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.
His Grace’s wake had all but concluded, nonetheless, dawn waited for no man.
Footfalls carrying the wolf a safe distance behind lord Greyjoy, Jeren observed from afar.
The events that tarnished his grace’s funeral seemingly erupted from the man before him. Brutish in stature, a wealth of intelligence was hidden behind the eyepatch. The lineage of his people became beggar tales, but a wise men knew that he knew nothing. Gaining lordship was a feat of circumstance; maintaining one’s hold was a consequence of stratagem. It took talent to lead, nonetheless, talent soon failed if one didn’t possess skill. The median of it all was known as wisdom, and Jeren felt such a quality was held in abundance by the towering epitome of strife.
Which begged the question: why nearly rally the kingdom’s to war during such an inopportune moment? The contents of the conversation with his son were blurred to the Stark, however, the answers wouldn’t be found in the Great Sept.
As Cassius handled whatever befell him at the Sept, Jeren pursued lord Greyjoy. Following him, while not ideal, served as the greatest method to gain some insight to his thinking and patterns. Hopefully, the wolf wouldn’t become the cattle. THE REAVING KING
Last Edit: Aug 22, 2017 19:57:52 GMT by JEREN STARK
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 22, 2017 20:05:45 GMT
Every step that Quellon took through King’s Landing seemed to be a horn summoning Ironborn men; they crawled out of alleyways, stepped out of buildings, and joined together to form a massive mosh of axe-wielding scum. Gold cloaks watched with wide eyes and sweaty hands on clubs; commoners hid away, scurrying out of the hosts’ path.
And then it stopped.
Dozens of gathered men stopped in their tracks, turned around, and began stepping to the side.
Unfolding before Jeran Stark was the Lord Reaver of Pyke, Quellon Greyjoy. And he was staring at the heir like how a shark did a seal—emotionless, hungry, uncaring.
No words were passed. If he wanted to say something, he would step forward to do so.
Swarming from every crack and crevice of the Kings Landing corridor, Ironborn materialized. Bearing blade and axe, the savage sea-people rounded indiscriminately, closing off sight from their leader and his pursuer. Nonetheless, such a barricade was transitory as an aperture formed from the brook of bodies, revealing the towering man once more.
“Lord Greyjoy,” proper respects were paid to the man who held the designation of ‘lord,’ regardless of sensitivity to his origin or lore. Upright was his posture as orbs of citrine penetrated the past and settled upon his person of interest. Quellon’s men did well to intimidate the common folk, nonetheless, the Stark revealed not a modicum of fright. Beyond being a capable warrior himself with Scarlett to his side and Dyzun not too far off, the politics of King’s Landing was one of imperial partiality. His surname allowed allotted for refuge at every corner until the crown deemed otherwise. With each passing moment, guardsman would inevitably encircle from the commotion alone.
Calm eyes did well to betray his internal conflict of caution. While his location was ideal for protection, he was wise enough to realize plans were subject to failure. “May we speak in private?” his inquiry was as direct as the approach Quellon’s men took in battle. Standing motionless, the young wolf faced the kraken with the pride of the north soldered into his very being. Prepared to react in all forms required, the young man hoped his subsequent actions would be one of peace and not bloodshed.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 22, 2017 21:43:49 GMT
“No,” Quellon said. “We may not.”
He walked forward, each step slow and measured. His eye was dark, his head hunched, his shoulders broad. He was a giant of a man, a mountain, a monster, an Old God walking in the world of the new.
He loomed over Jeren. There was nothing more than a foot or two between them.
“What does Lord Stark’s son want with me?”
Quellon had no respect for the boy. No Ironborn would respect the son of another man that was unproven and untested. His lineage meant little, his name meant less. If Jeren Stark wanted an audience with the Lord Reaver, and a private one at that, he would have to bare his fangs to get it.
A lesser man would have trembled at his stature alone. A mountain, tales around Westeros plaited from the man’s shoulders to his gigantic height etched fear into many. This, coupled with the fabled iron fleet said to surmount the very seas themselves made Quellon a man both to be feared and respected. Jeren teetered towards the latter more so.
