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 DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 19, 2017 2:53:14 GMT
With one last, heaving groan, Daeron rolled off of the small girl. That's what she was. A girl.
Reaching for a glass of Dornish red, the aging prince surveyed Morella Lannister's slender form now turned sideways in bed. Beads of sweat rolled from the bony ridge of her slender hips down her waist. She propped herself up on an elbow, golden hair flowing like the many rivers which fed the Trident. Still a girl and not a day older.
Her eyes still shone like the day they met, devious and playful. Morella always looked at him like she had some dark secret to share. And she did, for the last twenty-four years...or was it twenty-five? It was no small thing for a Crown Prince and the married Lady of a great house to carry on like this. It was certainly no smart thing, to be sure.
Daeron felt little or less toward anyone else in this world besides her. At thirty-five, he had been married, fathered a child, and served the Crown, but none of it mattered. In his youth, he imagined he could lead a life that would change Westeros. Walking the broken ramparts of Harranhall with his father, Daeron remembered the how the broken dream had stirred something inside. The stories of battle and dragons, fire and blood. He felt connected to the place. The spirits in the walls talked to him. While his father lectured him on the consequences of "men's lust for power," Daeron heard the voices of Aegon the Conqueror and King Maegor I, the whispered words of High Valyrian. He heard the roar of Balerion, smelled the acrid stench of men's flesh melting in steel armor. He even heard the screams of slaves dying under the whips of King Harren, saw the blood mixed with mortar dripping down the stones.
Though a boy, he felt no fear. The old stones were not a warning as his father said. They were a call, a call to struggle. Evil, like the evil of King Harran thrived because of peace and stability. It took the chaos of Valeria, the difficult journey to Westeros, and the burning of Harranhall by dragons to free the slaves. The old King Jaehaerys saw the Seven Kingdoms like the map in Dragonstone: roads to be improved, fields to be planted, and rivers to be fished. How could he not? A life spent between a bed and a throne was no life at all.
Daeron reflected on all this with Morella's head on his chest. They would lay like this for hours in silence, listening to each other's breathing and small movements. The time they had together was rare, so they spent it slowly.
"Is this all there is?"
He muttered the words in gravel tones, surprised to hear them aloud. Daeron was not one to be morose or melodramatic, and he hated himself for this openness. Something about Morella always exposed him, caused his well-established veneer to slip away. It was replaced by childlike despair at their situation and a longing for a world which could never be.
The last daughter to the late lord of House Tyrell, Morella knows nothing below luxuriant wealth. As the third golden rose of her group of sisters, she was raised to be cunning and politically savvy. Her new role as She-Lion of House Lannister bestowed upon her an ample opportunity to insert herself into the great game of thrones.
Post by MORELLA LANNISTER on Aug 19, 2017 19:13:19 GMT
How these nights seemed to extend outward forever.
She watched him silently, eyes alight with boundless energy. Her pupils shook in tune with the beat of her racing heart, smoothing the sharp edges of the world around them.
This form of liberation was very much like a drug for him, she knew. One he could never walk away from for as long as the two both lived.
Morella let the Crown Prince ruminate beside her, filling the intense quiet with her own inner musings. Her right index finger traced the translucent and shimmering skin of Daeron’s exposed chest, rising and falling with his slowing breath.
His frustrations always got the better of him. The part of their bond he treasured most was his ability to let go, to feel without fear of censure. He was a complex man, a son that hated his piteous father and an indifferent brother to his siblings.
Even though these attributions were apparent, Daeron Targaryen was still very much a mystery. Attempting to crack him had gotten easier over the years, but so many facets of his mind remained in darkness still waiting to be discovered.
She let the unraveling of his character happen on his own terms. Morella was in no hurry to learn. What she knew now was enough.
His break in the silence idled the tracing movements of her hand. She let her palm fall so that it rest gingerly upon his chest. Craning her head, the woman eyed Daeron thoughtfully.
”Is this all you wish for?”
She moved in closer, her nose brushing one of his cheeks as her lips moved to press a kiss upon it. To say she loved Daeron Targaryen would once have been humorous.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 20, 2017 3:47:38 GMT
"What I wish for, impossible things." Stroking the girl's hair, he let his mind travel to the future. A passed-over prince left to grow senile and invalid like some mummer's farce. Old princes and young kings. Or queens. What did his father have planned?
