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.
Lyra is the third born daughter of the Vale. She is a kind and loving girl, generous to those that need, especially to those that are crippled and disabled -- which can be said is because of her comparable inability to see.
Days of warm wind and clear skies between the mountains of the Moon were sparse in number. Always seen as an oppourtunity by the Vale residents they would take the chance to do things that were otherwise inconvenienced by the dreary rain, clouded horizon and bone chilling gusts. For the youngest lady of the vale, this was her chance to get out of the suffocating castle that her family occupied.
Her goal was to cross the vast distance into the Riverlands to the town of Harroway just west of the Trident, hopefully to obtain some desired commodities. Perhaps fabrics for a new dress, pearls from the bay of crabs, or even silk for sewing. A trip normally made by a trusted page or vassal, she instead desired to ride the land herself, only opting to take her handmaiden and her sworn sword.
The excursion would take a few days, having to pass through a few points along the way. The first being the Gates of the Moon, and then the Bloody Gate on the road to the Eyrie. A defense choke point, it was the Vale's primary defense against any invasion, and suffered many raids from the hill tribes in their foolish attempts to subdue the Knights of the Vale.
After a night spent in the shadow of the cliffs, Lyra was eager to ride further into the mountains, her horse tied to her leading Swords', and her hound following closely behind. Though she couldn't properly reign a horse, she always enjoyed the motion of the beasts hips rocking underneath her with each step.
Time spent questioning her handmaiden, Lyra barely noticed the sun beginning to dip behind the surrounding mountains they traversed. Certainly she also failed to notice movement of gray 'rocks' that surrounded the three of them.
It started with an arrow, loosed and flying, the sound of its heading cracking into stone behind her. The horses spooked, their scream of fright followed by rearing back. The girl clasped her hands around the saddle, hanging on tightly while trying to calm the mare.
"My Lady!"
The panicked voice of her sword, who closed the distance between them, cutting the rope that connected them.
"Is it Free Folk?" she inquired quickly, just as the ringing clash of a rock against armor filled her ears. Warmth splattered from the body, decorating her face and dress with red ichor.
"Lady Lyra, ride! Ride fast! Go bac--"
Her handmaiden to her right, the shadow of her body falling from her horse.
Panic began to set in, Cherise barking faster than her heart beat, she pulled on the reigns, kicking the mare hard and into a gallop. Hands quivered as she kept riding, tears blurring her vision even more. She had to head back to the gate, if she could do that, then she would be safe.
But the sun was setting, and her vision was growing darker than it already was.
A sudden jerk pulled the horse forward and to the left. It screamed, and plummeted to the ground, rolling down a hill and flinging the girl from it's back.
Lyra slid on the shale, coming to a stop at the bottom, and groaning from the pain of her hands. She couldn't see it, but she knew they bled from slight scrapes, wounds stinging from the dirt.
They fell, not far, but off the road.
"Cherise?"
A bark followed and she sighed in relief before she scanned the area for the shape of her horse. The large body moved in her peripheral as it tried to stand, yet finding it incapable.
The girl crawled to the beast, crossing the distance to calm the flustered animal, hands traveling down its side to touch the warmth of blood on its leg.
It was broken.
Tears crossed her cheeks, her body shaking from anxiety.
'What do I do?'
Teeth grazed across her lip as she reached in her saddle for her knife. The mare was loud, it's pain heard for miles, she had to do it. Shaking hands gripped at the hilt, her fingers tracing over its fur to mark her target. The throat would be easy to find, and vital enough for it's passing to be quick.
Once again her dress was covered in blood, and she was left alone with her hound.
A small hand reached to the beast, her vision finally black as the remnants of light had left.
"To the gate" she muttered. They had left the checkpoint that morning, and on horse. It would take her twice that time to walk back, and there was the threat of the hill tribes.
Never had she felt so helpless and afraid.
Fingers gripped at the knife, keeping it close to her body should she find herself in the unwanted company of others. In her hands it was little protection, but better than nothing as it gave her a false sense of security.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Unlike the residents of the Vale, Edyn liked it within the jagged cliffs that sharpened cold winds as they blew through them. He looked not for excuses to leave the embrace of the mountains, for over the years, it had become his refuge.
Edyn still remembered the last time he had left the Vale, heading to his home of Riverrun, the regional capital of the Riverlands. At the invitation of his father no less, he had been forced to leave, attending the mockery that had been the marriage of his father - the second marriage - to a wife not older than he was. And the worst of all: She was from North of the Trident, barely South of the Wall. A Stark of Winterfell with an unnatural look to her. Touched by snow and wilderness, she was. Edyn hated her.
The recent insult to his mother's memory still fresh on his mind, anger festering in his heart ever since she had taken her own life, the chill stones of the Vale's natural design had done well in keeping the Tully's rage contained.
But every once in a while, even that fury gleamed.