“An explanation,” directness would be met in kind. A king who ruled with fear only knew vacillation. His mettle was tested quotidian and the slightest hint of vulnerability opened maws for other to challenge his claim. His hardened expression and ironclad vulgarity weren’t qualities of identity ,but of necessity. The wolf found no pleasure in crippling his masquerade with unneeded antagonism.
Peering up towards the Reaver, Jeren locked stares. “Why challenge the crown? What purpose did it serve you?” face-value was a charming notion; many saw what they wanted, but few knew what existed beyond the surface. Quellon was a shrewd individual and resembled a fox more than a kraken. So what did a man who favored literature come to gain from provoking an unrest at the king’s wake? Surely, he anticipated the results and knew his life and credibility would be jeopardized. He came from the iron islands, but his mind was one of the citadel.
He remained stern, peering at the juggernaut before him. Surrounded by a sea of his own ironborn, why did the salt king appear so remote?
Last Edit: Aug 23, 2017 0:07:38 GMT by JEREN STARK
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 23, 2017 1:37:19 GMT
“A stupid question.” Quellon looked around the street they stood in. His Ironborn watched, some with interest and some out of boredom. Commoners were gathered behind armored Gold Cloaks. The stench of piss filled the air, the rank of shit, the claustrophobia of tight stone buildings and vomiting drunkards. “Because this kingdom is a ruin.”
Quellon looked back to Jerren. “History teaches a man many things. It teaches him that civilizations are cycles and that all things repeat themselves. It teaches him that some men break that cycle and start a new one. One built on the ruins of the past.”
With one long, gnarled finger, Quellon pointed to the Red Keep. In there, the royal library was kept.
“Nearly 300 years ago, the cycles of every kingdom in Westeros were melted into one. Now, that forged iron cracks. I will not let the Islands rot away. Read your histories, and neither will you.”
Most expected Quellon to ignore or swat away their questions, or to give answers straightforward and simple. But Quellon was no hypocrite—he had studied, and he had learned. Many enemies could have had their swords sheathed had they only knew what the other side was thinking.
Quellon Greyjoy thought that the era of the Iron Throne was over. Now it was time to see if this northern boy would take the Lord Reaver’s wisdom and use it to learn the same thing on his own.
Despite the gap in age and assumed fissure in acumen, Jeren remained in complete control of himself.
“But why there? You were invited to the council meeting and have had enough influence to speak so openly on other occasions,” The wolf wouldn’t allow the true gist of his words to drown under the Salt King’s slighting language. His full height was dwarfed by the reaver, still their egos remained even at their pinnacle. Quellon would not garnish the same fear from the Stark that he stole from his people.
“Why today? Why during his Grace’s wake?” A true student of history Quellon was, and yet he made the same fated error many had before them. His words, devoid of dishonesty, were encrusted in catastrophe. The passion he shared for the world and this ‘broken cycle’ was the same force that inspired men to rebel before. The tilting of one scale inevitably knocked another over, and the controlled chaos he once orchestrated would spread like wildfire until it consumed all. His message was well-intended---it’s legitimacy or purity still to be determined—but his delivery was poor. How someone said something and when they did was just as important as what they had to say.
“You knew well your words would stain his grace’s funeral and sour everyone, yet you did it all still,” If the threat of Dark Sister wasn’t evidence enough, the fact Quellon did little to alter his perception in the eyes of other should be as palpable.
“Your message could have easily been lost under the emotion you inspired… some would argue for the worse,”
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 23, 2017 23:35:22 GMT
Jeren was young, and Quellon did not begrudge his naiveite. When he was in his twenties, he also thought the older generation was composed of fools and their needless agitations. But then he returned to the Iron Islands with his children, and the history of the world made itself clear to him.
“Behind closed doors, in the sanctum of privacy, lords hide their weakness.” Quellon looked at Jeren. It was not the look of a reaver or an enemy—it was the look of a maester or, perhaps, maybe even a father. “They will lie about their plans, make schemes under their breath. They will act as if they are still mighty. As if they deserve to rule.”
