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 12, 2017 1:10:32 GMT
It was the Reaving King, not the Dragon King, who knighted Ser Gwayn Corbray. He remembered the moment well.
Quellon held Lady Forlorn, the smoke-grey Valyrian steel sword of their house, in his right hand. He pressed it against Gwayn’s chest until his face was underwater. The waves swirled around them, ate away at the steel they wore. It filled the nose and lungs and burned the throat. It brought the shadow of death over Gwayn’s eyes.
Just as Quellon was the one to knight him, he too was the one to bring him back from the dead. The Drowned God’s court had marked him. His skin never recovered its healthy hue, and he always seemed to feel lightheaded, as if he couldn’t breathe quite right. Sometimes he wondered if this was how a fish felt when out of water.
Never did he tell his father this, of course. That man was old and hard. Salt, it was rumored, replaced blood in his veins. His wives, all young girls of thirteen or less, served as proof of this. It was no wonder that old Lyn Corbray, the Girlstealer, had been knifed by his salt wives in his sleep.
Gwayn did not blame those girls. He cut their throats and fed them to the Drowned God all the same, but blame them he could not.
But he couldn’t help but curse the Reach for standing against the Reaving King now. Quellon’s raven of confirmation had come a day before. The Greenlanders invited war upon themselves, and now they would pay for it. They were mistaken to hold such deep racism for the Ironborn. If one only studied history, that racism was justified. But it had been many years since Westeros had been reaved. Generations had been born, grown old, died, and had children that did the same since the last Greyjoy king rose up against the crown.
They deserved what they were getting alright. Gwayn’s eye twitched, and he pulled Lady Forlorn from her scabbard. The thralls watching gasped, and the Reaving Knight drank in their awe. In the blue hour, before the sun truly rose, the blade appeared as a dark obelisk against the sky. A herald, Quellon would say, from the heavens. The falling comet that brought magic and beauty and order back to the world. The lightning that the Grey King caught from the Storm God and used to forge the islands.
Lord Gwayn Corbray smiled. And then he screamed.
His voice carried over the grey waters just south of the Shields. All two hundred and fifty longships heard his scream, and they yelled back. A vicious warcry emerged from this storm of Ironborn like thunder, and it carried for miles, waking the Greenlanders and surely sending them shivering into their holes and hideaways.
Gwayn smiled. He was drunk on non-existent glory. He had only been in skirmishes before, and from those he emerged without scratches. His men called him Pretty Face because of it. He wore that title like a badge.
“We sail!” He screamed again. “We sail! We sail! We sail now, against those who don’t know what it means to have iron in their veins! We sail to steal from them their women and their gold and their castles, to take their Greenlands for ourselves! We sail, because WE DO NOT SOW!”
Ironborn cheered. Ten thousand voices rose up in the Blue Hour, louder than any thunder. This was a tide of blood that was being brought to the Greenlands. Gwayn put one foot on the bow of his ship, Drowned Prophet. The Shield Islands rose up before him like the monuments of false gods. Oh, how he longed to topple them. How the Reaving King would reward him with titles and lands and a future beyond the Iron Islands.
Mist danced like merlings on the waves.
Gwayn noticed something.
“Those aren’t islands…” he said.
As if laughingly pulling back the veil from their prank, the merling-mist scattered.
It wasn’t the Shield Islands Gwayn had saw. It was a massive fleet of war galleys arranged against him.
Post by EDRIC HIGHTOWER on Sept 12, 2017 2:10:02 GMT
Edric stood center of the top deck of Honor of Oldtown, two trusted sailors at his side (one being Boris Bulwer, his naval adviser for what loomed ahead). Living a life on the coast, he was used to the salted air. There was no sting, and while he wouldn't say he had the lungs of the Ironborn that would soon be his opponent, he stood strong against the wind.
