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 RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 7:34:40 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
The maelstrom would swallow the seas whole, the king of the iron islands plowing straight into the royal fleet with all its might and steel. The entire vessel groaned with the upset as wood and men alike were splintered and thrown into the sea beneath them. For each life these reavers took he was sure to return two fold with his bow and arrow.
Proper footing protected him from being tossed across the deck. Keeping his beloved close within his tight grasp would do the same. Though it was begining to appear that having her here would be foolish. Sharing a brief kiss upon the vipers forehead as his fingers grabbed upon the heavy bolts crafted for him.
" They shall know fire and blood."
Releasing his beloved to knock the arrow upon the bowstring of his dragon lord bow. Pulling it back to its max draw before his violet pools narrowed on ironborn boarding through the destruction they wrought. In an instant their steel would be vanquished with a bolt throwing them into the feet of those behind them.
Slaying them with a single shot as he armed himself with a second arrow. The vibration of his bowstring was a melody of the stranger as he returned these men to the sea. A single man was dismantling their advance with a flurry of arrows as the bastard of the sea revealed himself. Pitch black armor and valyrian steel decorating his figure.
" Rhianu, take the children and do not turn back. Dark Sister and Daerons seed will protect you. You need to get to Dragonstone."
Resolute words expressed his concern for his partner and their children. They could not hope to survive here. Upon the water these men were kings. Arming himself with another arrow the dragon prince aimed at Quellon Grejoy. This was not a battle between mortal men, it was a duel between rightful kings. Aiming the arrow upon the weakest point he could see through the smoke and fire.
Murder always brought out the venom in Saltblade. Who knew? Porkloin did, for all the time that he had served with him. He could hear his captain's commands over his breathy wheezing. He nodded in response, a sluggish gesture given his general exhaustion. Words were not always enough to hurt, especially when you were an ironborn. Which is why the bitter bastard supplemented his words with a little action.
Porkloin never saw his captain's ass kicking coming, but now hard was it really to sneak up on a man such as he. Stumbling into the sand the rest of the surrounding sailors let out a hardy laugh to match Saltblade's own. But this cruelty wasn't without purpose, or at least it had use to the chubby seafarer. It focused all eyes upon him, and made it easier for him to relay his master's wishes to them and if need be visit a cruelty of his own. It was one hell of a hierarchy.
''Ya lot heard tha man! Get moving afore your arrow riddled carcass is left ta rot in the sand!'' They got to moving alright and spirits seemed high. Feeling a touch on his shoulders, Crozer and another one of his favorites, Royce stopped heft Porkloin to his feet, but he only grunted in thanks this time, if you could call it that. He was busy sizing up this castle. Dragonstone sat atop a cliff. The whole island looked like a cliff. It was a long way to lug his lard.
Several paths and stairways led up its face to the castle that sat on top. Pulling himself from the helpful grip of his two ironborn, Porkloin started forward with some gusto, but he knew he only had so much wind in his sails, as did the men beside him who stayed close at his flank. The crew surged up the vertical maze ahead of him. The men of House Targaryen hadn't closed the gates yet. Plenty of their own were still trickling up and it seemed most were too honorable to leave them to die.
Such a dumb beast honor was.
A few attempted to harry the seaborn raiders as they came, either with arrows or by standing their ground. Royce and Crozer both returned fire with their own bows and Porky threw the axes he still had hanging in the netting draped over him. When they reached the top, he was breathing harder than he ever had. His body was a lot of weight to drag up so far. Seeing the hoard of barbarians within eyeshot, the defenders grouped up behind the large doors and began to push them two.
''Shit,'' Porkloin wheezed. ''Push me faster!'' He commanded his two idiots. Placing their hands on his shoulders, they shoved him forwards as they crossed the small covered bridge, cramming him across at a jog. ''Faster you fucking cock smokers!'' Taking note, other ironborn joined in at driving their tubby commander forth in what was rapidly becoming a full sprint. It was far faster than he could likely go on his own. Lurching forwards on the down incline of the bridge, Porkloin broke away.
''AHHHHH,'' out of both rage and fear he shouted ahead of the host of sailors behind him.
He could not stop. But that was the idea.