Quellon’s eye scanned the crowd. He looked at his gathered Ironborn. These were men that had chosen him as their leader. Though it was by blood, it was might and intelligence and graciousness that allowed him to keep his seat.
He took in a deep breath. “You see me as needlessly antagonistic. One day, you will learn that rot must be burnt out, not prayed away.”
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]The city guard couldn't be expected to bring justice to the walking, one-eyed demon. It took men of true nature, formidable and furious. And Lord Greyjoy had invited chivalry and honour to chase him down with his behaviour at the dead king's funeral ceremony. But truly, the gathering of young knights had formed before this day. Edyn Tully's rage had been building for a couple of years, ever since his father had disrespected the memory of his mother for some Northern freak.
The Greyjoy wasn't alone, having met with one such Northman. Perhaps it was fate that Jeren Stark had to get caught up in the machinations of the young Tully. It couldn't be helped, and it wasn't as though he had any love for the fellow boy. Leading the young knights of the Riverlands through the streets of King's Landing, their lances threatened the Greyjoys, driving the mob apart with the onslaught of their hooves-carried assault. No sane man would stand into the path of a horse bred for war.
Edyn drove his black stallion to the heart of the street, his comrades separating the snake's head from the body by forcing them away, then shaping a wall of bodies made of armour, horse and men. All those that resisted would face the mounted knights' wrath. None were so foolish. Yet.
The son of Lord Stark would recognize the son of Lord Tully, there was no doubt about. They had become a family when Jeren's sister had been married to Edyn's father. But considering how close the two young men were in age, wasn't that the biggest mockery of all? Still upon the might of his horse, Edyn lifted his visor to greet the Greyjoy with a sneer.
"Lord Greyjoy, I'm glad that I still caught you."
In the streets of King's Landing, the fury of a group of young knights was about to collide with the reaving axe-wielders. For the Riverlanders, it was a natural fight, for they had been cutting down these ravaging cruelties for a thousand years - even longer than that. Even though they claimed to follow the King's peace, there was always one Ironborn or another that took to the closest coast off the Iron Islands - and that had always been the Riverlands. Just like those raids on the coast, this wasn't a sanctioned attack by the Lord of Riverrun, merely a man taking fate, justice and the order of the world into his own hands.
"They call you the reader, don't they?" Edyn dismounted in a fluid motion, not as tall as the beastly frame of that mountain of a man. But he was not lacking height for his build. Lean and agile, the Tully carried no shield, but a greatsword on his back and an arming sword at his side. He was in black plate and scales, armour that seemed to fit his rashness and bravado. From the folds of his flaming-red cloak, he withdrew a book and tossed it toward the follower of the Drowned God.
"It's the Seven-Pointed Star. For your consideration, my lord." Turning to the Stark, passive-faced but iron-gazed, the Tully had only disdain for the bystander. He needed to leave. "Do like your sister, Stark. Turn around and bend over when a Tully is on top of you."
It was an explosive triangle, framed by a circle of knights, which itself was being surrounded by the the Greyjoy's guard.
“The bravado your speak of still existed today, Lord Greyjoy--- even before the bed of his late grace,” they had come to n gridlock. Where Quellon saw his approach as dynamic, Jeren only viewed pandemonium. The tamed environment the Stark suggested, nonetheless, only held denigrations in the eyes of the Reaver. A compromise wouldn’t be established so long as their perceptive remained so distant. Still, the dialogue alone did well to serve some purpose. From their conversation alone, the heir apparent could feel the candor of his opposition’s words. While his actions seemed thoughtless, the purity of voice comforted him some.
“Diploma---” Before Jeren’s statement found conclusion, both thought and sentence was severed in town as the very ground trembled. Head turning, citrine hues focused to the distance as dust and mayhem paraded in their direction.
Tch,, the Stark looked on with calm eyes as the small army inevitably descended upon him. Horses and foot soldiers alike stormed onward, blockading the already modestly-wide passageway from the outside world. Steel and leather came in profusion as white mounts foretold the arrival of another house. The intense colors and imperial nature of the mail they donned only flattered suspicion as the wolf narrowed his sights on his crest: House Tully.
