Fandom Dark Wings, Dark Words Main Thread (OPEN and Accepting)

[Jabroni]

Episode 1: Send the Ravens

Spoiler: Flavor Music

Spoiler: *** A Raven Finds Its' Way ***

[SCENE] The camera passes through dark clouds, the Vale of Arryn emerging into view. [SCENE]

There are those who say, "Dark wings carry dark words." An old manner of speech dating back to the First Men. They knew when black birds gathered overhead, death was near at hand. And in the Mountains of the Moon, a prodigious number ruled the skies as they do today, sending messages seldom wanted and seldom returned. House Arryn's own sigil is that of a white falcon and crescent moon. They too understood ancient portents and disavowed themselves of death as a concept. Instead the Arryns chose honor, for whatever that was worth. In the end, honor didn't seem to agree with the late King Harald. It shortened his life and struck him in his sleep as swift as the wind blows.

[SCENE] We continue following the bird's eye, swooping over King's Landing onto the Red Keep where guards patrol. Then our focus glides down beside a balcony below. A clutched hand. The grip loosens and something - what? Elegant jewelry, a locket of some kind shimmering a purplish hue, free falls into Blackwater Bay. [SCENE]

But honor has a way of selecting the high from the low, the troubled from the calm. Brave men stare into the abyss, yet something inside them fights back against the very thing that would destroy them. Not just their bodies, but a presence exerted only a few short years on this earth. A presence worthy of songs sung in every tavern and hanging from the lips of septons.

[SCENE] Cut to a Northerner dressed in full black plate. A barrage of chops and parrying clutter the screen. We can see remarkable ripples in the steel he carries as sunlight gleams off in just the right places. Pan out as a maester approaches with a seal scroll. [SCENE]

A fighter's greatest weapon is the one he wields. It brings him comfort against the growing darkness, because when the time comes he must be ready to use it. Even still, there are many kinds of weapons. Some protect against matters of the flesh. Others hone the mind like a blade to a grindstone. He must know them all or fall to each in turn. Aerys II thought wildfire was the ultimate destroyer, using its eviscerating properties to transform his problems into ash. However, the Mad King never saw the subtle threat creeping inside of him, and for this mistake his entire house risked utter annihilation.

[SCENE] A roughshod wanderer travels the streets of Flea Bottom, glancing back over his shoulder at the Red Keep. He clings to his swordbelt before disappearing down an alleyway. [SCENE]

[SCENE] Horseflesh. Two riders, one cloaked and whispering in the other's ear. The recipient is a fair-haired youth, his eyes opening widely from a profound realization. [SCENE]

[SCENE] Large, dark eyes reflect sand dunes surrounding gardens of water. We pull back to reveal a striking lady standing within a fortress shaped like a dromond. [SCENE]

[SCENE] A series of longships with over a hundred oars each float at anchor. Hanging above, sheets of black and gold flutter in the wind. A kraken sits inverted, ready to consume what lies above. [SCENE]



Meralith Tully
Great Sept of Baelor, King's Landing

Down here in the lower chambers, several hooded figures in roughspun robes gathered around a stone slab. Gray veils cowled their faces from nose to chin. Only their eyes betrayed any sense of humanity under there. Blood ran down their arms as they passed around various innards from hand to hand and from bin to bin. They stood around a body with its chest and gut protracted outward by some cruel device. Here laid King Harald, "First of His Name" and all the rest that went with it. He would take his titles with him to that other place, but only after his body had been prepared.

Meralith looked on with dutiful disgust. She held a handkerchief above her mouth, and it was all she could do not to wrench up the day's meal. Yet still she insisted on being here. The High Septon initially protested, mentioning something about traditions and customs. She tried to explain what the Stranger had told her several nights ago. That he showed her a vision of what was to come and how it would all unfold. "I saw the Sisters, shrowded in gray, and I saw my Harald lying naked of all sin before the Seven," she said. After sharing her experience, His High Holiness took her story as a sign she should join the ancient order. "After all, widows are most welcome here."

She thought long and hard about it. Meralith wouldn't be the first of noble blood to say the words, her final words that is. But how could she leave her son's side at such a time? He needed her comfort and support in the trials to come. Let me bury him. The Gods will decide what happens then. After the embalming, funeral arrangements would continue for several days before Westeros' lords and ladies arrived. There was much too much to be done...


NPC Movements

*** The Kingsroad increases in activity from Last Hearth to the Stormlands as military escorts begin clogging traffic. Most head towards the capital but a few splinter off after smaller holdfasts. Septons and septas proselytize across these routes, spreading word of King Harald's demise.

