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 MAEKAR BLACKFYRE on Aug 23, 2017 6:43:08 GMT
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[attr="class","likedoinfo"]King's Landing was the second biggest city in all of Westeros. Old Town would always be older, but in a few years, the city upon the shores of Blackwater Bay would be the bigger one. For generations, the poor of the kingdoms were drawn to the scraps that might fall off the Iron Throne and the accumlation of nobility. In that filth, they were breeding.
Just outside the city, Maekar stood tall, a table infront of him, roofed by his tent in the tent city of his mercenary company's army camp. Not a few months ago, and upon the table there had been armies, deployment plans and supply routes, when the Golden Company had still been fighting in Essos, the disputed lands. But they had run dry. Of blood. Of resources. Of will to fight. An army of exiles, those whom had believed in Daemon I Blackfyre, had finally returned home. The remnants of a well-trained army, once upon a time ten-thousand strong, had sailed across the Narrow Sea, employed by the Iron Throne to keep the peace.
Although the figures on the map table infront of him no longer represented armies, there were real problems ahead. The King was fading, or had already shit his last shit. And the Hand was busy cleaning up the mess. Prince Maekar had his role to play, having been made responsible for the logicstics of the arriving Lords and Ladies. The Red Keep could house only so many, likely of the Great Houses. The rest would - like his battle-hardened men - have to sleep in tents - shadowed by the city walls. At least it didn't smell like shit in the army camp. But the people he had been dealing with all smelled like shit. He didn't like them. The stewards, guard captains and knights of high lords - they smelled of what they had been giving him. Did it occur to them that he couldn't just make the city bigger?
Having left Westeros during his rebellious youth, he'd been with the company a dozen years. Discipline was their quality, but they had been lacking dreams and possibilities. A year in Westeros, perhaps two - he would gather new recruits and reshape those dreams. House Targaryen could have Westeros. He would lead the heirs of Blackfyre back to Essos, to their home - the ruins of Old Valyria and the remnants of that powerful, world-spanning realm: Volantis.
But before there could be dreams of conquering realms, there was his duty. And a contract, was a contract. The commander of the Golden Company turned away from the table, opening the general's tent to look which person he would be dealing with next. Tall, rugged and wilder than the Westerosi princes of dragon blood, Maekar was known as the white lion for a reason. He glared, always, gleaming eyes knowing nothing but anger and bad mood.
William is a fair individual, neither particularly headstrong nor explosive, but simultaneously this leaves him isolated from many of his peers. He is somewhat silent, preferring to listen and to observe, rather than to place his opinions before he understands the situation.
Post by WILLIAM TARLY on Aug 30, 2017 15:25:17 GMT
THE PEACE
❝
SELLSWORDS, the lifeblood of a desperate situation, and the worst friends one could have when your back is against the wall. Sellswords were inefficient, poorly disciplined, lacked the same military strength of one's levies, and most importantly, outside of gold, they had nothing to fight for. There were no women and families they cared for in the homes of the defended, no relation between lord and subject, and no guarantee of success.
And yet the Golden Company has existed throughout all these years, with little to no stain upon its contractual obligations. The new Master of Laws did not understand why the Lord Hand had acquired them, as a military man himself, he knew the difference between a well-disciplined platoon of men and its importance of morale. And even if the Golden Company's success ratio was high, there was doubt in his mind.
That was why he was here. The security of a foothold was only as strong as its weakest areas, and if the council were not careful, an unseemly sellsword company would cause more problems than any potential threat to be. The tents of gold and the vulgar displays of wealth, already beginning to be picked by the poor looking for a fortune, had troubled some of the sellswords.
Despite the fact that he had doubled the guard to prevent pickpockets, the desperate would be willing to do anything to survive. After all, what was the worth of one leg, one hand, one severe wound, at the opportunity of being able to feed themselves for life from some jewel encrusted dagger?
The sound of metal rings sliding against a wood beam indicated that the sellsword captain was ready to speak. "Lord Maekar." He greeted, as his men formed rank behind him as he stepped into the tent. The general of the company chose less to do with gold, and more to do with practicality, it seemed. Something that William respected.
