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 26, 2017 7:27:29 GMT
The wake left Daeron in good spirits. He must be the only Lord in Westeros gladdened by King Jaeherys' death, he supposed. All the nobility present reflected on his father's peaceful reign with nostalgia. With good reason. For years their coffers had been full, their granaries had plenty, and their families had grown. But as Daeron walked down the steep steps, he saw the limits of peaceful prosperity. Beggars and orphans clustered the stairs, their cries growing louder as the Crown Prince approached with his guard.
Every morning, Daeron made this walk from morning prayers to the Red Keep. Although a small troop accompanied him, this was mostly for protection from assassins and thieves. The common folk adored the tall prince.
Daeron was known for his prowess in combat and by women the kingdoms over as the Dragon of Hearts, but the people loved him for different reasons. Daily, he brought a gift of coin and food to these steps as an offering to the Stranger. Rumors were Daeron had seen a vision of the feared god as a boy, a dream which sent him screaming down the halls of the Red Keep in terror. It would be the first of many such nightmares, but to this day he refused to tell even his closest companions what words the god whispered to him every night.
The devotion of the prince to such an unpopular figure added to his mysterious reputation, but the morning donations produced goodwill. These, combined with his refusal to abandon his half-blood wife even after Aerys disappeared, had transformed the cold prince in the people's minds into a folk hero and champion of the poor.
As he reached the last stair, Daeron heard a scream. Pushing his way through the crowds gathered at the base of the sept, the prince saw a group of North men in a circle formation with swords drawn. In the middle, Alira Stark lay covering her head. The crowd had become a mob, throwing anything they could get their hands on at the small band. Rotten fruits and vegetables flew through the air. Most missed and bounced on the cobblestones, but here and there a soft tomato or a glob of foul food found its mark.
"Cease!" Daeron's voice boomed and snarled like a storm through the courtyard. Arms froze, projectiles still in hands. All stopped and turned to look at the Prince and his dozen guardsmen. One by one, the common folk fell to the ground. Kneeling, then lying face down on the muddied stones.
Everyone knew their crime was punishable by death. Under Jaeherys II, even a foul word or slander spoken against nobility was rewarded with death by fire. No trial was needed to "uphold the King's peace," as the grim undertaking was called. Stakes dotted the cities and villages of Westeros, kindling left in tidy bundles at the ready for a careless servant or hot-headed milkmaid.
Fear lived in the eyes raised meekly from the ground to Daeron. Some began to cry from their prostrate positions, begging for mercy for their children's' sake or their wife's sake, or even for their own. But it was not his mercy to give. The law was clear; Alira would decide their fate.
Walking through the shaking bodies, Daeron reached Lady Stark. He held out his hand for her to rise. "Apologies, my lady. We have violated guest right and shamed this city. I trust you are unharmed?"
Although he said the necessary words, the prince was wary of Alira. A lady able to bring the wrath of such a crowd down on herself was unlikely to forgive those she enraged. Before affording her the right to the King's peace, he would know why they attacked.
Alira is the Lady of Winterfell, although her southern roots leave her with a bad attitude and sharp tongue. She cares for her children more than anything, and some people even suspect she may care for her husband.
The wake had started to get juicy, but before blades could clash and blood could spill, tension was severed by presiding nobles. What was the point in a wake, anyway? Celebration was the word everyone used, but Alira only imagined them celebrating their own impending doom. All of them would soon enough be cold sacks of meat on a stone slab. Were they celebrating that it was King Jaehaerys the Stranger had taken, and not them?
Alira would never know, but she did not particularly care either. For now, she would continue on with more political matters than pretending to be sad about someone she did not give two shits about.
Lady Stark's name was an infamous one in the South. The true story of why she wound up Lady of Winterfell was that her father sent her there as punishment for murdering that damned maester so long ago. Only her father knew what she had done, but even he could not prove it. Rumors had spread among Casterly Rock that Alira had forsaken her vow to marry a Southern lord -- a Targaryen at that. She had shamed her house and insulted the royal family in one fell swoop -- according to the scuttlebutt, of course.
"Lady o' Winterfell, too good for us southerners down here, eh?"
Alira truly had not even been paying attention to the commoners. Her northern escorts already seemed on guard at the first sign of dissent. "Excuse me?" she posed snidely, looking down at the woman who had spoken. To these people, Alira had denied the Crownlands Lannister money and insulted their beloved king by going against the marriage arrangement.
"How dare you show yer face at the late King's wake. You have no business here!" Tensions began rising, and other commonfolk started chiming in. Once those who did not know what Alira looked liked realized it was the Lady of Winterfell, the air thickened. Alira soon found herself encircled by her guards. And then fruit began to fly. For people who claimed to need money and help from the King, they surely tossed away food like it was of no consequence to them.
A figure emerged into the fiasco, and Alira recognized it as none other than Daeron. He was a familiar, pleasant face. One of the few Targaryens she shared commonality with via her children. The Prince was able to stop the crowd's jeers and abuse, leaving room for a moderately impressed Alira. "It would take more than soft food to injure me." She was a prissy woman, but tough nonetheless. She pointedly looked at the small crowd of people as she spoke. "I don't think your people like me too much here." A humored smile crawled onto her lips.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Sept 4, 2017 5:29:31 GMT
So this was the Lioness of Winterfell. The tale of the girl's banishment spread through King's Landing like wildfire. Many had called for her to be brought before the Iron Throne for treason, others for murder. Some maester, Daeron recalled. Or was it a hedge-knight? Perhaps that is what drove the people's rage toward the fair lady.
Rumors were just that to Daeron. Although the gossip of beggars was often more truthful than the proclamations of kings, the people tended to focus on licentious bits of information rather than the doldrum of politics. While the future of the Westros was being decided behind high walls, the rabble was content molesting a Lady of the North for scandal. "They don't like you because they don't know you."
Daeron admired the vim of the girl in the face of such persecution. Her pretty smile reminded him of Morella her cousin, and her salty reply made the stoic prince grin. She managed to look poised like a highborn lady while also maintaining the stance of a man breaking a horse. At any moment, she seemed both ready to curtsy or to slice the neck of the closest peasant. "Lady Stark, are you aware of the law of King's Peace? Since my deceased father was first crowned, he decreed all nobles have a right to justice from those guilty of slandering a highborn house." Daeron looked at the mass of peasants laying facedown behind him. Some were sobbing, others quietly prayed. "The harshest penalty the King's Peace allows is death, my lady. If you command me, I promise you we will enforce this penalty."
Daeron fingered the hilt of Talon as he made the promise. Surely the girl will relent.
Alira is the Lady of Winterfell, although her southern roots leave her with a bad attitude and sharp tongue. She cares for her children more than anything, and some people even suspect she may care for her husband.
The Lannister woman may have very well been a monster of a person and uncaring for the lives of those before her. But she was no idiot. Any and every action reflected back on her husband. Though she hated the man, she would always uphold his and her house's honor. "They don't like me because I'm a horrible person. There is no goodness left in me anymore."
Alira thought Daeron to be a bit dramatic, but she had a penchant for strong, domineering men. "Let them be. You can merely escort me for the remainder of my walk." A wry smile formed, and she stared into the eyes of the dragon. Targaryens were all the same. Then again, so were the Lannisters. And true to her core, she was a Lannister. One who used murder and secrets to secure her and her children's place in this world.
"You will have to excuse my husband's constant absence. He normally leaves the political and financial decisions to me." It was true. Alira decided all of their finances and allies. Cassius had the ability to intervene, but he never did. He did not like dealing with snotty Southern Lords and Ladies. His wife, however, loved it.
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