With little effort his men were able to find the rough location of their forward fleet, one of 200-300 and primarily longships. Boris and his other advisers insisted that they were a n outfit for raiding and swift skirmishes, but not for full-scale naval war. Edric was nervous, but confident at the same time as his fleet pushed through choppy waters. They'd be outnumbered, but he brought in help from the neighboring lords at the request of Lukas Tyrell. More than two dozen war galleys burrowed across the sea, ballistas and catapults mounted on them in various arrangements. The rest were a rough makeup of longships, carracks, and cogs - half of them converted from willing merchants ships. It would dent the Hightower purse, but he'd get the payment back. Investors saw the Greyjoys as a threat to successful trade. Outnumbered, but not out-powered. And even if his opponents surprised them, the ravens that were sent recently to the Shield Islands would call forth a relief unit to clean up.
Boris Bulwer assured Edric that the relief wouldn't be needed.
Falcons flew back to their falconers, bringing the news that their enemy lay ahead, and with a triumphant thrust, Vigilance cut through the air, reflecting light against its alabaster surface. The men rallied and roared, and in an outward wake from the flagship, the men called back.
As they neared, it was clear the Ironborn also took notice of them. Some ships began shifting and turning, adjusting to the surprise. They looked frantic, and Boris was correct that they were prepared for coastal battle. "My lord, another click and we should loose the front mounted ballistas. As ordered, the several of the galleys are each leading their own units to the south and north, their catapults will be in reach soon." Well-mannered, and older than Edric by a decade. He was one used to the waters, and took himself a proficient sailor and fighter, though this was the first true battle for both of them.
Edric Hightower nodded and shouted above the weather and roaring winds, "Fire!"
And with that, a stream of large wooden pikes blasted through the air, ripping through the wind with weight and power. Some carried with them tails of flame. It would be easy to find purchase with so many ships congregated in one area. And before they could land, the men on the galleys were already loading the next bolts.
Edric looked out across the empty space between the two fleets; somewhere over there was his opponent.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 14, 2017 19:33:23 GMT
Men were dying.
Simon Sharp stood on the deck of a war galley. The deck was varnished in guts and viscera. A man slumped over the helm and an axe hung from his face. Before Simon stood a Greenlander duelist. He named himself Lord of Grey Shield and charged forward, longsword in hand.
Greenlanders were arrogance personified. Simon could tell by how they carried themselves that they thought death was a foreign concept when it came to barbarian wars. All gathered up here, hundreds of vessels crashing into each other, longships being used as boarding platforms, many of them sinking, many of them being shot, many of them coffins for as many as forty dead men, sailed between the ships, stepping stones, places for Ironborn to fall back too and kiss their brothers good bye and then jump to the next ship. Arrogance shoved back Iron Islanders and then buckled when they came at them again.
Men were dying. The Lord of Grey Shield was dying too. Simon pushed him back with Valyrian steel. Its screech was a dying animal as it bounced off of the Greenlander’s shield and sword and helm and armor. Then, grabbing his blade half way up the length, Simon smashed the pommel into the Lord’s helm and shoved the point into his throat. The armored corpse broke through the railing and Simon rode it all the way down to the waves.
Quellon sat on the edge of the Painted Table. He stared off past his balcony and into the ocean beyond. The sun was setting. In an hour, it would be doing the same for the West coast. From this angle, the sky was darkening rapidly. Clouds looked like mountains or some other, darker things descending from the stars. It reminded him of an oily black demon stature in the Summer Sea. Such things were common there. The Basilisk Isles were places of magic as dark as Asshai’s own, and bloodier still.
That memory made Quellon’s hand twitch. It was a bad sign. The Reaving King stood and looked back to the Painted Table. He thought hard on the first place his eyes fell—the Shield Islands. There, the Ironborn were sure to experience a landslide victory. Time and time again was this the case. Never were the Tyrells prepared. Never was any fleet prepared.