"I want the throne, Morella. Years I have suffered my father's disdain for youthful impropriety as if dragons should bow and make toasts and apologize for making our own way."
He felt redness creeping up his neck and found himself clenching and unclenching his fists. "My birthright is slipping away. Slipping through my fingers like sand. My one chance to change something. To...mean something."
Disgusted with himself again, he threw off the linens and rose out of bed. Pulling on a robe, he walked to the open balcony and leaned over the railing. The early morning light revealed the dark outlines of buildings along the western wall. A solitary bird had begun to sing, chirping fruitlessly to its sleeping friends.
The last daughter to the late lord of House Tyrell, Morella knows nothing below luxuriant wealth. As the third golden rose of her group of sisters, she was raised to be cunning and politically savvy. Her new role as She-Lion of House Lannister bestowed upon her an ample opportunity to insert herself into the great game of thrones.
Post by MORELLA LANNISTER on Aug 20, 2017 15:10:46 GMT
For years she bore witness to the great divide between the crown prince and the king of the realm. Though they shared blood, little else denoted the relation between father and son. Where Jaehaerys was a meek and oft overlooked diplomat, Daeron was a man of passion that yearned for glory and reform.
Dragons were not meant to be sitting ducks and no one attested to this more so than the man sulking at the window.
He spoke in a language far removed from the quarters they shared. Pining for answers where no answers could be returned. Morella longed to give him what he wanted but even her wisdom felt inadequate.
Morella sat up amidst the strewn linen, her figure bare and gleaming from exertion. She tucked golden locks of hair behind one ear as her eyes followed Daeron about the room.
”You will get the throne, my dear. All that is required is an understanding…”
She moved as she spoke, standing upright and crossing the room so that she could wrap her arms about Daeron’s waist. She rested her head on his shoulder, her lips close enough to his ear that she brought her voice down to an almost inaudible whisper.
”An understanding of what steps need to be taken to get there.”
Morella cooed. Her words were sweet to the ear though the message behind them was far more sinister.
”You are the firstborn, the Crown Prince. Your destiny lives beyond the doors of the Red Keep. And you will get there.” She spoke softly still.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 28, 2017 17:53:05 GMT
The naked flesh of his lover pressed against Daeron's back distracted the prince from his mood. Morella had the remarkable ability to shift his focus upon her at will. The words she spoke dripped with intent; the word "destiny" was soaked with the sweet emphasis Morella could wield so well.
"What steps do you speak of?"
Daeron knew what she was doing. He had been with a number of women, and all of them had a plan for him. All except his wife. Alura had bedded him in desire and took it upon herself to raise their child a lordling, but she had little interest in politics or manipulation. Or her husband anymore, he realized. She served him as a dutiful wife, but passion left their marriage the day Aerys went missing.
For years, Morella in equal parts seduced and advised the Crown Prince. Unlike the women before, Daeron found himself falling willingly into her traps. There was something grand in the scale of her aspirations for him. Although he knew Morella's heart was cold and unsympathetic to most, Daeron truly believed she held a small ember for him.
It was something in her eyes.
A softness came over her features when they were alone, and a small, honest smile replaces the smirk she wore in public. He knew she would never truly change. The girl was full of darkness and evil intent for the rest of the kingdom's citizens, but she loved him...
The last daughter to the late lord of House Tyrell, Morella knows nothing below luxuriant wealth. As the third golden rose of her group of sisters, she was raised to be cunning and politically savvy. Her new role as She-Lion of House Lannister bestowed upon her an ample opportunity to insert herself into the great game of thrones.
Post by MORELLA LANNISTER on Aug 29, 2017 18:51:55 GMT
She anticipated Daeron’s inquiry, turning him so that he faced her, so that he could see the great pools of blue in her eyes. Like the light of a candle bathing a dark room in soft gold, her gaze was one of warmth, of slow-burning passion.
A gaze that harbored sincerity and belief in the words that supplemented it.
”A wilting rose has no chance for revival, Daeron. The gardener, in hopes to save the beauty of the plant, plucks the bud and is celebrated for it.”
Her hand found his bristled cheek. She caressed it, eyeing the tiny scars and scratches the sat upon his aged skin. His flaws lent more beauty to his features. They made him seem so much more like a real man.