The Lord of Dragonstone arrives in King's Landing to pay his respects as do several other Crown lords, including the Lord of Duskendale and the Dun Fort, Markas Rykker. Each bring a small household guard and are currently staying in the Red Keep. ***

 

[CheeseQueen]

X A L F I E X


“I’m sorry boy, this is all we have left my friend” A young man spoke to his hoofed friend as he pulled a bunch of carrots from his pocket. “I’d rather you have strength then I. After all, I can not do my work if you are not strong enough to carry us to our destination. I spouse its a fairly equal partnership” Alfie added as he moved his free hand gently over the horses face. Yes , the boy looked perhaps crazy speaking to his hoofed friend. But at the same time, he did not care what people thought of him. A horse was the best friend a man could have. They where loyal , fierce, and strong. All a man needed in these hard times.

After the boy was done petting the stallion. Alfie moved his free hand to pick the carrots to offer the horse. The horse took them with no hesitation. One by one his last source of food quickly declined, being consumed by his friend. Next after the horse had been fed, Alfie untied the rains from the tree where he was camping under. And begun to saddle the mighty stead up. And then Patted the side of his neck as he climbed on to his back. Alfie had cleaned his camp up prior to this. The boy didn’t exactly have much, but then? What could a boy really need?

Gently kicking his foot and tugging the rains, Alfie begun his expedition. “We’ll, to kings landing” Alfie spoke with a whisper, not that anyone was really listening. They young man had heard tales and story’s coming from the place. He wanted to check them out for himself to see if they where true. Though it was a slight track to Kings landing, he was sure to make it in time for the events soon to take place. Although, the boy wouldn’t be doing it in one go, just simply heading there without stopping. No that would be ridiculous.

Alfie would be stopping at taverns to rest and pick up jobs if needed to. It would be silly to just head straight there. Plus he also had to take in consideration to animals a ruffians along on his journey. Although, they shouldn’t be a problem as Alfie was a good swordsman. Though Animals had to eat and ruffians had to steal and kill.

So, as well as heading to Kings landing being one of his goals. His other was to reach the next town in one piece.

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Location: Pyke, the Iron Islands, and the Narrow Sea
Interactions: n/a

Reynir Greyjoy​

One Week Ago...

It was the kind of grey summer day that promised winter's inevitable entrance, when the sea and sky were both flat and dark, melding into each other at the horizon, as if the world simply ended at the edge of human vision. The kind of day that visitors to Pyke would remember, would write home about, and not kindly. Harsh and bleak and joyless.

It was only joyless if you could only find joy in the sunshine, which spoke poorly of one's character, Reynir thought. It was a cold, grey day, and the clear high voices of women singing waulking songs carried across the island, the rhythmic thump of yards and yards of wadmal being beaten accompanying their singing. The men barking sails at the docks at Lordsport hummed along, new sails turning the bright red of fresh blood and old sails the rust-red of blood long dried. Away from the docks, knee-deep in the frigid waters thralls gathered mussels and everlasting dulse, one of the few seaweeds at its best in summer instead of winter. And further still the great ships of the Iron Fleet were anchored, their black and gold sails furled and pitch-blackened hulls darker than the still sea around them. Reynir was knee-deep in water himself, his bare feet long gone numb. He was praying, or rather, he had been praying. For some time he had just been standing in the sea, listening to life on Pyke move around him. Which was a kind of prayer, perhaps.

Somewhere above the gulls began screaming, and Reynir looked up to find them harassing a raven. He frowned, tracking the dark bird's progress across the sky, where it disappeared into the rookery. Reynir sighed and climbed out of the sea.

Someone from the green lands was writing him, it would seem.

His bare feet clumsy from the icy sea, Reynir walked from the beach at Lordsport, past the long rows of wooden racks where cod and haddock and wolffish dried in preparation for storage for both winter and travel for trade, to the great castle Pyke. It was not the largest castle on the islands, nor the most comfortable, but it was certainly the most imposing. The towers perched precariously on the rocky islands straining into the sea were salt-whitened near the base before green lichens took over, and smoke had blackened them near the top. It was home, and Reynir loved it.

He was nearly to the castle's main entrance when Aino emerged. She was his salt wife, a Tyroshi girl he'd carried off from a pleasure house on his first reaving as captain, despite her best efforts to claw him apart through his armor. She was small and pear-shaped and still dyed her wavy hair blue in the Tyroshi fashion, and she waited for Reynir to come to her at the door, rather than go to him.

