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 1:44:25 GMT
Driftmark.
Driftwood.
The two words shared the same stem. They shared nothing else beyond that. Today, sitting on the obsidian throne, the Reaving King sought to change this fact.
On his brow sat his crown of driftwood, constructed by his daughters underneath the bones of Nagga. Around his shoulders was draped the black cape, blazoned with a golden kraken’s arms at the hems, and kept tight on Quellon’s breast by a golden brooch also shaped as a kraken. Underneath that he wore his Valyrian steel breast plate, black as the night’s sky, black as everything else he wore. And then the rest of his armor, enameled black too.
It made the Reaving King appear as the hand of death. As an apocalypse given human form.
As a servant of the Drowned God.
To Quellon’s left and right were his Captain Kings—the twenty most distinguished captains of the Iron Fleet. They were all armored and armed. Their faces were hard, cruel things. These were the most brilliantly deadly men in the Iron Islands. They were who kinged Quellon, and it was him who kinged them in return.
When the doors to Dragonstone’s throne room opened, all of their faces turned at once. The Lord of Driftmark would enter with the anger and hatred of the Iron Islands being pounded into him by these bastard’s faces.
The Reaving King said not a word when his guest entered. He watched, and studied.
Post by Marcellus Velaryon on Sept 13, 2017 2:55:29 GMT
Dragonstone. Countless times had Marcel sailed past the bastion that guarded Blackwater Bay. Countless times and yet very rarely had there ever been much need to make port, much less visit the fortress. Marcel had been too preoccupied with his own journeys to worry about local relations, not that there was ever much to worry about. His father, Edgar Velaryon, had always maintained good relations with the Targaryens. The last time Marcel set foot in these halls it was years ago, together with his father. Circumstances had changed greatly since then.
The ascent up the causeways and battlements of Dragonstone Castle were difficult. Not due to any physical impediment, but rather the view of what was left of the royal navy. Chunks of charred ship hulls, ripped sails, and other various parts left over from the vessels trapped in the bay at the moment of the assault. Somewhere among the graveyard were likely the ships Marcel himself had sent when Dragonstone called for aid. Making them out would be nigh impossible.
The new Lord of Driftmark bought ashore a small detachment of advisors and sailors. Together they only numbered six and as the company made their final approach into the confines of the throne room Marcel waved off the group, bringing only one of his advisors with him to the doors. The others would remain outside. Marcel had heard the stories. Went over them again and again in preparation. Quellon Greyjoy – they called this man many things, but at the moment he was supposedly king.
Marcel knew that Greyjoy could have let his Ironborn loose to move south and devastate Driftmark Isle. Resistance would only add an element of time – the outcome would be the same. It was for this reason and no other that Marcel had responded to this summons. Why take the time to meet with the Lord of Driftmark given Quellon’s current superior positioning? The most obvious reason would be for an easy assassination, though this too failed to fit. Whether there was a standing Lord Velaryon or not would make little difference in a forceful struggle.
Finally, the doors swung open. Marcel strode forward all while taking in the somewhat grizzly visages of the men that Quellon had assembled. The young lord wore a white coat with a light mail lining, the Velaryon seahorse emblazoned on one of the arms. When Marcel finally reached the center of the audience floor, his advisor announced him.
Marcellus Velaryon – Lord of Driftmark, Lord of Tides
For many a year the Velaryon Lords had named themselves Lord of Tides. From the side of the Ironborn, especially now, that likely almost rang like a joke.
It was difficult to gauge the initial reaction from Quellon’s “court”. The death of Marcel’s father had been very recent and in the light of the assault on Dragonstone, news likely hadn’t travelled very quickly. It was likely that it was his father, Edgar Velaryon, who was expected here now. Regardless, Marcel showed no outward signs of fear or even the slightest bit of unnerving. His eyes finally came to rest on Quellon Greyjoy as he bowed to the Reaver King. A bow deep enough to convey respect but not deep enough to show subservience. “Your Grace.”
Only two small words but spoken with confidence. Though he was younger than most would expect, the Lord of Driftmark would not be taken lightly even in the face of these Ironborn.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 14, 2017 20:03:09 GMT
The Reaving King was a shadow at the end of the royal hall; a predator whose lone eye gleamed in the blackness, who loped about in the gloom before dawn when men were asleep and women defenseless, a panther of the sea, wild, untamed, hungry. Always hungry.
That was why Quellon had summoned the Lord of Tides here. It was no natural hunger that had him craving what Marcel had to offer. It was a deeper thing. A spiritual thing. A thing that made men conquer kingdoms and drown gods.
Love for his family.
“A sea of blood surrounds you and your home,” said the Reaving King. “I will make this offer once.”
