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 THE REAVING KING on Sept 9, 2017 1:00:36 GMT
Archmaester Kriyst remembered the day he delivered Daeron.
The birth had been hard on the queen. The thunderstorm itself battered at her wits, for she was always a woman scared of thunder. Every time the heavens screeamed and the Red Keep shook, she yelped in both surprise and pain. Daeron himself had been twisted in his umbilical chord, the Archmaester remembered. It had taken a knife to remove him. The queen never recovered, and Daeron didn’t draw his first breath until a full minute after being born.
Some at the citadel said that such a thing could addle the mind of a child. Others said no, it would take longer. Archmaester Kriyst was in the latter camp, but he could not deny the unusual nature of Daeron. The boy was aggressively destructive and unable to show pathos to those that stood against him. He lacked empathy for enemies. There was no love in his heart for those that disagreed.
As the Archmaester listened through the door, he realized now was no different. He had hoped that the death of the king would temper the young prince, but it only made him more fiery in disposition. He listened naught to his sister, nor to the Lord Hand, nor to any other council save for that which pushed him to greater acts of insanity.
Archmaester Kriyst knew that the news he bore was such council. It would enrage the young prince, or it would push to some other shadow. But the news had to be shared.
The news had to be shared.
When Daeron opened the door, he would see the man who helped raise him standing at the other end. Kriyst was bent at the back and feeble of leg. His face was a scar of wrinkles, his beard grey and short, his hair tied back into a loose tail. Archmaester Kriyst looked like a man who had experienced much violence in his day, and who had given out much in return. His thick chain, mainly composed of steel links, the links of war and combat, only added to this presumption.
Eyes the color of longswords stabbed into Daeron’s chest. “I need your ear, my lord,” Kriyst said.
He then brushed past the prince and into the small council chamber.
The smell of a dead body preluded the sight; the sight of a dead body made the Archmaester sigh. Without your steady hand, we are doomed, thought Kriyst, in memory of the king.
In his hands was a rolled piece of parchment and a wooden box. He spoke, even as the child soldier behind him wept.
“Lords of the Small Council,” Kriyst began. “I bring with you news of the most urgent sort. News from Dragonstone. News from Quellon Greyjoy.”
As he shuffled to the table proper, Kriyst let his words sink in. Perhaps this would draw the lord’s attention. If any of them were worth their titles, they would listen. Those that did not, the irresponsible, idiotic few, the few that had no idea what it meant to be a royal, the few that were naught but children penning stories meant for babes and savages, would not listen. And for that, they would die. The foolish always died, and their foolish sons inherited the world.
“Just now both a raven and a small boat arrived from Dragonstone. In the boat was one of Rhaegar’s bodyguards. One of his arms was missing, his armor dented, and his face bloodied.” Archmaester Kriyst put the wooden box on the table. He held the letter in the air. “The raven is from Quellon Grejoy. It reads thus:
I have burned the Royal Fleet and taken Dragonstone as my own. Rhaegar, his wife, and his two children are dead by my hand and given over to the Drowned God. In a month, the Crownlands weep blood. In a year, all realms weep blood.
“And then, a second letter, my lords:
For the death of my men after the wake, at Tully and Arryn hands, I, Quellon Greyjoy, King of Salt and Rock and the Iron Islands, declare war on the Riverlands, the Vale, and all other allies and peoples. I hold hostage Aerys Targaryen, son of the Pretender Prince, Daeron Targaryen. I will execute him if Edyn Tully’s head is not sent to me in one month’s time.”
Archmaester Kriyst went quiet. He put down the letter and, with tender hands, opened the wooden box.
Inside was Rhaegar’s broken bow. Made of goldenheart wood, a one of a kind, snapped in twain as if struck by some great force.
Thank the Stranger, thank the Seven, thank whoever put Lukas in this situation. He got to witness the fall of the present day. He watched, with passion in his eyes as the future Queen belittled Lady Lannister. If there were levels to this shit, the meeting had yet to reach the highest one. The drama was beginning to unfold, and it got even spicier when one of the fallen knights were revealed to be the father of a child that belonged to Lord Tully's company.