As the huge doors almost swung closed, Porkloin's stubby legs launched him a little ways into the air as he flew into the gates, shoulder tackling them. With a bang and a collective groan the men on the other side stumbled back, falling and tripping over each other. It didn't knock the doors completely aside, but the gap was enough for his bloodthirsty compatriots. As he looked up a Targaryen man-at-arms came to stand over him, sword raised high to strike.
An arrow lanced into his neck just below his helmet and he stumbled back, dropping the sword. Then the ironborn crashed through the breach like a black wave battering aside stone.
They were rival pirates before they were a married couple. The battle between them left a fourth of Quellon’s crew dead. Sasa, her arms the color of mahogany and highlighted in brass, played the string’s of her goldenheart bow like a mummer did their instruments.
As an arrow pierced a man’s steel and flipped his body over the railing of the royal ship, the Lord Reaver knew he made no mistake. This was Rhaegar Targaryen’s ship, and Rhaegar Targaryen wielded a bow of Summer Isle make. That was a weapon Quellon had faced before. That was a weapon Quellon had defeated before.
Royal soldiers with drawn swords anxiously held a line between the Ironborn and the royal family. A silence the length of a half-a-dozen heartbeats smothered the deck. Through the greasy smoke of burning ships, Quellon counted their numbers. Rhaegar had thirty men with him, less than a third of what Quellon brought—and each of Quellon’s hundred ironborn were five times the men these royals were. Underneath the waves, the ship had begun to sunk as water flooded it. If Rhaegar’s children were on board, they would drown if not saved.
The Dornish princess might turn to save them. Daella, if her lust for blood was staved off, may have done the same.
Quellon’s eyes paused on a different face.
Aerys Targaryen.
Quellon felt a shot of chemicals leave his brain. His chest grew tight. “Leave that one alive,” he ordered, nodding to Aerys.
Both mace and axe were removed from Quellon’s belt. He flipped the latter over his wrist, and hid the former behind his back. His back hunched. His legs crouched. Ironborn mimicked this stance, and they bared their teeth, and they began to chant Quellon, Quellon, Quellon. In their black armor these men appeared as an ambush of panthers, not a crew of men.
Harsh firelight from across the bay was greedily drank by Valyrian Steel.
The Storm God blew away the smoke.
Rhaegar had his shot—not at a stationary target but at a charging Quellon Greyjoy, whose limbs were steel, whose nerves fired faster than a bow and arrow ever could. Goldenheart was fast, goldenheart was strong, but goldenheart would never be enough to save Rhaegar’s life.
Ironborn smashed into the royal troops.
The Pretender Prince had one chance to end this war.
As the Prince of Dragons and once in direct line to inherit the Iron Throne, Aerys's Targaryen's sudden disappearance from Westeros was a loss that hurt his family in more ways than one. After five years in Essos, the Prince has returned to his homeland with hopes to prevent another civil war.
Post by AERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 20:28:25 GMT
Both water and Ironborn flooded the royal vessel, their chants deafening out the sound of rushing water rising above their ankles. Aerys watched as Quellon entered the scene, the Lord Reaver appearing just as how he remembered. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Aerys could see that even though it had been seven years and he was clad from head to toe in armor, Quellon Greyjoy immediately recognized him.
The scene at hand was not unlike what he had seen during his time spent as his ward. His perspective was entirely different this time around. Aerys once stood by the Lord Reaver's side and now the reaper took aim at him and his family. Ironborn crashed into the troops like waves against a boat. As few penetrated the wall formed by the guard, Aerys stepped forward and cut down one of the Ironborn that rushed towards him.
“Get the children.” Aerys said to his aunt and Rhianu, breaking the character he had taken whenever he wore the disguise of royal guard. He didn't care who as long as someone fetched his cousins before they succumbed to the inevitable flood.
As Ironborn seemed to circle around him the Targaryen could tell something was amiss. He knew how these people fought. They were brutal killers. Yet their attacks on him were anything but what seasoned killers and rapists would attempt. They couldn't kill Aerys. They wanted to--the expression in their faces said that much, but their orders wouldn't allow it.
Aerys wouldn't share the same mercy.
