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 SAERA TARGARYEN on Aug 19, 2017 20:45:28 GMT
FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE KING'S FUNERAL
Saera Targaryen stood on the prow of the Sea Maiden, looking up at the night sky in wonder. The moon was full, and its silver light was so bright there was so need to light torches on the deck. In her studies, she had learned enough about astronomy to recognize the constellations. With her purple eyes searching the black curtain of the sky, she found the Shadowcat and the Sword of the Morning, the Stallion and the Crone's Lantern. The wind was pushing along their purple-sailed carrack at a gentle speed, though she secretly wished it would turn against them and blow them back to Braavos. Saera did not want to return to Westeros.
The sound of footsteps approaching her from behind made her turn, and Saera smiled when she saw her sworn shield, Ser Tristifer Thorne, walking towards her. Walking alongside him was the ship's captain, Gylleo Sorraris.
Tristifer was a handsome and honest young man that had been trained to be a capable warrior. He stood over six feet tall, had a defined jawline, dirty blonde hair, and sparkling blue eyes. He was the third son of Lord Thorne and in no immediate threat of inheriting his father's lands and lordship. Ser Tristifer's thirdborn inheritance which was why he had no reservations when it came to pledging his sword and shield in the service of House Targaryen. He had been placed as her protector when she left King's Landing seven years ago, but sometimes their relationship went beyond simple protection. He was very handsome, after all, and was only six years older than she.
Captain Gylleo was neither handsome nor tall, and his sunken eyes made Saera uncomfortable. Rather than possess the body of a seasoned captain, he had the physique of a man that commanded his sailors between mouthfuls of pastries. Standing next to Tristifer, Captain Gylleo was hideous and fat. It almost made Saera laugh seeing them stand side by side.
"My lady," the young knight greeted, bowing his head to Saera. The captain bowed his head as well, but said nothing.
"Ser Tristifer," she responded. Saera smiled and tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. "Have you and the captain come to look at the stars with me?"
Tristifer Thorne chuckled, his scale armor jingling in concert with his laughter. "I'm afraid not. The captain—"
"Can speak fer 'imself, lad." Captain Gylleo interrupted. He shifted from one foot to another, as if he was uncomfortable. "M'lady, I've come to report that we've been travelling in the wrong direction fer a day. The storm we cut through two days ago blew us off course."
Gracefully, Saera did not respond angrily or address his incompetence. "Than right our course, captain."
"Yes' m'lady. Of course. But..." Gylleo shifted his enormous weight again, his beady eyes darting from Saera to Ser Tristifer. He looked afraid, and suddenly Saera realized he was. There was terror in the captain's eyes. A cold chill ran down her spine. Tristifer seemed to realize this as well, because his body visibly tensed and a hand dropped instinctively to the sword on his hip.
Ever since word had reached the Iron Islands that the King's days had been numbered, Quellon Greyjoy had been planning - the Lord Reaper of Pyke was a dangerous man for his drive which equaled a lack of mercy. The lack of mercy made the sharpest sword in Lord Greyjoy's hands - the bastard of all bastards, the Saltblade of Pyke - such a dangerous tool.
Like a pack of dogs out at sea, it was blood in the water that attracted a shark. A shark, however, would not come if there was no blood. Saltblade didn't suffer this predicament, luckily, for he was both the drawer of blood and apocalyptic omen that promised rivers of crimson tides aplenty.
The sailors of the Princess' ship were right to fear the Lord Captain of the Ironfleet, there wasn't a more ruthless commander at sea. If only half the stories about the red-eyed man were true, then slitting one's throat at the sight of the Saltblade was the sensible choice. Everyone on that ship should have preferred ending their life instead of falling into the hands of this sadist.
The moment he saw vulnerability, he plunged his blade inside the wound and tore it out, not allowing for a quick death. He enjoyed seeing things die, desperately clinging to life.
The most worthy of foes overcame the calling of the Stranger.
Would there be any on this day?
Hopelessness incarnate for the Sea Maiden, not one Ironborn vessel surrounded her after a brief chase, but there were half a dozen longboats in ultimate vicinity. Even worse, from one end of the horizon to the other, black sails littered the surface of the Narrow Sea, like the checkered board of a game of Cyvasse. Half the Ironfleet had caught up to them. There was no escape.
Shouted orders made short work of the distance between the ship that led the small armada of black sails and the Princess' ride. Wood crashed into wood when ropes were connected ship-to-ship, one vessel pulled to the other. Once they were connected like twins, tightly pressed in a single womb...
