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 CORLYE CORBRAY on Sept 6, 2017 18:12:43 GMT
Golden armour dented, white cloak soaked in blood, Ser Corbray stumbled upon the beach. A knife was stuck in the side of his skull. His helmet had saved his life, but his eye.
But that was a worry for another day.
Tumbling forward, he impacted the group of Ironborn that had formed up to greet the survivors from Rhaegar's ship. Lady Forlorn reaped, and more warm blood hit the knight of the kingsguard.
Having been under the care of the Maester at Dragonstone, his wounds had to wait, for his duty had called.
Making for the Princess of Dorne, her children and what remained of their company, Ser Corbray whirled around a last time to open up the Ironborn that would not let go, trying to hold him back.
Blood sprayed everywhere.
But the sands were already drunk.
Behind the helmet, a singular eye gleamed, hidden by the visor, red, at the dark-skinned Dornish beauty and the steel-wielding whirlwind of death at her rear.
Ser Corbray tried to speak. But he could not. Sputtering only blood out of his cut throat, he pressed his blood-soaked armour glove against the wood. The other whirled Lady Forlorn around, making the sword find temporary home the sands below, for its true home was the heat of battle, drinking the life of men.
What the knight could not say, the castle said on its own, high perched upon the cliffs ahead, multiple towers were lit ablaze, others no longer crowed by dragon banners.
Golden Krakens, flags billowing in the wind, were pulled into the sky as the hours of morning struck. It was not the pale twilight of unknown results, but the grey dawn of an unwanted future.
With the last of fading power, an armoured book kicked one of the boats the Ironborn had made landfall with back into the dark shores.
Corlye's frame heaved, inches away from collapse. He grasped for his Lady, whirling the sand off it, leaving only dark steel crusted with dry blood. At the end of the day, the blood of Ironborn and royal men looked all the same.
What little strength he had left, allowed another rasp of his throat. His voice came out, something twisted and torn, the spray of droplets mushing whatever voice he had formerly up.
"Go..."
he sputtered, turning from the Princess to the other side of the beach, more Ironborn coming down from the castle.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Sept 7, 2017 15:30:53 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
Words would rend him worse then any armor would. Quellon howling the name of his queen. Alysanne, his twin had wronged him? Never did he expect her to hurt him so. Endangering his beloved and his children. It was not something the dragon would ever forget. Hatred dwelling in his soul filled him with strength. On the eve of his father passing this ploy was put into motion. It disgusted him to his core.
Knowing he needed to increase his footing again he tried to turn around the canon that barred his path but the Kraken was already upon him. Bringing upon him the ravaging axe and mace. Dropping his sword he crashed into the loosened canon, feeling the axe cleave upon his backside as he shoved into the heavy weapon with all his might. Knowing any less strength would mean his end as he slide upon the metal.
Blungeoning spikes from the mace would follow into his wounded backside. Stripping the dragon of his scales at he struck a true blow upon him. Releasing a roar that nearly brought silence to those around them. Forever marked by the krakens tentacles from the night onward as Rhaegar collapsed upon the barrel, the armor being the only reason he still drew breathe as his lips curved.
" -Fire and Blood."
Rhaegar spat crimson, the wool that had armed the canon protected by the body of the wounded dragon as it drew upon its last moments. Blessed with the fire of the ironborns chaos. Exploding towards the bottom half of the Kraken and the belly of the ship. Splitting the ship with the attack upon his own vessel. A selfless attack that would likely claim him with the sea to save all those from the Greyjoy.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 8, 2017 19:16:10 GMT
The ship was sinking.
Quellon tried to remember how many times he had stood in this spot before. Corpses were strewn about the deck like shards of glass from a broken window. Sanguine rivers pooled or spilled over the tilting starboard side. Some men cried for mercy, lifting swords to their enemies to show defeat. Those swords were knocked away, the defeated men’s throats slit, and their bodies added to the sacrifice pile.
Quellon tried to remember the countless lives he’d given to the Drowned God. He had done so to break storms, to be granted successful raids, to be given a chance to make his fate his own. Lysene bed slaves and braavosi captains; westerosi lords and YiTish tiger masters, all had been captured and killed and thrown away.
Quellon could not remember the lives he’d taken, but he could remember those he spared. His wives, a Summer Islander Prince, a shadowbinder…and now a Targaryen.
It was as if time slowed. For a minute or two, the ship stopped sinking and men stopped dying. The red dawn highlighted a red sea and a red ship. Rhaegar, lying on the barrels, was red too—red from wounds, red from torn fabric, red in words. Red, and red, and deep and rich and bleeding red.
Quellon’s eyes narrowed on Rhaegar. “You could have had my crown.”
Would Rhaegar understand? Would he understand that, at the wake, if he had simply acted as a king would that things could have been different? Would he understand that, if he had simply talked to Quellon, attempted to understand the Iron Islanders, attempted to understand why the Targaryens were failures, that this would have never happened?
How many lives could have been saved?
How many wives would mourn the loss of their husbands now? How many children would have to watch their mothers be raped because of Rhaegar’s foolishness?
Planetos was a cruel world. That didn’t mean a kind hand couldn’t save lives.
Quellon tried to remember how many times he had saved his own life with kindness. That, too, was too many to count.