Quellon could not name the feeling that ravished him. It was like a storm was brewing inside of his chest, raining lightning into his stomach and filling his head with thunder. He had made a mistake. With one hand he reached into his cloak and pulled forth an unbound codex of pages. He dropped them on the Painted Table, knocking over war miniatures in the shapes of flowers and krakens.
Spread out before the Reaving King was the history of Iron Island aggressions against the west.
Throwing bones onto sacred artefacts was a divination technique taught by those who tried to live in Sothoryos. Quellon did not put much faith into it. Either the bones lied or had no special powers, or those that read them were future-blind.
Quellon used these history pages as bones. He flipped over the one that landed over the Shield Islands. He prayed that he was future-blind. He also prayed that he saw the truth.
Grappling hooks snagged into The Honor of Oldtown’s sides. Their ropes grew taught. Ironborn swarmed up the sides like a school of man-eating fish. Their boots were wet with ocean and blood. Their beards were tangled with rust and wet flesh.
Simon Sharp brought himself up the Starboard side. Valyrian steel the color of the Storm God’s blood flashed out. A man tried to block with steel of his own. Simon cut through him, and then approached Lord Hightower.
The fight had been going on for an entire day. Ten thousand Ironborn were breaking against the knighted rocks of the Shield Islands.
“Fleet commander,” Simon named Eldric. He held his sword low.
Post by EDRIC HIGHTOWER on Sept 15, 2017 20:45:11 GMT
The sea before him was masked by a nest of ships - a nest of insects. Each stone launched, bolt slung, and volley loosed seemed to be eaten by the void of wood and sail. Still, a patient man would see the success of effort and determination, and Edric was indeed a patient man. Boris Bulwer certainly predicted the fight well enough, their success being the flames cast against a fading horizon. As the juggernaut they sailed grew closer to the mass of ships, the cries and shouts grew louder and the clanging of steel became a steady cadence that helped the Hightower lord keep focus. Periodically he'd yell the word "Fire!" other times he'd hear a phantom voice of the same words right before large stones, some aflame, soar across the sky and splintering whatever poor ship floated under its shadow. That nest was a blotch in the sea, and his fleet moved like a mouth around it.
When The Honor of Oldtown began its press into the thicket of longboats, Edric turned towards his aid, "You take lead." He was only answered with a stern nod of understanding, and the Hightower turned to make his rounds across both sides of the ship. Sea warfare was still fairly alien to him, but as the proximity lessened, so did his inexperience. He marched hastily to a group of archers taking their turns leaning over the edge and shooting off into the mess. He'd clasp one of the senior soldiers on the shoulder, "Break up your pattern. Every half minute loose together." In the heat of war, there was little time for explanations. Maybe the soldier of the Reach would understand in time that their opponents were quick and nimble. Ferocious and were used to adapting to a fight. They were unpredictable, and the best way to counter such behavior was with complexity and unpredictability of their own.
Although an hour passed as Edric went around and summoning forth morale from his men, few times correcting them, it never felt like there was enough time. He had circled thrice and still hurried. Every so often he'd glance at the Bulwer, and he was steadfast in his position, a deep voice breaking through the battlefield cacophony.
And then the screaming herring drew his attention. A soldier called out the grappling hooks; they were being boarded. "Shields up, and steady! Cut their lines or fight them at the edge. If they get aboard, let them charge you!" he commanded, his own sword reaching for Vigilance's grip.
One of his own grew anxious, stepping forward to swing at a foe - he was cut down effortlessly. His Hightower shield felt in a limp arm to the floor, and in his place came forward someone that seemed to command some sort of presence within the group. He spoke to Edric, understanding Edric's position within the fight.
The only response he would give would be the song of Vigilance whistling from his scabbard. He knew not of the man before him, only that he would be stolen from his Drowned God as a gift to the Stranger. Edric's eyes narrowed as he felt into stance, a stance that had led him to victory time and time again. His own steel sat extended in front and aimed downward, the fool's stance with the exception of a rotated grip.
He invited his enemy to attack his his torso exposed.
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