Arkas concluded of all Naerys' question, the most important one: Would there be a struggle over the throne? Why else would the King call for a man such as Arkas Baratheon? He was a Hand for war, Lord Rykker had been a proper Hand for peace.
Arkas hadn't been in the capital for a couple of years. But Storm's End wasn't as far away from King's Landing as some other regional keeps. It wasn't as deep in the mountains as the Vale of Arryn's Eyrie. It wasn't two thousand miles up the Kingsroad in the vastness of the North such as Winterfell. Even then, Arkas would have had his ears in the capital. He wasn't a sly schemer with a network of spies but he did prefer being informed.
"It'll mean war," he re-affirmed.
Not in two weeks. Not in a month. Not a day after the King's passing. But if any of the heirs got to the throne with a crown, who would be able to stop their claim once they had seated themselves upon it? Perhaps the King had, in his final days, finally decided to pardon Prince Daeron, or he had finally decided to make Rhaegar his official heir. Perhaps he had also decided to right the wrongs of a society with the love of a dying father by entitling to Alysanne what by the laws of Westeros could not be hers as long as there was a living male heir.
It was cruel.
Princess Alysanne had been running her father's politics for years. Daeron and Rhaegar had only cared about the acts that brought glory and publicity - Alysanne had done the hard work of keeping it all together. Peace was harder than war. In war, there is only one direction. Forward.
"The Iron Throne is the key to the kingdom. Every outside force in the realm will concentrate upon it. It'll be like a surrounded city, King's Landing, cut off. With everybody coming for it. What do you recall about your lectures on siege warfare?"
The fate befalling besieged upon a wall's breaching was even more cruel than that of Alysanne.
Post by NAERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 26, 2017 18:32:58 GMT
Short and to the point, the lord didn't answer all of his curiosities, but he addressed the chief one, the most relevant. He wouldn't shield Naerys from the dread of the war that was coming. But he wasn't his father. That wasn't his responsibility. A stag charged head on he supposed. Wasn't that what he liked so much about Oisin? The boy swallowed hard at the prospect of war. Only the gods above knew how it would end.
The end might not be a sight he would see. His cousins and uncles were all much better fighters and probably better tacticians than he could ever be. What if his father demanded he pick a side? The thought of having to siege the very castle in which he stood and slay everyone within was a dagger to the heart. The venom of paranoid despair seeped deep within and was sheathed with indignant anger. Why couldn't the three just fight it out themselves if they all wanted it? Let the gods decide.
''War,'' he repeated raspily, some of the life gone from his voice. Despite squiring, the young dragon had only ever seen himself drawing steel in tourneys, in the spirit of sport and good fun. He had had to defend himself before, but war, outright war, that was a entirely different can of worms. Killing a few low life bandits was nothing compared to the hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands a war could lay waste to in just the course of a day. Naerys felt a little sick.
''Siege warfare?'' Violet orbs averted, flicking to the floor as he recalled all he had been taught or read on his own. His gaze refocused on Arkas as his brain relived the proper memories. ''If you know it's coming, best to stockpile foodstuffs and perishables from the surrounding farms. One can deny the enemy these resources by burning the farms and slaying livestock, but such a thing is hard on the smallfolk.'' Not that that would prevent it from happening if it was needed.
''Steps should be taken to harry the enemy away from constructing aggers or digging tunnels. Oil and fire arrows should be used to set siege towers and battering rams ablaze,'' he continued. ''Though of course if you have a superior force within your castle, best to just sally out and see them off.'' Those were the high points that came to mind, general tactics and strategies. A lot depended on the castle you were defending and the manner of enemy besieging it.
''My lord, do you intend to fortify King's Landing? Are not all those you suspect lust for the throne there within the Red Keep itself?''
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 28, 2017 16:47:46 GMT
"Jaehaerys will die soon."
Arkas reaffirmed, luring the boy's mind away from the literal details of scaling walls, rather to the predicament at hand.
"Every of his children has spited the king in one way or another. Daeron married for love, or some kind of duty. Either way. He tainted his bloodline. He hasn't been known as the heir apparent for years. But he was never disowned either. Does that mean he's still in the race? Prince Rhaegar will see it this way, Prince Daeron will see it that way. And as they're divided, so will be the lords."
Would King's Landing be truly besieged or had it already been infiltrated.
"Everybody loves the King. But the moment he dies, the realm will denigrate in threefold. The supporters of Daeron, the supportes of Prince Rhaegar, and the supporters of Princess Alysanne. She's been the true power in King's Landing for a while. Even though she is no male heir, does it matter in times of confusion?"