Lukas didn't realize political matters were this invigorating. It seemed he played his cards just right, and put himself in a position to witness the wheels turning; however would they break, or keep rolling on? His blood was heating up, adrenaline filling up his body, it was almost as good as a battle with swords. The best part was that he had yet to even speak, all of this came from watching and observing the royalty waddle around like chickens without heads. How a young man was more composed than half the individuals in this room was a surprise he had not expected.
Azure eyes fixated themselves on the newcomer to the room, holding a piece of parchment that held something that truly sent chills down his spine. Quellon Greyjoy... the name echoed throughout his mind, thinking back to the meeting he had earlier with Alysanne.
As Kriyst revealed something that truly pleased the future Lord Tyrell, he observed the rest of the council's reactions. Oh how tempted he was to crack a smile. One down, now if only Daeron would drop dead here and now he thought to himself as he listened throughout the rest of the announcement. The ruler of the Greyjoys, the King of Salt as he called himself, was truly a man who did not wait. In actuality however he seized the perfect opportunity, doing something that shifted how Lukas thought about the man behind this attack on Dragonstone.
It would only be a matter of seconds before the small council began squabbling amongst themselves like children. Who knows what one of them would try in a state of panic, and Lukas was not going to be done in because he didn't have his guard up, no not at all.
As the words of war might bother most at the table, Lukas had a small sense of security as he knew that Alysanne was in cahoots with the Ironborn King. However, Lukas was still far from trusting of the man himself—keeping his wits and sword about him he'd figure out what he was about sooner than later.
The only thing Lukas regretted was not coming up with "the pretender prince" before Quellon did. It was a fitting nickname for a man truly unfit to be King. Though Lukas wondered if Rhaegar was truly dead, the bow that was received was more than enough to quell his suspicions for now. He kept his guard up and eyes active. The true show was about to begin. There were going to be strings that needed to be pulled soon after this meeting would be concluded. What would happen in the coming days would set the tone for the rest of the months until the Grand Council begins.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Sept 9, 2017 17:27:24 GMT
[googlefont=Quicksand]
[attr="class","likedo"]
[attr="class","likedotitle"]
[attr="class","likedotitle2"]OURS IS THE FURY
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Was that genuine surprise on Prince Daeron's face? Who knew. A man had died for his ambitions. Arkas didn't doubt that the man's drive was true - true to himself. But he cared not about the realm. All of them didn't.
They were about themselves.
Playing the Game of Thrones with impunity and disregard.
Wouldn‘t it be easy?
To behave like the rest of them.
Wouldn‘t it be easy?
Arkas stood up, almost tumbling, but his walk was firm. These dutiless vultures. Prince Daeron was the most simple-minded of them all. His approach was blunt and unrefined. Is that how he thought he could grasp the position of ruler? They all had it wrong, thinking of their rights before their duties.
Or was that how Morella Lannister played him?
He was as simple an instrument as they came.
Lord Tully had been a questionable individual all his life. He would break if those that drove him him withered away before the righteous fury of House Baratheon. House Lannister had tried to bleed the Iron Throne for years.
They too would learn.
By the end of his walk, Arkas felt steel below him. This wasn‘t the chair of the council chamber. It was the seat of molten steel forged by dragon fire in the room to the side. The commotion the Maester had brought had broken the privacy of the council apart one way or another.
Seated on the Iron Throne, Arkas voice spoke up.
It was dry.
Daella, his wife, had been at Dragonstone. Was it possible that Rhaegar had perished, in the company of a fighter so fierce?
For a moment, his voice struggled – not with producing sound – but with the concept of remaining calm. A mind-numbing fury washed over the Lord of Storm‘s End.
How easy it would have been.
To cut Quellon Greyjoy down for his impunity.
To throw Daeron into a black cell until he learned to behave.