The prince of dragons bloodied his longsword with the flesh of Ironborn soldiers. Their black armor standing no chance against Aerys’s precise swings and thrusts. Their own weapons finding his guard or unable to penetrate his Valyrian Steel chest piece. Yet the numbers didn't favor him. It didn't matter that he out matched any one of Quellon’s crew, his fate appeared to be inevitable. As his stamina depleted so did his bulwark defense and the deadliness behind his strikes.
martell by blood, targaryen through wedlock. fiery and unkempt, the red sun will go to any measures to assure her beloved is seated upon the iron throne.
Post by RHIANU TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 23:12:29 GMT
☀ ☀ ☀
The ship was steadily sinking, water flooding the lower portion and dominating anyone and anything that did not scramble to higher ground. Her feet and the hem of her dress were immediately soaked by the water roaring onto the deck of the vessel, alongside the Ironborn hollering madly with bloodthirsty looks adorned. Ebon’s countless hours of instruction nor the blade she gripped in hand could fend off the bounteous amount of ocean waste flooding around her. Rhianu was a woman, petite, and perhaps the most detrimental aspect of the Dornish woman was her connection to Rhaegar.
He would forfeit the battle and even the entire war, white flag waving high over the castle, if it were the only assured way to guarantee her safety.
She would not allow her presence to hinder the ire and retribution her dragonheart sought to deliver to the savages of the Iron Isles.
If fleeing was the only option to grant Rhaegar the concentration and assuredness to strike Quellon Grejoy into the sea, where he would perish amongst the waves intended to bring him triumph, she would disappear with haste.
[ “I’ll strangle the Stranger if I do not see you cross those shores to our home once this chaos has concluded. I that on the Seven,” she hissed vehemently, her stare raging with an untamed ferocity before she left Rhaegar to handle Quellon. She did not question or worry over his capability, especially not with the bow he held in his grasp.
Quellon Greyjoy’s body would turn the waves red on the shore of their home tonight.
[ “Stand strong, Aerys. Fire and blood is our way,” she called to the man being barraged by Ironborn assault as she fled past him, a guard in tow who had emerged from the galley with the panicked and sobbing twins in his arms. Relief flooded throughout Rhianu; her little dragons were safe. For the moment.
With the ship capsizing, it was enough to launch themselves over the side of the doomed vessel and into the waters a short distance away from the shore. She hollered to the guard to rush forward, knowing he would skirt along the side of the island to avoid the foray occurring at the main gate. This was their home; they knew its layout better than any of the squids attempting to conquer their castle. Her senses were sharp and the dagger she wielded was even sharper, proving its utility when an Ironborn grabbed at her arm in an attempt to drag her back into the water. One fluid movement of her arm brought the blade to his throat, slicing through the flesh and causing a river of ichor to pour from the fatal wound. A hefty shove sent him plummeting into the shallow water before she turned back towards the island, following after her children hurriedly with a few royal guards straggling after to offer protection to their beloved lady.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Aug 31, 2017 5:53:35 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Rhaegar directed all his focus upon Quellon Grejoy. The Ironborn King deserved nothing less then his absolute attention as his galley began to take on the sea. The shouts of his men had all but faded, only the voice of his beloved could call to him in this mindset as his fingers flickered to his quiver. Preparing a piercing shot upon his bowstring.
Steadying his aim, his heartbeat dropped to the lowest he could bring it. The world all but stopped for him as the arrow clung to the string before the full drawn weapon released the bolt upon the charging monster upon his deck. Summoning a new arrow to his reach and blessing the kraken with a flurry of piercing shots upon his darkened armor.
Guards would crash into the invading lines of Ironborn behind Quellon. They would rend that shitty iron island metal with their noble steel. Where the sea had not swallowed up his vessel the others began to escape. Rhaegar would hold the line with Quellon as long as the warrior blessed him. Knowing being close range would mean this giant had the advantage.
Rhaegar pulled an arrow to his string and brought it back with all his strength and released it to strike true upon the charging goliath. Guiding the bolt with his sight to the smallest points of armor protected the hulking target. The drowned god would reap what this man sowed upon this night with his fight with Quellon.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 31, 2017 18:40:36 GMT
More than two decades ago, Sasa’s first arrow caught Quellon by surprise. Her aim was sharp, but his eye was sharper; like scraps of mist rolling off the sea, he rolled under the arrow and dodged it.
If he had been in full plate, he would have lacked the dexterity needed to do so. But Valyrian Steel was light as leather.