"A raven?" he asked.

"From King's Landing," Aino said. She wrinkled her nose. "You smell like low tide."

"Are you sure it's me, and not the, uh--" he paused to look at the nearby sea, "--low tide?" Aino swatted at him, and he let the blow land with a laugh. They passed through the stables and kennels to cross the great stone bridge to the Great Keep, and then more bridges to the ancient Sea Tower, and up to Reynir's solarium. His mother, elder sister, uncle, and twitchy Maester Wendamyr were already gathered there.

"From the capitol, my lord," Wendamyr said, passing the sealed letter to Reynir, who opened it with his knife and read it.

"Well?" his uncle Dalton asked. He and Reynir were of a height, though Dalton was broader than his nephew, and his dark hair flecked with gray.

"King Harald has finally decided to do us a kindness and has died," Reynir said. "I've been invited to watch them put the bastard in the ground."

"They invited you? Really?" his sister Astrid asked. She had the stockier build of an Ironborn, but her hair was their mother's Valyrian blond, which she kept in many braids.

"It would be rude not to invite the Lord of the Islands," Maester Wendamyr said.

"How old is the crown prince?" Reynir asked, as if he hadn't been listening.

"Fourteen? Fifteen?" Dalton said. "Why?"

"A fifteen year old, and the river queen at the head of an army that hasn't been to battle in well over ten years," Reynir said. "That sounds tempting."

"That's what your father thought, and it cost him two sons," Dalton said.

"My father fought Harald. I'm going to be fighting a boy who's probably never seen blood."

"It takes more than one man to fight a war," Dalton said, unswayed.

"So I'll take my pretty little invitation to King's Landing, and I'll see who has the queen's ear, and if wiser men still rule I will keep your counsel."

Dalton sighed. "Very well."

"Then it sounds like we have quite a lot to get done," Reynir's mother, Melia, said.

Two Days Later...

The second raven's letter, unsigned and sealed in plain wax, came two days later, just as Reynir's preparations to depart came to a close. This time only his uncle was in the solarium with him to receive it, standing in the damp room together as Reynir cut the seal. He read the letter aloud to his uncle.

"To the True King of the Iron Islands,

"The Crownlands will not stand in your way.

"The Old, The True, The Brave"

"It could be a trap," Dalton said.

"It could be that the dragons and I have similar thoughts," Reynir said, burning the anonymous letter in the fire struggling to warm the solarium. "It doesn't change anything. Yet."

But that was a lie, and Dalton and Reynir both knew it. If the letter did come from what was left of the Targaryens, it meant they saw the same opportunity Reynir did, and were willing to sacrifice their claim to the Iron Islands to take back the Iron Throne.

It meant war, with or without them.

Now...

Reynir had taken the journey from Pyke to the Stepstones so often he fancied that the Iron Serpent could make the voyage crewless. But past Tyrosh, up the Narrow Sea near the Stormlands, they were in less familiar waters. But the winds were with them, and the Iron Serpent snaked through the sea gracefully. She was not the largest ship in the Iron Fleet (that honor went to its flagship, Dalton's Iron Victory), but she was still an impressive hundred oars, her prow and stern carved in the image of her namesake water dragon's head, neck, and tail. Her prow also had an iron battering ram, lovingly shaped like a kraken wrapped around the Serpent's prow, as if to drag her below.

There had been some debate on the number of ships to bring, but in the end the Iron Serpent had gone alone. The crew of the Iron Serpent would be fully sufficient to torment the citizens of King's Landing while Reynir played nice with the other lords, and in all honesty he had no interest in taking the capitol. Riverrun would be more to his taste as a prize.

“You’re scheming,” Aino said.

“Hmm?” Reynir said, looking down as she joined him on the deck.

“You’ve got that smile like you’re thinking about murder,” she said, slipping under his arm.

“I was thinking about the nice castle I’d like to win for you,” he said. Aino snorted.

“You told me something like that before you brought me to Pyke.”

“It’s got character,” Reynir protested. Aino snorted again. “You’ll like Riverrun. It’s warm there. And green.”

“And you’ll be King of the Islands and the Rivers, is that it?”

“Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“You’re insane,” Aino said in tones of great affection. Reynir squeezed her and kissed her blue hair.

“Only if I lose,” he said.