They all thought that the Seven Kingdoms were weak to extend them this mercy, the mercy of getting to live in their own ways and cultures. More than forcing people to bend knees, the unity of Seven Kingdoms had ended the inner struggle of families feuding for control over the continent for three hundred years.
Finally, after endless questions asked to his inner self, why he still allowed them mercy, Arkas spoke. The first answer was to himself: Because it is right. If he had taken any steps before they had moved out of line, what kind of shadow would that cast after years of peace?
Mercy was never the issue.
Only the rampant ambitions that abused its existence.
"Maester Kriyst. Gather the Maesters of the Red Keep in the name of the King. Find every boy that can write and transcribe ink upon paper within the walls of the Red Keep. By the end of the day, I want not a single raven to remain in King‘s Landing."
There were news to spread across all the realm. But not the self-titled story of an arsonist.
"If Lord Greyjoy thinks that half the Royal Fleet is all of it, then we cannot know the rest of his claims to be equally lacking in precision. I‘ll call the fate of Prince Rhaegar uncertain. Until a fisher brings the body of him before this chair and I can see it with my own eyes."
What could some broken bow mean? Everything. Anything. Nothing. As long as he had no confirmation, Prince Rhaegar was alive. And so was Daella. Thinking any different would cloud his vision, and he was already trying his utmost to banish the red-raging fury from his steel gaze.
Now it was the time for Arkas' voice to boom. But it was as loud as it had been when he had been silent.
"In the name of Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm: I, Arkas of House Baratheon, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, charge the Lords of Westeros to bring Lord Quellon and all those that shared in his crimes to justice. I denounce him. I attaint him. I strip him of all ranks and titles, of all lands and holdings."
Arkas glared ahead.
"I sentence him to death."
His gaze paced across the room for a moment of silence.
"Every Ironborn lending aid to his exploits will share in his fates. I declare House Greyjoy enemies of the Iron Throne and absolve all their subjects of their oaths of fealty. Every Ironborn caught in the act of reaving, in the act of raiding, of plundering or in the act of setting foot on the shores of the Seven Kingdoms shall be put to the blade. The Iron Throne will pay twenty gold dragons for every cut off Ironborn hand that can wield an axe. Another ten gold dragons for every oar-holding palm. Without hands, throw them back into their waters so that they can sink down to their damp god‘s halls.“
Lord Greyjoy could be the force of chaos bringing them all apart. Or he could be the heat required to forge iron into steel, creating one blade – one realm. Unified and strong.
"The Lords Paramount have no time to waste, I think. The preparations for the Grand Council will be time consuming in addition to the added vigilance: More coastal defense might be required. The Iron Throne expects a report on the progress of both tasks within the second fortnight.“
They wouldn‘t stall him out. And until then, Harrenhall would be within the Crown‘s grasp as well. But these were machninations for another day. For the ears of the few. Not for the ears of the realm.
Lord Greyjoy would remind the Lords Lannister and Tully what it meant to rebel against the Crown. Within the throne room, Arkas war-tempered gaze sought the eyes of Princess Alysanne.
There were talks to be had. A deal with the devil.
"My Lords, my Ladies. You are dismissed to your royal duties."