Just as he did all those years ago, Quellon fell to his knees and rolled forward. Rhaegar’s arrow stabbed the night sky but drew no blood. Quellon then bound forward, a leaping panther. A second arrow would be coming. A second arrow was coming. It drove straight into his chest. It failed to pierce.
It felt as if someone had slammed Quellon with a sledgehammer. The arrow splintered and its head shattered but it couldn’t pierce the armor of dead dragonlords. In the morning, a black bruise would spread over Quellon’s heart. He would wear it proudly, just as he did the scars Sasa left him with.
Now, the Lord Reaver was within a single bound of Rhaegar. Ironborn axe and royal sword flashed in the night and blood splashed across the deck. The entire ship rocked as Legend’s End pushed deeper into the hull. For the former Panther of the Sea, this meant nothing. He had fought in storms so great that they smashed fleets a thousand times the size of the Iron Island’s own. He had fought off the coasts of the Doom, where the water burned like fire and where the sky was red and black.
In the chaos of naval war, Quellon Grejoy was a Summer Island lotus blossoming in the blood.
One of his leaves unfurled. From behind Quellon’s back came his mace. Blessed by strength, the Lord Reaver swung it as if it were a dagger or, better yet, a waterdancer’s needle. It smashed the side of Rhaegar’s bow and sent the arrow spiraling off course. It tore through the side of Quellon’s helm, cutting open his right cheek and taking the top half of his right ear. The breaking metal was a dying animal’s scream; black kraken arms fell to the deck, dipped in fresh blood.
It was a small price to pay. Quellon smiled broadly as he loomed over Rhaegar. There was no time to knock an arrow at this range. His axe flipped over his wrist and then came down fast and hard. If the Prince failed to respond, the top of his skull would be a trophy hung on Pyke’s walls.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Aug 31, 2017 19:05:15 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Deafening the clash of bolts upon black steel drummed across the vessel. Had the drowned god blessed the panther of the sea a set of impervious armor? Each strike nearing closer and closer to wounding the beast. Until his last shot bound with the motion of the salt king tore through metal and flesh. Dragon claws scratching upon the reaver.
Though the range the prince had between the two was now non exsistant. No longer would his bow be his ally. Fingers discarding the weapon quickly, the warrior had favored him enough. Now he was in the court of the stranger, forced to react against the ire of the kraken. Quellon bringing the weight of his axe down upon the dragon lord.
Guiding his dagger to parry the blow, though the dragon felt like he was trying to push away a mountain. Steel grinding upon steel, sparks dancing from their battle. Rhaegar bounded backwards upon his feet, the axe coming down upon his small blade, catching the flesh of his hand as he retreated back from the kraken.
Blood began to paint his scales, soaking his eager fingers. Never had the dragon felt more alive then in this moment. Violet eyes pierced the gaze of the panther, the dragon meeting the kraken back with all of his might. Knowing any less would be the end of him, Quellon deserved nothing less.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 31, 2017 19:29:17 GMT
Within a shower of sparks and blood, Quellon’s body moved on memory.
The King of Salt and Rock’s flesh remembered when he was just another corsair in the Basilisk Isles. In the Basilisk Isles, waterdancing got you killed. It was ineffective on the loose beaches and suicidal in the chaos of naval combat. But that did not make the core of the style invaluable. In that core existed two important philosophies: flexibility and deception. Those were the keys to killing a man in the south.
Now they were the keys to killing a prince in the north.
Quellon lunged to the left as Rhaegar jumped to the back. His lunge was nonsense—somehow, his entire body seemed to fold into a fifth of its height, turning him into a shadow gliding along the deck. This happened as the Pretender Prince landed on his feet, before the first drop of royal blood touched the wood. To the eye untrained in foreign fighting styles, Quellon was a rush of black, liquid smoke flowing past Rhaegar’s knee and under his guard.
Quellon’s tail followed suit.
That was how they described it, the corsairs of the south. One hand was the tail, the other the mouth. The tail destabilized and the mouth killed. For Quellon, his axe was the tail. The Lord Reaver’s unorthodox movement was meant to hide his attack. He was attempting to use the axe’s beard to catch Rhaegar’s ankle. It wouldn’t cut, of course—no axe could chop through armor. But the goal was to pull the prince’s leg out from under him while the “mouth” finished the fight.