Part of Lady Arryn's travel group, Edyn had made ahead with a couple of riders, seeking to prepare the arrival of the Arryn visitor within Lord Harroway's town. Having ridden hard, the group had arrived with enough time to spare in the Riverlands. Lord Roote had certainly informed Riverrun of the arrival of Lord Edmund's son, but Edyn wouldn't honour his maker by putting in the extra miles for a surprise visit to Riverrun, even though half the way had already been completed.
A message on its own.
But when the party of Lady Arryn hadn't arrived in the early hours of the evening, Edyn had known better than to wait. Gathering the few men of her bodyguard that had ridden with him, the trio had made back to the Vale with haste, knowing well the danger of the roads. And Lady Arryn had insisted on a small guard, ever good-hearted, ever naive. Ever blind to the cruelty of these savages.
Having come across a slaughtered group of knights and the body of Lyra's handmaiden in the dead of night, they had known better than to scatter. By the hours of the early morning, his companions were dead. His horse was dead. His body sore, his armour heavy. He was holding onto his sword and wandered through the hills, screaming the name of his cousin like bloody howls that echoed of the walls of stone and sharpness. Certainly his voice would be heard by everyone in the area. And wildlings as well. But every wildling that ended up infront of him wasn't a wildling able to harm the Arryn, if she was even still alive.
And that would be more of a reason to kill these savages, not that Edyn had ever needed motivation. Howling about, screaming her name every dozen of yards completed, Edyn cut a way through the wilderness, painting the hills red.
Lyra is the third born daughter of the Vale. She is a kind and loving girl, generous to those that need, especially to those that are crippled and disabled -- which can be said is because of her comparable inability to see.
Never had the girl felt such a strong need to gaze upon the orange skies of a sunrise. Limbs screaming, and head pounding, she trudged through the rocky hills and small trees of the valley. Hand clenched tightly around the blade she wielded, knuckles turning white in her anxiety towards every sound. Once a shuffle of rock behind her had given way to a wildling advance, the unsuspecting man finding not only a pair of jaws tearing at his throat, but also that same blade digging into his chest.
Breath ragged, she was on the verge of hyperventilating. The only thing in her mind was getting back to to the choke point, but who knows how much farther she had to walk until she would feel safe again.
In the soft threads of dawn, she rested with her back against a rock, the cool feeling pressed to her back as her knees were raised to her chest and head laid upon those. It was not comfortable in the slightest, but she was able to gain a bit of strength back by the time the sun began to peek over the hills.
That was when she heard it for the first time, screams, somewhere off in the distance. Her head perked up and she listened again, wondering if it was nothing more than her imagination. Again. She heard the faint traces, and even Cherise reacted to the sound, which was enough reason to follow after it.
Footsteps quickened with each echo of his voice, recognizing her name in the short syllables, and she found hope rising in her heart. Cheeks burned red with tears, a white dress stained red of ichor and mud. Her appearance was the epitome of defeat as she finally let her eyes rest of the shadow of a man. Her name had left his lips, yet she didn't recognize anything about him and raised her knife in defense.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Standing before the Arryn girl, Edyn could have claimed to be the Stranger. And had her eyes worked properly, she couldn't have doubted him. His sword was covered in layers of blood. The first waves of crimson it had reaped had already dried. But there was fresher red soiling it. A butchering that was glistening in the light of the morning as it began to wake. But this was a red dawn.
There was a cut below Edyn's cheek. The other half of his face had suffered the imprint of a bone-cracking fist. Fighting like animals, the wildings in the tribes were fierce. While that scared some, it was just another reason for Edyn to not just kill them, but to hunt them down. But strangely for a man of his anger, he had had his fill. At least for the time being.
Was the daughter of Lord Marcus, his uncle, really so confused, that she did not recognize her own cousin, the one that had served with her family for half a dozen years or perhaps even a bit longer? "I reckon that I am someone you know. Otherwise your dog would have attacked me."
She was scared. She was cold. At least she looked the part. A night in the hills, filled with cold temperatures and fears for life. That didn't seem all that healthy. Edyn began circling around her, like those moving stones had before their ambush had begun. It was psychological warfare, even more before a close-to-blind maiden. At least she wasn't powerless, was she? There was red on that dagger of hers. "Maybe I'm a knight of the Vale. Here to save the Lord's daughter, full of valour. Full of honour."
He kept on circling her.
"Maybe I'm Harold, the squire of Ser Humfrey. You know. The knight that had his head caved in by a stone at the site of the ambush - attacked by wildlings from the hills because someone thought that riding with a small guard would be fine. Because someone wanted pearls. Or silk."
Malice coming so naturally to him, it wasn't as though he had to artificially add it to his words. Malice or not, they held a certain weight, didn't they? He shouldn't play his game for long. The dawn's full light would be upon them in barely half an hour. And what was left of the Wildling warband would try to reach them before one of the Bloody Gate's knight patrols.
Lyra is the third born daughter of the Vale. She is a kind and loving girl, generous to those that need, especially to those that are crippled and disabled -- which can be said is because of her comparable inability to see.