"I was told that your men had concerns about the given location in which they were asked to stay on, outside of King's Landing," William spoke, he had received ten cases the past week on thefts within the camp. As he observed the interiors of Maekar's tent however, the topic of his discussion changed to eye the trandemark folded patterns of a type of sword he knew all too well. "Nice sword. What is it named?"
Post by MAEKAR BLACKFYRE on Aug 31, 2017 1:08:55 GMT
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[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Perhaps it was Lord Tarly's fortune that he didn't understand the situation. He had a keep and a family name. He had never been homeless, on the run or an exile. While the founders of the Golden Company could certainly be blamed for their own predicament - they had fought, and they had lost - it was what it was. Not a perfect situation. A life on the road. Uncertainty.
The officers carried a lord's random on their fingers in jewelry, a golden ring for each year of service. Maekar carried rings himself, a chain around his neck, even though it was more humble of a design; thirteen rings of dark iron draped over his chest. Golden lines ran through them, like lifeblood in a blackened body.
Maekar took notice of the Lord travelling with personal guard, but he had heard of House Tarly from his father often enough. Those with broken dreams liked to ramble on. "Prince Maekar," he insisted, letting the tent come to a close. Daemon I had claimed to be a King.
Aenys had been a Prince, thusly. And the Iron Throne had done well to recognize the special standing of their former enemies. Otherwise they would still be warring. Even though, it was nothing but a hollow name and a hollow title. His family was further away from the line of succession than the pick-pockets of Fleabottom.
What to tackle first? The problem? Or what bonded the two soldiers?
Maekar was grim man, but certainly not unaware of the concept of diplomacy. The harsh-looking sword resting on a carrier in the corner of Maekar's armoury section had been his ransom. It was a Westerosi broadsword, forged in the shape of a savage curve. A design spanning both sides of the Narrrow Sea, it belonged with the Golden Company. "Bittersteel."
Turning from the Tarly, Maekar patted another stack of letters. There were even more complaints to be had, it seemed. But that wasn't Maekar's problem, was it? He had gladly sent them along. "My men don't have a problem with not entering the city. The whores come out at night," he revealed in lacking tone, but he had grown up in soldier camps. What about the Tarly? He didn't seem too pristine himself.
"The problem of my men is that they cannot dispense their own justice against pick-pockets that are poor enough or stupid enough to try. Every time we catch a trespasser, we have to hold him until the city watch arrives. It's not like they mind doing the flogging themselves."
Nobody cared about the lowlives. Could justice protect those that broke it? Maekar could see both sides of the coin. "Every day crime, let my men handle it, capital punishment, we'll hand to your men."
William is a fair individual, neither particularly headstrong nor explosive, but simultaneously this leaves him isolated from many of his peers. He is somewhat silent, preferring to listen and to observe, rather than to place his opinions before he understands the situation.
The tent housed a fairly surly looking man, in his twenties to mid thirties, with trademark valyrian hair and a consistent scowl that looked as if the world had wronged him. Perhaps the world had wronged him, but that was not for William to judge, what mattered was that the sellsword captain was a professional, a rarity in such a field of work, and one that was commendable.
"My apologies, I cannot call you that." Had he been any other type of royalty, he would have ceded his opinion. But Maekar was a Blackfyre, a rebel, a man who went against the crown of House Targaryen, one in which he had sworn to serve and protect its lands. To say that he was prince was... well, it was nothing, but William put stock in such things. "Not yet. But perhaps, Bittersteel will bring the title to you one day."
William nodded to the Prince's assessment. He had heard as much and Maekar's words neither sugarcoated, nor exaggerated, it was just the pertinent observation. "I agree, being unable to handle these matters would cause problems." William responded, placing a thumb to his chin as he thought on this matter.
"I may be able to help you by createing a contract for you to be able to mete out disciplinary action with a limited level of discretion as the city guard." William met his eyes with Maekar's, "But to be frank general, I do not know if your men's capacity to discipline is as famous as your reputation. If I do this, it is because I trust your judgment, rather than because it is easier for me. Even in corporal punishment, there is much that can be abused, what options would be acceptable, in your opinion?"