And if all people decided to make their candidate a king with a crown, they would eventually need King's Landing. "There are a million people in that city. From the slums of Fleabottom to the highest towers of the Red Keep. You can't break a Dornish horse while the Dornishman is coming for your wife."
Soldier wisdom from days of youth spent on the Dornish border, Arkas was sure they'd play their cards, but that was true for all the realm.
"I'll need muscle and brawn as my outside shield. But I need wake eyes and an even waker mind as the guard on the inside. For daggers in the night care not about armours, Naerys. You'll be the captain of my guard."
Any strong knight form the Stormlands was good with lances, but not with deception.
Post by NAERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 22:47:17 GMT
It stung to hear some of Arkas' words. When he mentioned that his cousin Daeron had 'tainted' the bloodline, it took some willpower to keep his face passive. The person that Daeron had married had been his father's sister, his aunt. The young dragon would have never guessed that the lord of Storm's End cared about such Targaryen trivialities, and perhaps he really didn't. Naerys wondered if maybe he was just stating how the king saw it, or how the kingdom saw it.
His grace had always done fairly right by the Summerhall Targaryens. That still didn't mean he didn't look at them with all the pity as one would look at a mangy dog in the depths of his heart, with all the painful disdain of looking upon lame dragons. It was hard to see his father as lame, or his sister, or himself. Still, non-Targaryen blood, anything less than the blood of old Valyria, was seen as a rot to the house. Had Arkas not felt the sting of such indignation when marrying his wife? That was a time long before his own.
His wounded pride, his aching rotten blood, aside, Lord Baratheon continued to explain the horrid situation unfolding in the near future. Who needed his frightening dragon dreams when you had wisdom and experience? His nightmares had never shown him anything so clear. So many heirs and yet sill everyone would clamor for a different one? If Arkas could see how foolish and destructive that was, why couldn't they?
Smirking at his lord's euphemism, the smile did not remain long when Arkas named him the captain of his guard. It faded for his mouth to fall slightly ajar. It wasn't a knighthood, but it was still one hells of an honor, more than he thought he deserved at this point. Times must have been dire indeed. The promise of responsibility in the face of his relative inexperience already caused the boy to feel weighed down. Wasn't it wrong to pin a dragon to the ground?
''I... uh...'' Perhaps as long as thirty seconds of silence and he still didn't know what to say. ''Thank you, my lord.'' The smile came back and he left out a singular, brief, raspy chuckle, an expression of joy. Father would be pleased and proud, he was sure of it. ''Wake eyes, and wake mind,'' he repeated. ''I shall pledge that you and yours should come to no harm so long as I can help it. What would you have me do to ready for the coming storm? Is there aught that can be accomplished at all?''
Despite the pride he felt, the certainty of Arkas' predictions made him think that the strife to come was indeed, inevitable.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Sept 6, 2017 11:14:47 GMT
Arkas noted his squire's silence. Naerys wasn't one to stagger, or so the Lord of Storm's End had come to think. People talked. It was the nature of mouths opening, and not just for breathing. Usually that didn't provoke such a silence, did it?
Regardless.
Arkas stood up, he left the study room behind and stepped through the heavy curtains that had silenced the roaring of Shipbreaker Bay below. Either he thought that Naerys' ears could still hear him or he knew that his voice could tame the storm, being heard regardless of the outside sounds.
"This fortress was built to defy the storm. They built it to defy the Gods. Since living memory, the waters in this bay heat up at the end of a long summer. The currents keep the cold waters of the ocean from mixing in. But the same doesn't go for the wind. The water becomes like s a fire. Cold winds on top, hot waters below."
Arkas paused, letting the waves roar.
"Storms are born."
There were no Gods involved.
"There is a reason you can make fire from a dry piece of wood. There is a reason why you can't make it from a drenched branch. Because water puts fire out, thus it doesn't burn. No matter the change of shape."
Once more did the bay roar. Storms brewing.
"And even with a thousand years of witnessing these storms rise, we can not tell the day upon which they rise. We only know they will come."
They had no way of predicting the attacks of their enemies. No way to tell of the threats that lay ahead.
"We can only rely in our defiance. Create a fortress that breaks the wind. Forge stone that will be the end of all storms."
He turned to Naerys.
"I've told you the value of a defensive position, haven't I? Let them assemble their plots and ploys. The stronger our guard is, the more people they will need to gather."
And that would give them away.
"Choose the same for yourself. You had no choice in being born this man or that man's son. People will always see you one way or another. Your choices define you, not your background. Waste no tears on happenstance you had no making in."
"Out with you. My wife will wake the castle up soon enough. I'll be on the road to King's Landing by then."
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