[attr="class","textieno"] [break][break] The Small fucking Council.. [break][break] It was quite amusing how did the Lannister woman proceed out the place when Marcus Arryn commanded them all to proceed. She proceeded, indeed. And she proceeded after blaming everything on him, Marcus himself. Cowardice in its finest, to blame others for someone's other mistake. Was she machinator? The old man thought to himself. Of course, not! A Machinator never leaves the field of battle. The woman was defeated, and she had to make a strategic retreat. Why would she do that? Wasn't Daeron the man to blame? Wasn't he the one to break the law? Why wasn't he blamed as well? She was a coward, and she was a hypocrite. As for Daeron, the weakling, he lost all of the Marcus' respect. Why? Because he was no man. If he had happened to be a man, he would have challenged Arkas in a trial of combat. If he was truly worthy, he could achieve victory. But he was a coward, and he had to resort to his own guardsmen to do his dirty work. Wasn't he too stupid to commit to such an action? Indeed, King's Landing was protected by Baratheon men and other men employed by House Baratheon. What Daeron had attempted to do was but a stupid attempt of suicide. He sent his own guards, and Marcus noted one of them was old. Eventually, he was the first target. After all, Marcus was a ruthless man. He cared less for honor and cared more about weaknesses. Within this room, Marcus saw two enemies; Daeron and the Lannister woman. The first tried to disrespect the council and the law of his own forefathers. And the Lannister woman who blamed everything on Marcus. Was there a Pattern? Did it really matter if there was a Pattern? Marcus' foes had a good habit; they didn't live for long. [break][break] So Rheagar died? And Quellon took the Dragonstone? Well, Quellon was no pussy. In fact, he was a better man than most of the nobility sitting there in the room who thought themselves ballsy by staying put doing nothing. Quellon was a better man, and he spoke the words Marcus could understand. The Lord Reaver spoke of war, and Marcus understood what was war. And Marcus smiled when Arkas said his word. It was war, at last! Praise be the Gods! Still, Marcus wanted to drop his own bomb in the council. With Rheagar out of the picture, the only one capable of confronting Daeron was Alysanne. Marcus smiled again. Perhaps, Westeros should be ruled by a woman. After all, there were no capable male dragons around to sit the iron throne. The Falcon cared not for what the Lizard had to say; there was fun to be had, there were ironborn to slay. [break][break] Marcus fooled them all with peculiar and strange behaviors. He was almost a Dwarf, and he was a runt, but that runt made Mother Vale his bitch. And so, he left the scene...victorious in his first round. [break][break] ~Exit~
Alysanne is one of the three Targaryen children who purport they have claim to the throne. The now-dead King decreed Alysanne be Queen, and the unorthodox mother of three plans to become one.
Post by ALYSANNE TARGARYEN on Sept 9, 2017 20:40:17 GMT
Bloodguards had a funny name, didn't they? Kingsguards protected the King. Harrenguards protected Harrenhall and its Lord. But Bloodguards did not protect their blood. Not today, at least. Today, the watched Alysanne with calculating eyes. Behind masks, their eyes never left the heiress. They were prepared to slaughter every unsuspecting noble in this room.
And they were unsuspecting.
At the sudden entrance of Maester Kriyst, Alysanne's eyes narrowed. An intrusion on a Small Council meeting meant urgent happenings were afoot. Had Quellon been successful in taking Dragonstone and recovering the stolen half of the Royal Fleet?
She waited for the elder man to read the ravens. His words poured out clearly, but Alysanne was sure she had misheard what he said. Dead. The word reverberated in her mind. She had done this. She had lit the fire that traveled along Quellon's rope and ignited the clusterfuck of death. It hit her hard. The reality felt like a fang sinking into her throat, causing a ball of grief to form. And
she.
couldn't.
breathe.
Her heart raced in panic. Quellon had only been supposed to secure Dragonstone. Killing her twin brother had not been discussed. And as Alysanne stared at his mangled bow, she remembered the many times she laughed and cheered Rhaegar on as a child when he trained archery. She loved Rhaegar. They had shared a womb together. Had held hands when running through the gardens. He had wiped her tears when their mother died.
Alysanne knew she had lost her twin the moment their father named her heir. But seeing his bow like that twisted the fang deeper until she was sure blood would come up from her throat and spill before everyone.
Tears swelled against her eyes, but she vehemently pushed them down. She could not be weak again. She had no right to. For Alysanne had put the blade that killed Rhaegar in Quellon's hands.
She had no right to cry.
Alysanne could no longer be the royal that took days off when a loved one died. People were dropping like flies, and Daeron was already diving headfirst into the game of thrones. If Alysanne truly stood a chance in saving the Seven Kingdoms, she had to beat Daeron at his own game. A game he had been playing since childhood and Alysanne knew nothing about. A pure soul would never rule. But she could, at the very least, ensure a demon didn't.