Admiring him as she did, she inched close, taking his face into her gentle hands. Lighting upon her toes, she placed a kiss upon his open lips, lingering there for a moment before retreating away. She felt him shudder beneath her.
Morella anticipated the planting of this very seed long before she spoke the words. Decades of knowing Daeron, of understanding him so completely that manipulating him could be done in the subtlest of ways yielded the suggestion still floating about the room.
She wanted to believe this was what he wanted, deep down inside. She wanted to believe it was not her own idea but rather an extrapolation of his own sinister desires. No one could say for truth.
”I can show you the way, my love. I can give you…”
Morella pressed her bare frame against him, her arms snaking themselves up Daeron’s broad shoulders whilst her lips breathed hot air against his neck.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 31, 2017 2:25:34 GMT
Daeron grew quiet. He turned from Morella wordlessly and walked to the hearth. The massive alcove had been unused for many years. Its grey stones were covered with layers of dust, and black embers molded in great piles from winters past. The brooding prince sat in an equally unused chair facing the fireplace and picked up an iron poker. Peered into the blackness, he used the instrument to disturb the ashes. Splinters and bark tumbled out of the hearth as pyramids collapsed. Daeron then used the tool to level the embers, an odd habit he had picked up during his time in the North. Long winters made even a young boy think. If only there was a winter now, long enough for him to discover what the path forward was, he mused.
"What WE want, Morella, is something the people will never accept. Even if one was to 'pluck' my father as you say, they would choose Rheagar or Alysanne over me."
Leaning back, he closed his eyes and tried to stop the throbbing ache in his head. Daeron hated schemes and plots. They made him restless. It was not his nature to be patient, but he had been waiting his entire life for the throne.
"How do we make our claim, my love? The question has never changed."
The last daughter to the late lord of House Tyrell, Morella knows nothing below luxuriant wealth. As the third golden rose of her group of sisters, she was raised to be cunning and politically savvy. Her new role as She-Lion of House Lannister bestowed upon her an ample opportunity to insert herself into the great game of thrones.
Post by MORELLA LANNISTER on Aug 31, 2017 2:47:44 GMT
She watched him leave her embrace, watched him return to his sulking by the long-dead bits of charred wood in the hearth. Her easy smiles soured into distasteful scowling at his downtrodden attitude.
In that moment, she saw Logan moping by the fire. The evenings she spent consoling her young son over trivial things made her somewhat of a pro at the sport. Did her lover wish to be mothered?
Morella stayed where she stood, eyeing him with a bit of frustration. Her pretty words fell upon unwilling ears, it seemed. No matter, if her sweet whispers could not drive the stake then she would resume her natural role as strategist to deliver it.
"Treat them with kindness until the very end. Make your intentions seem so far removed from your person that no man would ever consider them."
Her voice was not a song. The message rang with authority and the stern look upon her features mirrored the tone.
"The people love a show, Daeron. Give them one and then take what is yours."
Silence. Morella sat upon the edge of their shared nest, her eyes never leaving him. The rueful rose stirred once more.
"Burn the fucking thing to the ground if you have to. Start anew. The Red Keep is no stronghold for a true king."
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 31, 2017 4:02:48 GMT
They're not just an audience.
Daeron had seen his father's subjects at their worst. He smelled the stench of Flea Bottom, watched the filthy beggars ply their trade, and slipped on the rivers of shit which ran through the streets. Executions of murderers, rapists, thieves and blasphemers across the Seven Kingdoms, riots when the water went bad, and slaves smuggled to Dorne to die in the mines: the world seemed full of toothless idiots sometimes.
But Daeron knew the other half of people. The beggars who shared their last bite of bread with each other, the fishmonger who saved Rhaegar from drowning in the bay as a boy, and Alura, who labored endlessly against the ridicule of court opinion in defense of Aerys.
Morella had little regard for the weak. He saw from his chair her expression had turned to scorn. Although her words were wise, they dripped with accusation. This was the key to her seduction, he realized. The carrots she offered were to be savored, but so too was the strike of her stick.
A broad smile widened across Daeron's face. There was something adorable about his mistress once understood. The games she played were serious, but they were still just games. Attack, retreat, parry, then repeat again. On and on the wheel turned, but Daeron never tired of watching it roll.
Dropping the poker, the prince rose with a chuckle.