Edyn Tully, how long had it been? A leader to his fleet, Jeren knew him as a nephew to some extent. The marriage of his sister to the knight’s father presented great political gain for both sides, still the gap in age surely left sour tastes in some’s mouths. Still, his sudden onset was unexpected and flooded with rudeness.
Venomous words lodged in all directions, Edyn stood before the two, denigrating Quellon’s receptivity, and Jeren’s sister. “Using your tongue to malign your lady is the quickest way to see it severed,” A man was only as courageous as the army to his rear; the spiteful Tully held such an arrogance in abundance. Still, hand gradually lifting up, the Stark resting his palm on the hilt of Scarlett, statuesque in posture as he looked on.
Pinched between two forces, Jeren found himself encircled by forces unrelated to his own. The tully were ultimately encumbered by the Ironborn, which would ultimately be enfolded by the royal guardsmen. A caged wolf, the Stark stood alone as he kept note of his environs and readied himself as time would reveal the inexorable.
Last Edit: Aug 24, 2017 17:03:42 GMT by JEREN STARK
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 24, 2017 17:20:11 GMT
Quellon caught the book and threw it back to the ground without looking at it. In the shit and grime of King’s Landing, holy pages turned black.
“You’re a Tully,” Quellon said.
The Lord Reaver had no armor.
The Lord Reaver had no weapons.
The Lord Reaver had killed knights with less.
He did not move forward to dominate the young Tully. Quellon adjusted his feet, felt the water moving under him, let his limbs turn loose and fast—and prepared to fend off his assassins.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]These Starks, always as cold as ice. Like their land far up North. But ice melted against heat, and Edyn had righteousness on his side. Wasn't there a saying about Starks melting South of the Neck? But they weren't ice made of frozen water, they were human flesh, instilled with only a freezing attitude. And once that melted, the puddle would not be clear, but red with life. Or the lack thereof.
"Is that how you use your tongues up North? I'll swear to you, before the Seven. And before your Old Gods. That's now how your sister is using that tongue when she's sitting on the floor between the spread legs of my lord father."
Edyn eyed the sword. The Stark was armed, surely. The Greyjoy wasn't. But what they shared was that neither of them was dressed for war. Tully and his men, the young, the bold, the few, were outnumbered. But they were cavalry, on horses trained for war. All of them in plate and mail. Ironborn weren't warriors. They were reavers. The scum of the world. And Edyn turned to their Lord.
"You're right about that. I'm Edyn Tully, son of Edmund Tully and his wife of House Arryn. I've gathered the knights of the Riverlands and the Vale to bring you to justice for you crimes. I dare say that you've never raided the coast of the Riverlands. But you're the Lord of the Iron Islands, therefore you're responsible for the crimes of your bannermen. I'll deliver the King's justice to you. There being no King, I think we can save ourselves the judges and the jury. You'll defend yourself against my accusations by trial of combat."
Edyn drew the sword at his side. It was castle-forged steel, gleaming like a blade with purpose. He had cut down the savage mountain people during his time in the Vale and he had spent the last year on the beaches of Seagard, the shore of the Riverlands. The Ironborn were their own lords, as far as their ships were concerned. He was just the head of the sea serpent.
"Go on, Stark. Draw your blade, I'll consider you his champion. Either draw it for yourself or give him your sword."
The irony. Weak men using strong words to hide their insecurities. Deprecating the name of his lady and his men not defending her honor? Degradation couldn’t collect more substance before the old gods then it had now. Still, a hardened exterior changed not, and Jeren’s expression was devoid of conflict. Word alone wouldn’t push the man to draw steel, and a fool’s errand wouldn’t be committed by Stark’s heir.