His words were surprising, leaving her in a state of shock at the man's malignity. It was true that Cherise stayed herself, simply standing at Lyra's feet, panting heavily from her exhaustion. But the girl could not help but sense some amount of ill intentions from the man who circled her. His voice faded in and out, emphasizing certain points in his speech, and in the end she was left a quivering mass.
Her ignorance had gotten those brave men killed, over ideals so petty. The simple desires of a girl so young faced consequences that should have been avoided.
Trembling lips covered by pale blood covered fingers in her acknowledgement of her actions. The want to fall deep into a dark hole consumed her heart like a hungry lumbering beast. Teetering on the brink of defeat from mere words alone, she found herself looking up to the red stained knight.
"Then why are you here? Why did you not go back? Had you just left me to die here..." words staggered as they passed from her mouth, strength leaving her legs until she collapsed onto her knees.
Sick, she felt so sick. Nausea from exhaustion alone, and the trauma only made it worse. Death frightened her; the concept of being beat to death by wildlings, after raped for nights on end, the sight of her hound cooking over a fire. All these nightmares plagued her mind, until her body found itself rejecting the fluid within her stomach.
Perhaps death was a merciful punishment for her crimes, and she should suffer shame of her pitiful existence.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]His cousin wasn't the only one close to throwing up. Edyn wanted to empty the contents of his stomach as well. Not because he didn't have the composure for the kind of situation they found himself in, but because her weakness had his insides turn, sparking an acidic taste in his mouth. It felt like a thousand needles had pricked him in the throat. The inside of his brain became incomprehensible. It oozed down into his stomach, where it all became a pit of helplessness. The first thing he could grasp for in that darkness was his anger, illuminating the darkness with his fury.
A mind-numbing rage... But Edyn fought it away. Reason overcame.
Edyn didn't mock her by throwing up over the mess she'd made, he didn't even scream. His anger was no roaring fire, not after he had killed a dozen men. It was cold steel. Hardened and cruel. Twisted because it had not been cooled off in water but in blood.
"Because I'm not you."
Stopping the little games, Edyn reached for her arm and pulled her back to her knees. "Listen to me."
Face to face, he implored. "It doesn't matter if you can't walk. You have to walk. It doesn't matter if you're cold. You can't collapse. If you stay here, you'll suffer beyond anything I could ever do to you." And wasn't that a fearsome thing? Edyn Tully complimenting the tribes of the hills. Albeit it was a compliment regarding their animalstic nature, there still rang the weight of truth. The sky is blue. Stones are hard. Water is wet. And these savages were cruel beasts.
Inbreeding and the hard circumstances of their lives had made them hard on their own.
Something twisted. Something from the dark times before memory.
Placing his cloak around her shoulders, Edyn couldn't help it that it smelled like dirt and blood. It was a scent he'd become familiar with over the years. And he didn't think she had the luxury to deny his knightly gift.
For a moment, Edyn looked at her in that red cloak. Even though it was battered and torn, bearing the stains of survival. Perhaps it had looked like that, twenty years ago. His father putting the red cloak of House Tully around the shoulders of his mother, her aunt.
As thought-creating a blow as it was, Edyn shoved that imagination of his past aside. Thinking of his father only made him sink deeper into helpless anger, and even he had to admit: While she was by his side, he couldn't be reckless.
"I'm a knight," he growled, grasping her by the shoulder.
"I'm a fucking knight," he roared, dragging her to the direction of the bloody Bloody Gates.
It was a good day's march away, judging from the distance of the taller peaks that allowed for orientation. But he hadn't told her that. He didn't need her to break down before the cruel march had even begun.
Lyra is the third born daughter of the Vale. She is a kind and loving girl, generous to those that need, especially to those that are crippled and disabled -- which can be said is because of her comparable inability to see.
It took everything she had to face him. The disgust for herself building to the point where she wanted to simply lay down on the ground until the stranger came to greet her. Yet her fear of pain and suffering, a reminder given to her by the familiar man, prevented that. A meek nod of her head was followed by her body staggering to straighten, knees weak from already having walked so far.
Warmth of his attire pushed away her despair, body no long trembling from the cold, and her eyes no longer burned from tears. Milky colored eyes glanced from the thick leather and fabric to the crimson knight, her curiosity about his generous favor increasing with each moment. Did he not feel the chill of the morning as well? The skin burning cold upon her cheeks that traveled through her body like the goosebumps that followed.
His vigor continued to surprise the girl, and she felt thankful for his effort in her rescue. Though she didn't show it in her expression. Her determination to walk, to push past the raw burning in her throat from lack of water, was the expression she held. Pain, and misery, plain as the sun rising next to them.
It felt like hours, though it could have been less. The distance crossed was hard, and her footing slipped on loose shale more than once. Lyra was left a withering soul, her throat crying out, breathing ragged, and her body going numb from the exertion of her muscles. She didn't want to stop, the fear for the both of them driving her forward, but her body made it impossible.
She stopped, reaching for her escort, air coming from her lungs in audible wheezes.
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