That mouth was the mace in Quellon’s left hand. If Rhaegar fell for the unpredictable movement and the deceptive attack then he’d be lying face first on the deck, back exposed to Quellon, whose mace would paint this ship with scraps of silver hair and bloody brain.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Sept 4, 2017 23:45:06 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Ichor of the dragon would not fall to the deck before the monster of the sea rushed upon him. Coming at him with the full force of the storm. Instead of coming straight at him like a cannonball the titan weaved to his side and swung at him with two swings. The first with his axe towards his legs. The blades edge would cleave into armor as his swing followed through, the handle being the blunt force that brought the prince down.
A second hand came down with the mace of the saltborn king. His only means of surviving the attack was deflecting as much of the force of the blow with his dagger. Bringing the blade up throw off the weight of the swing. Sending the metal beside him with a powerful thrust. Though he wouldn't be able to buy himself an attack. Instead he would recover from this awful position.
Rolling between the massive titan upon his swing. Coming up from the roll low as he strided forward to give himself distance from the Ironborn. Heavy breathes lifted his chest, bow shattered beneath the blow of the kraken he couldn't hope to pierce him with a second shot. Retriving a longsword discarded from a dead knight the young dragon prepared to fight to the death. Hoping that each second his beloved and the others were escaping.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 5, 2017 16:32:16 GMT
Quellon’s mace opened a hole in the sinking ship’s deck. In the black wound, illuminated only by the faintest and furthest firelight kisses, floated the corpse of an Ironborn seamen. A goldenheart arrow stuck out of the ruin of his throat. Viscera spun around him, stretched out beyond the confines of the sinking ship. The entire bay was blood red and fire dyed now—the bodies of Targaryen soldiers and Crownlands bannermen made a whirlpool of corpses and rusting weapons.
The King of the Iron Islands surveyed all this and more in the breath it took to circle around to where Rhaegar was. The Pretender Prince was quick. Quick, and dead. How his chest rose and fell, how dialated his eyes were, the blood freely flowing from his dominant hand—this was a warrior on his last legs. But the hints of fear had yet to thread their strings through his muscles. That meant something.
He’s stalling, Quellon realized. The children had escaped, along with his wife. That was both good and bad. The Martells would think her dead and Rhaegar, if he lived, would use that to rally their spears against him.
If Rhaegar lived. But if he didn’t, then what?
Quellon took a step forward. In that step, he remembered eight thousand years of history. Of princes and kings and monarchs and khals. Of dragonlords and shadowbinders and winged men and maesters. If Rhaegar lived, he would summon forth Dorne. If Rhaegar died, Dorne joined either Daeron or Alysanne.
When Quellon took his second step, his decision had been made. If he was to do right by his people as the King of Salt and Rock, he needed the chaos of three heirs to persist. He needed Rhaegar to live. But if Rhaegar lived, chances were he would lead armies himself. And now, when the world was in such turmoil, that meant he would die. Too soon, Quellon knew. He needed to cripple Rhaegar, if just for a few months—give him a wound that wouldn’t let him ride on cavalry or sail on ships.
Quellon took his third step. He knew his target.
“Alysanne sent me,” he said. Measured words, true words. Words that would bring more confusion to the Seven Kingdoms.
And then Quellon dashed forward.
In the space between where he was standing and when he reached Rhaegar, he threw his weapons into their opposite hands. Deception was key here, to do what had to be done. The Tail and Mouth of the Basilisk were ever shifting weapons, impossible to discern by untrained eyes.
The moment they were switched was the moment Quellon overwhelmed the Pretender Prince. His axe exploded from an unseen angle—the other hand—and the hook of it reached out to snag and pull Rhaegar’s sword to the side. As it did so the mace came down in a vicious overhead smash meant to ruin Rhaegar’s knee. It would not be a permanent crippling, but if it went through, no maester would get this man back to his feet and fighting before half the year was over.
And by that time, it would be just fine if Rhaegar Targaryen died.