Arkas's announcing a momumental waste of money was not ideal. He was likely worried about Daella. They knew not exactly what happened or the validity of these ravens. Killing off Ironborn for money when they were already on the verge of debt was idiotic.
Her eyes lifted heavily to meet Arkas's gaze. The two had work to do.
As it stood right now under new circumstances, Daeron was fucking inconsequential.
Dragon fire would spread through the small council, Daemon wanted these salty cunts to pay with blood for their dishonor of his house. Wings brought a tempest beneath them as the Prince took his leave from the chamber. It would have meant the end of the days turmoil had that been all that happened. Coming before the remaining council, a man who share the fate of the seven kingdoms. Ravens had been flown to the Red Keep with the death of a dragon. Proclaiming to the realm that Rhaegar, Rhianu and those who had returned to Dragonstone with him had been slaughtered by the Ironborn and Quellon Greyjoy.
Had that been all the seven kingdoms would have bled, but a second script had been read. Firstborn son of his house named, as the monster called for the head of his boy with those of the Vale. Revealing to the realm that he held the heir of Daeron captive within the Iron Fleet. An abyss in his stomach opened up, his family and friends were being attacked. The void replaced with ire as his rage began to swell through his breast. Had he been a weak man he would have broken the table before him in half with his strength, rather he simply sat.
" FAMILY."
Bringing his attention to Marcus, he found his words, having loved his sister dearly while in life. Pushing back the chair that seated his tall figure, knees lifting the tall lord as he turned his back to the guards and fleeting council. Arkas Baratheon finally had to make his move as Hand of the King, what he was about to say next upon the Iron Throne was not needed to be heard by the Paramount of the Riverlands. Marching beyond the lords and ladies of the realm. Coming shoulder to shoulder with the prince of the iron throne. Sharing a single word with dragon lord before taking his leave from the council.
" DUTY."
Edmund needed to speak with his wife, they had barely spent a moment together between the events of the wake and the small council. Perhaps keeping her with her brother would be wise with the threat of Ironborn upon his rivers. Loud footsteps followed him out of the chambers, heading directly towards his bannermen and company. The Red Keep would no longer house him, he would be riding before nightfall to the north. Quellon wanted war, the fucking cunt would have it. The kraken had challenged the wronged kingdom.
' HONOR '
Last Edit: Sept 9, 2017 21:21:23 GMT by EDMUND TULLY
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Sept 9, 2017 22:31:37 GMT
The eyes of the old man were enough to stop Daeron's exit. Sorrow, regret, and disbelief each fought for control of his wrinkled face. Maesters, especially one as qualified as Kriyst, had spent many years applying logic and reason to human struggle. It would take a deep distress to cause such a man grief.
"...dead."
The letter continued, but Daeron was lost to the world. The prince staggered, then fell back to sit on a nearby table. He buried his downcast face in his hand. Pain split his head like a spear.
Since childhood, Daeron experienced sorrow this way. Instead of tears or wailing, terrible screams had filled his nursery. The servants whispered the boy was cursed or possessed. Some said he was a messenger of the Stranger, come to bring destruction to the world.
As he grew, the headaches became rarer but more intense. When the boy's mother had died, demonic shrieking could be heard at all hours from the Red Keep. In his suffering, Daeron found a brute strength far beyond his years. He destroyed furniture, tore clothing, and even tried to throw himself into the fire to put an end to the pain. Only the old man standing before him had the courage to restrain the young prince.
This time was different. Perhaps it was age or the anger which consumed him now, but Daeron relished the waves of pain beating between his ears. He knew when it subsided he would only see his niece's face, those gentle trusting eyes staring up at him. He knew this would be the last time he could truly hope for a better future for his family. He knew this was the last moment before all that was good in him died as well. As his ears began to bleed, Daeron only ground his teeth harder.