There was a painful silence.
Then, a tall man jumped over the railing of both ships, the first to enter the Braavosi ship. He was clad in plate as crimson as his gleaming eyes, a tall sword swung over his back. There were a dozen daggers scattered all across his frame, and the biggest machination fit for ending lifes of all - that otherworldly gaze, gleaming like the Doom of Valyria - scanned the enemies for fearlessness.
There were only two promising candiates, Saltblade concluded. The Princess Saera - easily betrayed by features as out of this world as Saltblade's cruelty - and the knight by her side. The situation was tense. No doubt, Saltblade's air of twisted confidence did not make it easy upon the crew of the slave free city.
"Permission to come aboard."
If he had been a man capable of laughing, Saltblade would have laughed. But there was only a cruel sneer on his face that challenged cowardice. A single man, unable to bear the humilation or unable to control his instinctive fear, charged forward with a sound half yell and half shriek. Saltblade drew two daggers from between the folds of his armour, blades not rattling for they gleamed with a thin sheet of oil. Armed and ready, Saltblade ducked under the swing and threw the advancing man over his shoulder.
While the man landed on the deck of the ship, Saltblade marched on. The conclusion of his movement had him throw the two daggers. They stabbed into the exposed throats of the two men nearest to the Princess' knight, ending the one on the left and the one on the right in two synchronized gurgles of blood.
"Porkloin!" Saltblade demanded, stepping across the deck as it if were a stage. "I think this is the Princess. She's supposed to be of beautiful features. What do you think, Porkloin? Does she smell like a pretty Princess?" Saltblade wondered, his gloved hand cupping Ser Thorne's cheek for a lovely pat.
Certainly Saltblade was a twisted cunt, but his bravery was debatable, killing people that were being kept under control by crossbow archers on the surrounding ships.
But clearly, there was only so much knightly chivalry could stomach.
Hunger. If you could tell anything from a man such as Porkloin it was that he lived in a constant state of famished. Had to to be as fat as was. Lurking in the shadow of the captain's far more impressive physique certainly looked to be he his correct station, but he would rather be in the galley, stuffing his face with meat or mead. Alas, there was work to be done, a vessel to take. The murder to occur was the proper way, an iron price had to be paid.
Soon he would have gutted another cook and claimed the ship's kitchen and all its contents. Hopefully Saltblade wouldn't sink her before he managed to stuff his own plate armor with all the breads and meats it could stand. He would have it all and the cook's guts too if it pleased him. While they approached their prey, Porkloin was one the one's shouting orders, or more providing the crew with encouragement by way of threats of violence.
Once the fish was in the net, of course the captain surged right over the rail to the vessel. The captain always hit the enemy like a tsunami, and Porkloin was right behind him. While the bastard of bastards might have been quite graceful, the chubby sailor had never been one for acrobatics. He crashed like a wave alright, thudding onto the deck behind the captain in a heap of flesh and metal and releasing a poignant body odor. The sea wasn't a place for lively scents.
As he clamored to his feet like an obvious boob, a clatter drew the attention of his murderous gaze. The captain had generously thrown a little chum for his chum. Wasting little time, his sausage like fingers slipped an ax from the netting draped over his armor and his spun it through the air a short distance. Spiraling into the poor sod's face, the lard shark ending him rightly. Stepping over his still quivering corpse, Pork armed his hands with axes for the next knaves.
At his lord's query he stepped forewords again, piggish snout squinching as he took in the air. A stink of fear permeated it. The sweat of nervousness. The piss stains of cowardice. But among the craven aroma, there was something lovely indeed. If the sea was no place for lively scents, then such an alien thing would surely seem an obvious oddity to his nose. His beady shark-like eyes set upon the woman and he nodded with gusto, chubby cheeks ripping like a rough sea.
''Aye,'' he croaked hoarsely, ''like a regular spring flower, Saltblade.'' The teeny dark orbs looked over at the chief ironborn with genuine buffoonery. ''We plucken her?''
Post by SAERA TARGARYEN on Sept 4, 2017 0:24:30 GMT
Black sails. The shiver that ran down her spine earlier intensified. Saera had not felt real fear— fear for her life— in quite some time. If there were black sails on the moonlit horizon, then it meant they were being hunted like prey animals. Saera's pride was prickled by the thought of pirates trying to bring down a dragon.
"Captain, how long have you known about this?"