"I'm afraid my dark mood has finally infected you. You give sound guidance, but your former suggestion is the superior. We must not let bitterness cloud our moves, Morella. One misstep from such a height would end us."
Moving back to the balcony where she stood, he wrapped her in his arms. Pulling the lioness' hair behind her ear, he spoke softly.
The last daughter to the late lord of House Tyrell, Morella knows nothing below luxuriant wealth. As the third golden rose of her group of sisters, she was raised to be cunning and politically savvy. Her new role as She-Lion of House Lannister bestowed upon her an ample opportunity to insert herself into the great game of thrones.
Post by MORELLA LANNISTER on Sept 7, 2017 1:19:13 GMT
Morella’s stern and abrasive manner of speaking melted at the first sign of Daeron’s new joviality. Sapped from her system as quickly as it formed, she corrected her impatience.
”Forgive me, my king. You are right in calling out my short descent into nonsense. We have roles to play. I cannot forget.”
The caress of his hand brought with it a softening of her person. Morella offered a warm smile and a caress of her own, tracing the nape of his neck with a thumb.
”You will reign. I will show you how.” She affirmed, her smile changing ever so slightly to reveal sly intentions underneath. Morella breathed.
A path opened before the two of them. One shrouded in darkness. If they dared embark, the route could fulfill all of their wildest dreams. The route could also get them killed.
Born a rose, raised a lion. Morella Lannister looked down this phantom path and saw only destiny. Every step trodden beforehand was to lead her to this very journey. Her hand dropped and instinctively intertwined with Daeron’s own.
This was not her fate alone.
”Tend the garden. This comes first and foremost.”
The hand not swallowed by Daeron’s came up from her side. She extended one slender finger and then another.
”Harvest the fruit.” Morella stepped in closer, her hand squeezing his. ”We must paint you as the slighted hero of this narrative. We must shine a foul light upon your father’s counsel and sow loyalties through injustice. I do believe we can manage.”
The third finger unfolded from its place upon her palm.
”Stake a claim.” Her hand moved to his face as she still clung to him. Her thumb would spin circles onto his temple lazily, soothingly.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Sept 14, 2017 18:36:48 GMT
As Morella's nail traced his furrowed brow, Daeron stepped back from the balcony. A hand placed on the small of her back brought the girl with him. As they moved together toward the bed, the now calm prince began kissing his lover softly.
To many men, war meant fear, suffering, or murder, but to Daeron the word meant honor. It meant the restoration of Targaryen glory and the fulfillment of his family's destiny. The idea made his soul burn with anticipation. As the pair tumbled back into bed, he realized Morella must know what other effect the promise of battle had on him.
The first night they spent together the taste of blood had been wet in his mouth from Rhaegar's blade. The Princes' Quarrel, as the singers called it, brought years of tensions to bloom. The heads of all the great houses had borne witness to the shameful duel. Jaeherys had suggested a joust to preserve the dignity of the family, but Daeron would have none of it.
"To the death!" he had declared before the Iron Throne. "Dragons do not fight with lances and shields, only fire and claw. If my brother wants to feel the flame of my fury, I will oblige him."
The duel was fierce, but it was the spoils of victory which Daeron recalled most vividly. Many noble lords had proclaimed the prince rightful successor to Jaeherys, and an equal number of ladies approached the prince with promises of great dowries if he took a daughter in marriage. But proclamations and treasure had little appeal to the prince. He would never leave Alura, the mother of his child, for a bit of gold.
No, Morella's love was the true prize he won. Behind helmet and visor, Daeron had watched the golden rose throughout the entire duel. She studied the swordplay with great intensity. He found himself anticipating Rhaegar's moves through her reactions. A planned lunge made Morella grind her teeth. Raised eyebrows meant his brother was poorly positioned. Daeron found himself more patient, more cunning when using her silent guidance. When his brother, beaten and bloodied finally signaled defeat, it was her cautious look that made Daeron show mercy. Mercy.
What a foreign concept it had been. To Daeron, everyone paid a price. The price of his brother's arrogance was blood, but Morella had shown him a different path. In her chambers that night, as Lord Lannister slept the sleep of the poppies beside them, Morella gave the prince his prize. Daeron found only her body sated his bloodlust, only her wisdom tempered his rashness, and only her love saved him from despair.
Their bodies intertwined like snakes, writhing and lashing out from the sheets. Like a great molting monster, two animals were again reborn as one.
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