Then, suddenly, a white light shone through the red haze.
"Aerys"
The word immediately withdrew the daggers from his skull. It was if a version of Daeron long-dormant burst forth. The uttering of his son's name brought to life the old father in him. He was now filled with memories of Aerys cooing in his bed, crying in his mother's arms, playing with his father's fingers. At once, Daeron relieved the joy of his son's laughter, the relief he was not cursed like Daeron, and the great guilt the father had felt since Aerys' disappearance. A cruel father never sleeps well, and Daeron had spent many nights awake thinking of his cruelty. He had meant to protect the boy, but how can a demon love something so pure and good?
For the first time in his life, tears welled in the fierce man's eyes.
"My son.."
His mouth could not form words. In a moment the crown, the throne, the council, and all of the Seven Kingdoms melted into nothing. "We must save him," Daeron meekly implored. "Please."
For once, the vengeful son of Jaehaerys II looked like his father.
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Sept 9, 2017 23:17:38 GMT
Never had she seen the most influential men and women of the realm come apart at the seams so quickly. Ashara was thankful that theirs was a private meeting. If the people knew how little different they were to their lords and ladies, chaos would come all the more hastily.
A dragon attempted to shackle a stag. A crooked falcon pecking at the helm of red and white. Light over the house on the horned hill, black waters rushing down into a bay red and dark turned ink on a scroll read by a shadow delivered to all the pieces on the board of cyvasse.
Suddenly things seemed very far away indeed. Content was Ashara to watch the proceedings with lilac eyes and feel her respect for the old houses dwindle into nothing. But now the sands rustled as she took the news equally silently. If she was good at anything, it was suffering with grace.
She rose up from her seat, intending fully to leave the proceedings and begin her search, tightness in the pit of her stomach. But she paused by the once mighty dragon now meek and visibly torn. A feeling she hid well on her inside as she looked at Daeron and then the rest of the council.
"My daughter joined your kin out of love. Not politics. Love." She clasped her hands together, fighting the waver in her voice. "This council made me doubt. But I see there is love between dragons yet." A soft hand on Daeron's cheek. "If these words speak true, then know that I... I share your fears." The hand dropped.
Alysanne is one of the three Targaryen children who purport they have claim to the throne. The now-dead King decreed Alysanne be Queen, and the unorthodox mother of three plans to become one.
Post by ALYSANNE TARGARYEN on Sept 10, 2017 9:12:52 GMT
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Daeron cried and roared dramatically and earned the sympathy of those around him. Alysanne had shed silent tears at her father's funeral and was promptly chastized for it. Alysanne was done with this charade.
Her brother had tried to win over support by acting like a dragon, bold and brash. He had hoped to impress his fans with awe-inducing behavior. But no jaws had dropped in admiration. And when that didn't work, he cried in a pathetic puddle of tears.
Her resentment toward Daeron was misplaced. She did not want to face the fact she likely killed her own brother. But nothing could be changed now. They could only move further. And as she stared at her brother, emotion drained from her face, and hate swelled.
She had begun to cry against her will, but now she was just a lifeless face with tear-stained cheeks. As Ashara showed the man comfort, Alysanne wiped her face and glanced toward the Lords and Ladies as they began to make her exit.
She would wait and give Daeron the only support she ever had: silent, seething judgment.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 10, 2017 15:39:54 GMT
Aerys had been born just as Daeron had; it was in their blood, to be born into storms. When Kriyst was still an actual Archmaester, he studied hard the practices of the warrior women of the Bone Mountains. There, birthing a child was a craft mastered and then perfected. In the Bone Mountains, to kill the mother in childbirth was to kill a skilled soldier.
That was why Alura had lived, and not been ruined like Shaera. And that was why, Kriyst believed, Aerys had not turned into the monster his father was.