Again, Gylleo Sorraris shifted his weight from foot to foot. His fingers tightened nervously around his spyglass.
"A few hours, m'lady. I thought I could—"
Saera did not stop Ser Tristifer when he grabbed the captain by the throat and lifted him off the deck. Fat as he was, the knight's strength was enough to both stop air from reaching his lungs and raise him into the air. A few loyal sailors stopped what they were doing and crowded around, ready to defend their ship's honor.
"That's enough." Saera said, placing a hand on Tristifer's arm. The knight hesitated, but she saw the murder fading from his eyes. He was angry, and so was she, but killing the man would do them no good. Not when a naval battle loomed ominously before them. Ser Tristifer threw Gylleo to the deck, where he rolled ungracefully toward the feet of his sailors.
"You." Saera pointed to a younger man than Gylleo, nearer to Tristifer's age. He was built like a sailor should be, with broad shoulders and muscles defined by long hours of rowing and pulling heavy lines.
"Your name is Joros, is it not?"
"It is." Joros replied, stepping over his captain's unconscious body and giving an awkward bow.
"He is the captain's first mate, my lady." Tristifer growled from her side, eyes on the dark sea.
Saera looked from bristling Tristifer to Joros, then nodded.
"Not any longer. Joros, you are the captain now. Ready the ship for battle."
It was an hour before their pursuers would catch up to them. They had the advantage, being so far ahead, and Joros had every able-bodied sailor man the oars. Every man that couldn't fit on the oars was ordered to don their armor and arm themselves. Ser Tristifer took command of the men who would fight, going over battle strategies and rallying them for the bloodshed that was to come.
Saera took the time to speak with Joros. He was more educated than most sailors she had met, and even more importantly, he was Westerosi. Joros respected the dragon and listened to her command.
Tristifer came to her as the ships drew near, and she already knew what he was going to say, so she was prepared with a response.
"My lady, you should go below deck with the men. A princess should not bear witness to what is about to take place."
"Fire and blood, ser. That is what I am about to bear witness to."
Saera said it with such finality that Tristifer didn't even argue, but simply shook his head in defeat. He wordlessly drew both of the longswords on his hip and took post next to her. Saera did her best to look fierce and unafraid, but her pulse was throbbing so hard that her hand was shaking as she placed it on the hilt of her blade.
The men were gathered on the deck, armed with swords, spears, and bows, when the two ships were lashed together. Saera leaned against Ser Tristifer when the wood creaked and the two vessels smashed together. The looming threat of crossbow bolts trained on the crew prevented them from moving.
In the silence before the blood was to be spilled, Saera observed the pirates and their ship. Next to her, Tristifer was doing the same. Joros had a hammer in one hand and a shield in the other, and she could see there was something he wanted to say.
Whoever these pirates were, they were not unskilled nor were they inexperienced. This was a targeted attack; a calculated move that had been planned well in advance. Saera guessed the ambush was waiting for them between Braavos and King's Landing, but the unexpected storm had thrown the Braavosi ship far outside the trap. The pirates had probably been trying to find them for days.
Saera steeled herself as the lone man jumped from the shadows of his black sails to board their ship. The armor he wore and the confidence that he radiated, the Targaryen princess could only assume he was the captain. She watched as one of the sailors rushed him, and was quickly thrown over the captain's shoulders like a sack of flour.
Next to her, Joros opened his mouth to say something to Saera, but when he did so, a knife buried itself in his throat. She watched in horrified shock as he fell to the ground, choking on his own blood. Another man dropped to the ground next to Tristifer, dying in the same fashion.
Behind the captain, a hideous blob of armor and fat splashed on to the ship. The pig-faced man, appropriately named Porkloin, finished off the man that the captain had thrown behind him with a handaxe. Saera gripped the hilt of her blade tighter. She wanted to grab Tristifer's hand and feel his warm fingers intertwined with hers, but they both had weapons in hand, and both of them were ready to die fighting if necessary.
"I am not a flower to be plucked, pirate." Saera said, taking a step forward into Joros' blood and turning to face the captain. She glared at the man's cruel face, refusing to show fear. "I am the blood of the dragon, and you will regret killing my men."
Saera didn't even bother addressing the pig-faced man. He was unimportant, a buffoon and a lackey.
"No one else needs to die." Saera continued, her purple eyes wandering to the pirate ship and the crossbowmen that were aiming at her crew. "You have come for me, not my people. Spare their lives and take me."
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