Rolling to his stomach, the tubby sailor got on all fours and instantly noticed the pain shooting down his back. Grimacing, he grunted in both hurt and surprise when hands grasped him. Crozer and Royce pulled him to his feet. Hoisting Porkloin caused grunts of pain and struggle to escape each of them as well. It was not easy task to lift a beluga. Quickly the bottoms of his boots found the ground. As the other numerous ironborn poured around them, the three took a moment.
''You alright, lad?'' Cro's gruff tone had some legitimate concern, even if his one good eye looked as if he could care less. Perhaps his face had become too wrinkled for emotions, or his salt and pepper beard too thick to see them.
''Shoulder hurts.'' Sausage fingers moved to rub at it, as if a simple massage here in the heat of battle would make the pain go away.
''Likely gonna have to have someone look at it.'' Old Cro wasn't one to let the youth suffer fantasies, at least not useful youth, if one could consider the fattie useful. He was still alive for a reason, despite his less than stellar choices at times. ''You ain't gonna sit out the rest are you?'' Reaching to his belt he offered a skin of wine, or mead, or beer. Who cared what was in it. Porkloin snatched it eagerly with his good arm and popping the top he treated himself to a long, gulping swig.
''Fuck no,'' he confirmed, some of the liquid running down his meaty chin. The elder sailor smiled ever so slightly, but it was enough to see, even in this low light.
''Then lets get to reavin. Drowned god won't wait all day.'' Crozer went to move away and Royce loosed him as well, but he reached to grab at the senior.
''Wait.'' He tilted his melon head to the battle unfolding on the other side of the gate. The ironborn were tearing into the castle guard like a shark through a seal. It was sure to be one hell of a death roll, but Porkloin had other objectives than just murder in mind. Well, besides food. ''They got tha killen goin. We need ta get tha fire goin.'' He grinned through the pain and Crozer's once own again grew to something noticeable.
''Your cock's always hard for burning greenlander castles,'' Royce quipped. His fat hand grasped the archer's tunic jutting from above his kraken-stamped plate.
''That's all they good for.'' His beady eyes averted to Cro. ''Grab twenty boys. We goin in deep.''
Post by DAELLA BARATHEON on Sept 5, 2017 23:34:09 GMT
Somewhere in the copse of once-trees turned men's planks and then crackling flame did the final dragon weave. She had climbed the mast's ropes and saw the black sea bubble and swell with the insignia kraken. But the tide raises all ships, and she was no stranger to the rogue life skirmishing above ships. She had shouldered past the crew, knocking the foolish and panicked aside and barking orders.
"Fire the cannons!" she had yelled at one particularly green young man, who scampered below deck to the impressive array of weapons that a galley ought have. Only a lad. But this was a war now, and in war there were no boys and there were no novices. Only the living and the dead.
Rhaegar's ship rocked as the Legend's End, a vessel she knew in itself, propelled forward to cleave the ship in two. Her feet were steady, her hands hard gripped around the sail's ropes—her eyes wide as she saw the wisp of silver hair under helmet as a Targaryen rushed past her towards Rhaegar's defense. Something she too yearned to do, for Rhaegar was skillful with a bow but ironborn would not wait at a distance.
But she knew how men thought. And she knew how women thought. And she made her choice.
Daella Targaryen moved towards the children. To and fro ironborn swarmed the ship, and though they had first jeered the silver woman in unblemished leather wielding a blade. But after the sword danced through the air light as feather, a heart seeker, a limb cutter, a skll crusher... finally did the ancient gold of its guard with the ruby red of a dragon's eye, one that had seen both fairer and darker skies, come to their lips like a prayer, Dark Sister.
She covered her niece in law and the children as they vaulted off the sinking ship. Looking over towards the Prince, she was dismayed: he was losing, as she knew he would up close with the Lord Reaper. One foot on the ship's railing she looked back, heart torn in two. But with the final blow she thought imminent and the name Alysanne that heart splintered into hundreds of fragments.
I SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU!
Knee-deep in rip roaring waters she screamed her frustration, sword whipping through the air to lodge itself into the mast, cutting one of the last lines of rigging. With a zipping sound the shrouds and stays both torn and burning collapsed, some being flung into the air while others dropped to the deck as the massive sails of the galley failed and dropped down over the ship, burning and smothering the swarm of ironborn, the living: which, she believed, no longer included Rhaegar.