Post by MAEKAR BLACKFYRE on Sept 1, 2017 20:25:50 GMT
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[attr="class","likedoinfo"]"The Blackfyre Rebellions have ended, Lord Tarly. House Targaryen came out the victor. My father brought House Blackfyre into the realm before I was even born. He just forgot to bring the men with him that served Daemon Blackfyre. Aegor Rivers rallied them in the company. These are the sons of loyal knights. They were just loyal to the wrong King," Maekar argued, able to become quite furious. But the Tarly had behaved himself to a polite degree, causing Maekar to lose his tone of aggression quickly enough. Perhaps it had just been passion for the plight of his men.
"House Tyrell declared for Daemon Blackfyre, did they not? They are your overlords. So tell me what an oath of fealty is worth, then I'll tell you what the Golden Company's word is worth. Lord Tyrell arrived late. That could have changed things. But a hundred years can change a lot of things."
The company had suffered over the years. Once ten thousand, the sons of exiles and traitors had been riddled down to two-thousand, perhaps a couple hundred more. They were still skilled soldiers, but there was enough Essosi blood among them. Exiled soldiers hadn't brought their wives. And in the span of two to three generations, the ranks had been filled up with not just the sons of knights. Regardless. They had all been drilled under the same golden skulls.
"The way I see it, my men are here to defend the outskirts of the city. It's a show of force, if anything. I didn't come here expecting hard fighting. You're handling city security from within. Goldcloaks and Golden Company shouldn't mix. Your duty is to the Iron Throne, mine is to my men."
What was he supposed to tell the Tarly? That everything was going to go smooth and perfect? He couldn't. Like he couldn't tell his men that they had to give dispensing justice to the power of another. Honour and their pride was all they had left after years in the dust of Essos. At the end of the day, gold meant nothing.
"It's my army camp, Lord Tarly. I've never had a problem with discipline or punishing those challenging it. You shouldn't challenge a defensive position if you're not prepared to fight a bloody siege for it," Maekar glared, speaking not in threats but in the terms of soldiers. What motivated the man from the Reach to even come out all this way? Perhaps he was the kind of man that couldn't be bought, following principles over gleaming coins.
In the end, it wasn't about what Maekar wanted. Trust was earned. Even though he styled himself a Prince, Maekar had learned long ago that the world didn't give him what he wanted if he just kept on crying for it. He had to work for it. "Dispense my men as you see fit. Respect their self-governance. We serve at your command. In time, you'll see our word is as good as gold. Then we won't have to have this conversation again, Lord Tarly."
William is a fair individual, neither particularly headstrong nor explosive, but simultaneously this leaves him isolated from many of his peers. He is somewhat silent, preferring to listen and to observe, rather than to place his opinions before he understands the situation.
Post by WILLIAM TARLY on Sept 2, 2017 14:44:22 GMT
THE PEACE
❝
"There is no marginal value for what an oath of fealty is worth, or any pledge for that matter, that does not carry with it the consequences by which we are all bound to, General Maekar." William replied.
"That is why men pay you their livelihoods in physical value. It is because the Golden Company's word is one's bond, it is the value that is intrinsic to the nature of your person. And certain people are worth far more than others, that is why you have been hired by our Lord Hand."
In which case, he had answered as to why he could trust the Prince to handle the affairs of discipline. Because the contract of war between his Warband depended upon the professionalism on which they staked their livelihoods upon. Their livelihoods, with their weight worth in good will.
Nodding to himself, William turned towards the Prince. "Excuse me for a moment." He walked out of the tent towards one of the guards, who took out a contract, already pressed with a seal. "This writ allows you and your captains to capture, detain, and prepare punitive measures for any civilian that commits the crime of theft, arson, or violence without a permit that enters into your camp."
He passed the parchment towards Maekar. "Conditions being that punitive measures do not involve fining or the removal of any goods save that of your own company's, and furthermore any punitive measures do not include capital punishment, severe wounding, dismemberment, or violence in which may hamper or permanently prevent said civilian from performing their profession." William paused, he was certain there was no need to read it, but still, it was required of him to do so.
"Any infractions upon this writ will immediately nullify the conditions by which this was written, and all those responsible shall be entreated to by the customary traditions and lawful practice of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, under acting authority of Lord Arkas Baratheon, Hand of the King. Signed, William Tarly, Master of Laws." He cleared his throat.
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