“It must wound you,” Citrine orbs penetrated the battalion before him, circumnavigating the mounts, mail and steel that decorated a number of Edyn’s forces. “To know someone so young holds more power in your homeland than you,” Lord Tully’s son could spew the drivel he saw fit; it was his right. Still, so long as his father drew breath and Ashe remained his wife, the child was nothing more than a ancillary. His ascension would only come to fruition at the expense of others, yet his actions in King Landing on this day was more treasonous than noble. What was even more satirical was the gap on civility showed by the two bodies of power around him. Who would have thought one of Ironborn would supersede a Tully in grace.
Still, Edyn’s intentions were palpable. Garbed in the finest steel one could afford with a squadron to his rear, the man had come for bloodshed. His arrival at King’s Landing was without noble curiosity and his prey had been scouted since their inception. As Lord Quellon insulted to his rear, and the Tully, to his northern verge, Jeren found himself wedged between insanity and rage. A blade drawn, accusations spewed and a challenge issued, the wolf remained poised.
“Blood won’t be spilled today,” His words surely would fall upon deaf ears, still, some sense of civility had to be maintained. “And my sword will not be sullied by your absurdity,” As Scarlett remained at his palm’s discretion, the Stark grew more anxious. Edyn hadn’t come this far and declare war to leave empty-handed, and the Ironborn were of the most avaricious warriors known to Westeros. Conflict would ensue soon and while Jeren wanted to mediate, his life surely wasn’t safeguarded. If a battle were to ensue, he would be forced to lock swords, nonetheless, delaying would prove more beneficial at this point.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Since the Stark wasn't yielding his blade to the Greyjoy, he had made his choice. Edyn had been simple enough in his demands, hadn't he? He took a step forward, blade rising in a fluid motion.
"Show them that they're far from the sea. They won't dine in their God's hall tonight. Attack!"
Tempers high, fears getting the better of men - trained or not - it was better to be the first one to strike. It was an ancient law.
And the Tully knights did, letting their horses rise to face the ball of Ironmen that had begun to ensnare them. Breaking out while their young lord fought in their middle, the flower of knights bursted outward, crushing into the ironborn with hooves, spears and swords.
The street turning into the site of a bloody massacre, Edyn set out to draw noble blood himself, even though there was no nobility to be spotted. The time of meaningless talk had come to and end, which wasn't to say he couldn't further entertain himself.
"You're animals up North. Sleeping and furs and bonding with the mountain people. In the Vale, they're hunted. Like the lesser creatures they are. I don't think you side with them out of mercy. You can't feel mercy for yourself, your kin. You're an animal. All of you are animals."
As men died around them, Edyn fought like he talked, fierce and forward, hammering down blows into the Stark in order to thrash him aside and clear the stage for the battle with the One-Eye'd demon sailor. He was no raging berserk. But a curving current, willing to overpower the less-enthralled.
Tongue spilled intent for all to hear and the conclusion of his words ignited the cataclysm that would leak red into history from this day, until the end of days.
Stead and steel exploded to Jeren’s side as the Tully forces collided with the equally destructive Ironborn. At its inception, nothing but silence reverberated, nonetheless, as debris and blood eroded over the corridor, the Stark’s senses were drowned by the devastation around him. The collision of sword, the pounding of shields and the breaking of bones echoed for all to hear as the once congested street, filled with energy and commerce, swelled vividly with blood and brutality. The massacre in King’s Landing had begun.
His men marched first. Practiced steps allowed the boy to circumvent the first wave as the knights fixated their sights on Quellon’s squadron. Still, his skill was tested as Scarlett was summoned. A quick draw of the blade was the only opposition to Edyn’s strike, and the deflector of death to the Stark as his blade’s center resisted the descending blow.
“Are you mad!?” he shouted, a dual grip fortifying his strength and bracing his stance as the Tully continued to rain down strikes. Each blow forcing him back slightly, Jeren simply worked to defend as the battle-centered opposition attempted to make his way towards Quellon.
It was the best he could do for now as Cirtine eyes looked for any opponent in his carriage, in his technique. As the world seemingly crumbled around him, the Northerner readied himself for what was to come.
What had he gotten himself into?
Last Edit: Aug 28, 2017 18:42:48 GMT by JEREN STARK
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