A pivot on one foot and she dropped like a shadow off the starboard and into the rock and sand. Quickly she came up behind Rhianu, kicking a man behind her into the water with a deft slice that turned that small pool red just like everything else.
"The other port?!" she practically yelled at the former Martell, though in her mind all she could think was Alysanne.
As the Prince of Dragons and once in direct line to inherit the Iron Throne, Aerys's Targaryen's sudden disappearance from Westeros was a loss that hurt his family in more ways than one. After five years in Essos, the Prince has returned to his homeland with hopes to prevent another civil war.
Post by AERYS TARGARYEN on Sept 6, 2017 2:26:47 GMT
As he fended off whatever Ironborn came at him, Aerys would occasionally peak out of the corner of his eye on how Rhaegar was holding up against Quellon. He knew them both well enough to know once the Greyjoy closed the gap it would mean trouble for his uncle. Aerys didn't have the luxury of being a spectator to the panther and dragon's duel. The next time he tried to take a look, an Ironborn ax lodged itself into Aerys's thigh. A mix of pain and anger fueled the the scream that followed as Aerys took the armed wrist of his assailant in one hand and placed his sword to the Ironborn's throat in the other before slitting it.
The bodies of Ironborn and guards began to pile up on the sinking royal vessel and to any onlooker it was clear who the victor would be. All the same, Aerys persisted with his defenses. Time was all he could buy, but with his wounds adding up and his energy quickly fading, he knew it was a commodity he was short on. Attacks broke through his guard with ease now. Strikes he was parrying before were now bashing into his torso. Even with a Valyrian Steel breastplate protecting him, Aerys could feel the pain of repeated direct hits adding up. Instead of counter attacking he was now exchanging hits. Unfortunately for him, he was severely out numbered.
As another Ironborn fell before him, Quellon came into view once more. Aerys grit his teeth and saw his chance to end it as Quellon seemed to slow down. He pulled the ax out of his thigh and reeled his arm back to throw it into Quellon's skull. "Quellon!" Aerys shouted. He demanded the Lord Reaver's attention seconds before seeing his skull embedded with an ax. Just as he prepared to release the ax, Aerys was grappled by two Ironborn and taken to the floor. With no strength in his body to resist them any more, he could not escape from their grasp no matter how much he struggled.
He heard him speak Alyssane's name. His suspicions of his aunt conspiring against his father were true after all. Only instead of his father, it was his uncle. Aerys cursed and fought to escape the Ironborns' hold over him some more, but but it was of no use. Instead he was being dragged out of the ship to be a captive as their leader commanded.
The Ironborn had the sea. The Ironborn had the beaches. Where-ever the royal remnants struggled, Ironborn surrounded and gutted them.
Half the royal fleet had burned down beyond repair, now just the illumination to the end of many others that shared the fate of having been given to the blood-thirsty desires of the Drowned God as tribute.
Even the castle of Dragonstone was no longer safe. The castle's garrison had tried to break out - tried to throw the Ironborn back into the sea - but they had failed. And in the wake of their failure, they had lost everything.
The gatehouse was Kraken-held. Ironborn poured into the castle, ten-to-twenty men at a time. In the dark hallways, they slaughtered stragglers.
Some royal men resisted, but there was no halting the turn of time. For every Ironborn that was cut down in the hallways of the castle, another reaver jumped forward, ready to loot and pillage.
This was their creed and faith.
The Ironborn had limited numbers as well, of course, but in comparison to the island of Dragonstone, they were by far the superior force, numerically.
The Targaryen island at the mouth of Blackwater Bay boasted a vulnerability, dragons no longer ruling the skies. Its garrison was small, especially during times of peace.
A wise man had once written that a war is best won before the opponent even knew it had begun. And Rhaegar's forces had known nothing.
But what had they been supposed to know, after two generations of peace - that the Ironborn would abuse that vulnerability?
Certainly a shrewd man could have predicted such an employ of opportunistic drive - but it wasn't the time of shrewd men - it had been the time of peace. And now it was the time of slaughter.
A single figure, crimson-eyed and in red plate, came upon a warrior in gold, shadowed by the cliffs. Saltblade sang against a blood-thirsting lady, but one of them was sluggish, an iron-oiled blade stabbed into the socket of an eye, demanding a scream that remained silent, washed-away by the blood-soaked tide.
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