When Daeron grabbed his head and the blood glittered in his ears like the rubied cheeks of foreign warriors, the Archmaester was already pulling the medicine from his robe. He shuffled after his child. His child. Though the king had been righteous, though their mother kind, it was Kriyst who raised them, who taught them, who did his best to guide them.
Did that mean it was Kriyst who made them into kinslayers? Did he really raise three children that, without their father, would tear each other apart over the iron seat of a figurehead king?
Kriyst slowed in his shuffling. He slid the medicine back into his robes. He watched Daeron suffer and then look up to the lords, pleading. Crying.
Breaking.
Archmaester Kriyst looked at Alysanne. This was not the same girl who, as a child, would grab his robes in his fistfuls and demand he read her poetry and songs. This was a woman that stared Daeron down like he was a rabid animal drooling on the royal court’s floor. What was once a sweet, soft girl was being tempered by the bellowing fires of war. Would she ever write again? Kriyst did not know, and he did not think he would live to see the answer.
The bloodguards watching him agreed.
Erik Pyke had been born for this. An orphan at age four, Quellon took him in and trained him in things he could never imagine were real. Dark arts, secret arts, subtle arts all; they were ingrained into his mind by the Reaving King, burned into his flesh, buried into his instinct. Then he was sent to Qarth to survive an assassination by a Weeping Man, then Volantis to infiltrate their noble wall, and then to Lys to learn how to spin honeyed lies to obscure and sabotage the King’s enemies.
Hands behind his back, Targaryen armor shining brightly in the midday sun that speared through the royal court’s windows, he stood and listened alongside his bloodguard crew. Alysanne alone knew who he was, or at least the idea of who he was. She did not know his true purpose.
They were not here to protect Alysanne Targaryen. The Reaving King made it clear that if she was in danger, saving her life was only their third priority. Their first objective was to make sure all information they had was properly sent to their king. With a memory that could remember every scent, taste, and sound since birth, Erik had no problem recording the Small Council in his head. The upcoming war councils against the Greyjoys would be known too. Thus, the blood of the Iron Islands were would remain safe by their efforts.
This Arkas Baratheon thought himself the bringer of righteous justice. In reality, he was just another useless bolt of lightning hurled by their defeated Storm God at the majesty that was the Iron Islands. The bloodguards second objective had been to ensure this through sabotage.
Even right now, the other ninety or so bloodguards were in the Red Keep, allowed to do what they wished. Even now their traps were being laid—traps meant not to kill the royals, but to cripple their hands and feet, to make it so leading the realm would be near impossible. The Reaving King always spoke of the many riots King’s Landing had suffered. How they made it impossible for kings to effectively rule.
In a month, King’s Landing would become a never ending explosion of smallfolk rage. If only the Greenlanders knew the tragedy their efforts would beget.
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 EDRIC HIGHTOWER on Sept 12, 2017 0:48:47 GMT
When it rains, it pours.
The guards seemed to let up, and his hands mimicked their stance. His shoulders eased just a bit, and that's only due to the disarray caused by the news that stormed on the room. Daeron wasn't one he knew closely, only a brief introduction once every few years - never much conversation beyond that. He appeared strong in the face, and what was presented before them now was not the same man. A melted pot of grief and fury could behind within those aging lines in his face.
Although the Hightower's face didn't show it, he too was disturbed by the recent turn of events. Alleged reports put another pressure outside the bounds of the next person to take the throne. "Your damaged mind was right about one thing, Father," he pondered with a frown. With Oldtown already having a military in fighting condition, he would be of the more important members to act on Arkas' decree. While others lingered, he knew he would need to depart as soon as possible - even ahead of the Tyrells that came to the wake.
Again he'd lean over and whisper to Lukas, "Forgive me my lord, I must make preparations to leave for Oldtown." He gave a look that the young Tyrell would understand as there would be more discussion in the future. However, right now, he was of the few that required immediate attention. There was a city to mobilize.
With that, he rose up amidst the cross-fire of conversation and fled out, his own thinking mind preventing him from remembering proper manners to share goodbyes before excusing himself.
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