A Captain King peeled away from the chamber walls. This man, Garieg Greyiron, stood in front of Marcel. He reached up and took the golden kraken brooch off of his chest and held it out.
The Reaving King spoke. His voice was that of a man speaking a truth all too sinister. “Give me your ships. Give me supplies and food and water. Sail with me back to Pyke. Be drowned. In exchange, I will find your sister.”
No, there were no lies here. No false promises. In order to dismantle Targaryen rule, the old blood of Valyria had to be taken and mixed with the rest of Westeros. Giving the Velaryon power to the Drowned God would bring many miracles to the Ironborn and accomplish another step needed to achieve complete annihilation of central rule.
And as for Marcel’s sister, Quellon spoke the truth there too. Again, it was all too sinister. It was the words of a man who hated the fact that she was missing for reasons that the Lord of Driftmark could only guess at.
Post by Marcellus Velaryon on Sept 15, 2017 2:56:23 GMT
The Reaving King was looking to grow his juggernaut further. Marcel quickly realized that it must not have mattered who was standing before Quellon. It could have been his late father and if not Marcel himself then someone else who had control over Driftmark’s resources. A carefully constructed ultimatum was meant to await whoever walked through the doors. All that mattered to the Greyjoy conqueror was the end and apparently, he had found the leverage to make the means to that end possible.
It wasn’t the backdoor threat or the mention of wanting ships or supplies that unnerved Marcel. His sister, Saelyra Valeryon – How or why could he offer such a thing? A little over three years she had been missing. The young lord himself spent much of that time combing the seas himself. Everyone, even Marcel at this point, had resigned to the idea that she had perished. There was no evidence to the contrary so why make such an offer? Was it some kind of bluff? News of Saelyra’s disappearance was spread as much as possible to try to aid in her search. It was certainly possible that the Ironborn had simply sat on the information, always intending to use it against Driftmark. Marcel dismissed the thought quickly as he looked directly into the Reaving King’s eyes. He knew something, but was now the time to raise it to question?
There were many risks before Marcel now, though indeed arriving here was a risk in and of itself. With no heir of his own as of yet House Velaryon found itself in a dangerous position. A wrong step here could spell doom for the family. In this cloud of questionable outcomes, it seemed as though accepting the Greyjoy offer was the proper play to make at this moment. Not only would it supposedly keep Driftmark intact but it would also allow Marcel a look at the inner workings of the Ironborn. If Quellon had legitimate information regarding Saelyra, then all the better.
“I trust that as I direct my people to provide you with all you have mentioned, they will be left unmolested. Knowing this I will sail and meet your Drowned God.” Though one of the Captains, Greyiron, stood right before him, Marcel still stared straight into the eyes of the Reaving King as he spoke.
Finally, though slowly, Marcel reached out and took the golden Kraken offered to him in hand. The Kraken and the Seahorse. Though both creatures of the ocean, one was a legendary predator. It seemed they were both playing similar roles here and now on land, at least for the time being.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 16, 2017 17:34:07 GMT
“Come,” spoke the shadow. His voice echoed down the hall and took on tones that no human could properly have. Distorted by the corpse of Dragonstone, the Reaving King sounded a dark god, an unforgiving god, a god whose arms rose from the sea and swallowed the land.
Marcel would have thought the Reaving King speaking to him. But it was the Captain Kings who moved. They reached to their sides and unhooked clubs of painted black wood with golden ensigns on them. A circle of armored men cruelly encircled Marcel and his aid. Unless molested, they would grab the servant and throw him out of the way. He had no business in what was to come.
“Eastern heresy has eaten away at Westeros for a long time,” said the Reaving King. “Aegon the Conqueror flew to the Iron Islands aback the Black Dread and burnt the last King of Salt and Rock alive. The flames, too, were black. For that is the color of our world.”
A Captain King struck out with his club. He was aiming to crash it into Marcel’s knee. Another would swing it across his jaw, hard as hell and twice as terrible.
All the while, the shadow continued to speak. A voice Marcel could not see. The voice of something greater then he knew. “By accepting my rule, you have accepted the ways of the West. The far west, where the sun drowns.
“You live on the rock of Driftmark, and I am the King of Salt and Rock. That means you, Marcel Velaryon, are my liege lord. You are Ironborn.”
Like hail from vicious autumn storms fell the clubs. They were blows sharp and hard, hammer blows, blows meant to forge this young man into something else. If left unchecked, the Captain Kings would kill him. And the Reaving King would not do so.
What is dead may never die, but instead only rises harder and stronger.
Quellon rose from his obsidian throne. His footsteps were thunder through the hall.
“You are desperate. Desperate to live.
“Desperate to save your family.
“Desperate to find your sister.”
He stopped just outside the circle. “And that is why you drown. In my black hall, you become a Captain King. In the Drowned God’s, you become a saint.”
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