“Throw him overboard,” Quellon said. “Let him drown.”
Crippled, defeated Rhaegar was cast from the ship, along with a score of holy corpses. How he survived was up to him. Live or die, a blessing would come from the Drowned God nonetheless.
Time resumed. The ship shuddered like a bitch in orgasm as Legend’s End pulled out her bow. Ironborn raced back to the deck, and Quellon, knowing well how long this ship had left, picked up Rhaegar’s broken bow.
And Daeron’s broken son.
With Aerys over shoulder, the King of Salt and Rock returned to his ship just as Rhaegar’s old vessel split and drowned. “Put his steel in my quarters and tie him to the mast,” Quellon ordered. His first mate took the boy from his arms as he nodded his affirmation.
Hands resting on the railing, Quellon looked out over the bay of dragons. Before him, history was made. Dragonstone was cleaned in the fire and blood of the Targaryens. Greyjoy banners flew from its smoking walls. Ships burned, but not all of them; at least a dozen, if not more, were spared, ready to be turned into war vessels for the Iron Fleet. A few tried to escape but were hunted down and broken, or chased off into the horizon.
A soldier desperately tried to take off his armor before he fully drowned. On one deck, another man stood with sword drawn, surrounded by twenty reavers. Shark fins occasionally broke the surface. A group of Ironborn cheered and yelped as they watched damned prisoners get torn apart by underwater demons.
Quellon had created the sea of blood he dreamt of when he was younger. Or, at least, he brought the rising tide.
Dragonstone was his.
The King of Salt and Rock had ascended now into the King of Reaping.
They drank of wine. Rivers of it ran down their chins and their breastplates. Fine Dornish red. Some sang songs, arms around each other as the fire from the castle at their backs warmed their bodies. Victory warmed their spirits. The smell of smoke easily covered the smell of shit from all the dead. It didn't bother them. It didn't bother Porkloin as he sat upon a stone staircase carved into an exterior wall. All around him, there was food. All upon him, there was food.
And he feasted.
He wished he could brag that it tasted better when it had been bought with the iron price, but he knew that was bullshit. It always tasted the same. Even the occasional grimace from the pang in his shoulder couldn't stop his inhaling of his morsels. Dragonstone's larder had been quite full. So full that he had to share. The fleet would of course need the supplies. We Do Not Sow. Bold words with bolder consequences.
The banquet before him was a consolation prize for not getting to burn all of the castle. As he gleefully rolled barrels of oil down the hallways of the Targaryen's most ancient keep, Crozer reminded him that he needed to spare the library. It didn't matter if he couldn't read, the Lord Reaper could. Begrudgingly, he left the wing be. He didn't wish to deny the Reader his books, for whatever good they did. Never any good for him, that was for sure.
''Porkloin.'' The tub of flub looked up. It was the Old Cro himself, looking just as bloody as the rest of the lot. The light from the fire that danced across his wrinkled face revealing the spackles of blood in his graying beard. Not his of course. ''You seen the captain? Because ain't no one else has.'' The ironborn shook his head, still chewing and with his mouth open no less.
''Not since tha beach... Ya dun think he fell offa cliff or somethin?'' Now it was Cro's turn to shake his head.
''Nay. He was too nimble in that plate.''
''Whale shit. See if ya can find him. Take a few of tha boys.''
''Pork,'' the sailor said, and the stern tone in his voice told his chubby overlord that he had something serious to say. He hated it when he heard that tone. Always brought something irritating. ''If he's gone, you're next in line.'' Porkloin scoffed, inhaling the lamb chop he was eating, causing him to gag and cough. Cro stepped into pat him on the back so he didn't choke to death. What a sad end that would have been. Far less glorious than Saltbalde's probably was.
''That's up ta tha Lord Reaper. I ain't gonna be the one tellin him Saltblade's gone.'' As if it was his fault. Most of the fat man's loyalty was driven by fear rather than pride. The unknown always scared him, and nothing was more unknown, more uncharted than the abyss of evil that resided in the hearts of every man. Sometimes he knew his was greater, probably always greater than a greenlander's. Other ironborn? There were plenty with blacker hearts.
And he had seen and heard his masters commit far more evil than he.
''You're the first mate. You have to.''
''Bahhh,'' he scoffed again, though he didn't almost kill himself this time as he sucked the meat still stuck to the bone. ''Just get ta lookin and quit ya fuckin gabbin.'' Crozer gave a stiff nod before turning away, back to the flames of victory and the men cheering it. Nibbling he last of the meat from the lamb's bone, he tossed it over the wall behind him, selecting a sack of jerky which he happily parted, the glorious scent of the dried meat hitting his keen nostrils. He mumbled to himself.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Sept 10, 2017 1:58:01 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
WINDS OF WINTER is the original work of AARON, AERIE and WINTER. Any and all content is copyrighted to WINDS OF WINTER.
Copying, altering, or stealing any of the site's content is prohibited.
All of WINDS OF WINTER characters are the original work of their owners may not be replicated or stolen.
All images and graphics belong to their rightful owners and WINDS OF WINTER does not claim to own any of them.
The skin was created by TIMELAPSE OF WICKED WONDERLAND.