 

[Silvertongue]

Ellaria Nymeros Martell​

The blood oranges were long gone from the trees, a parade of people had been steadily harvesting them across the past week but their sweet tang still scented the air. In the courtyard Ellaria watched as children played in the pools, her younger sister showed a gaggle of children how to wield a spear as her brother lounged next to one of the pools. She watched as numerous attendants made their way around the Gardens, checking on those who resided inside of it. Ellaria kept her posture straight but allowed a small smile to grace her features, she'd been to the Gardens ever since she was a little girl - her Father insisting she play with the common and noble folk alike and truthfully when they were soaked to the bone in the pools with the sun shining down on them it was impossible to tell one from the other. Their time at the Watergardens had always been her favourite, chasing after her brother's to demand they teach her how to climb the orange trees and her sister teaching her how to swim. It was why even now she ensured they ventured there once every few moons, so they could hold onto a memory of those lost - a place of tranquillity. It gave them the peace their lives usually lacked. Sunspear was her home but she couldn't let her guard down there, she shouldn't let it down anywhere but there was something to be said for the atmosphere of the Gardens and the knowledge a dozen loyal Knights guarded it with another dozen on patrol of the surrounding roads. It was out of the way and somewhere only the locals and those familiar to the family ventured. Of course a Princess of Dorne was never truly relaxed, she had a pile of parchment in her solar that was taller than some of her cousins but her appearance helped the mood of those closest to her and so she had sworn off the counting of coppers for an afternoon and had even indulged in a glass of Dornish Red. Her cousins shouting could be heard echoing across the courtyard as they raced each other to climb the orange trees.

Her peace, however, was shattered when the goblet of Dornish Red clattered to the ground, a rock falling down alongside it, Ellaria looked to see her sister - barefaced and standing proud as the gaggle of smallfolk and noble children alike stood behind her with wide eyes.

She focused on Ashara and glared, calling out to her. “Impertinent brat. What happened to a ladies courtesies? Don't you know not to throw rocks at a Princess?” She knew the amused quirk of her lips belied the severity of her tone and her sister merely cackled in response and turned back to instructing the children around her.

She wasn't surprised. Ashara was a girl who'd broken her nose three times by the age of twelve and everyone knew what to expect from a girl with a broken nose and a chipped tooth. Her sister was by all accounts a spirited monster of a girl in the deceptive guise of a lady with eyes the colour of the pools of the gardens she was often found in and fair hair like the maidens of the stories. Watching the hellion grow up had been how Ellaria had learnt how appearances could be extremely deceptive. The girl was as light as her brother was dark but they were inseparable in a way that made something inside of Ellaria ache for what she'd lost.

Meanwhile Edric shot her a look of sympathy as his hand made ripples in the pool, he was the older of the twins by five minutes, and he was as dark as his sister was light. His expression was consistently serious, which hid a consummate prankster who was unique in the he was never caught. Before she could chastise her sister's carelessness the gates of the Water Garden's opened and a sand steed barded in the Martell colours galloped into the courtyard, lathered in sweat and the riding panting; the rider dismounted, practically throwing himself from its back as he tossed his reins to the closest servant and muttered his thanks. The Maester was the closest to him and she watched as he bowed his head and handed over a scroll.

The Maester looked over at her, his expression grave as he turned it over in his hand.

A gust of wind rustled the trees, and she shivered as she got up from where she'd been sitting. Goblet now firmly cast aside where it was now forgotten.

Messengers rarely brought good tidings.

The messenger and Maester made their way over to her and she nodded at her siblings as they eyed her questioningly, Edric taking her signal and heading off to find her Mother whilst Ashara excused herself from the impromptu spear lesson and headed to her Aunt.

"Princess! Ah, Princess Ellaria, forgive me for my entrance but the message was from Kings Landing. The raven arrived a day ago and of course we couldn't open such a thing without you. The horse nearly gave up a few times, the seven help the poor thing, gods-" The man leaned over, head between his knees as he took a breath.

Ellaria took that moment to cut in, Courtesy is a lady’s armour, she thought. "Thank you, ser. Your diligence is appreciated and will be rewarded." She smiled at him and gestured for the nearest attendant to lead the man away and be given some gold. Which would hopefully keep the messenger far enough that he could not overhear or witness her reaction to whatever it was that inspired such urgency in the sender. He was vaguely familiar and she trusted he truly had come from Sunspear but she still didn't wish to risk him overhearing whatever the news was.

Gesturing for the Maester to follow she made her way to her Solar, knowing the others would follow.

When everyone was gathered in the safety of her solar she gestured for her brother to close the door as she opened the wax seal.

You are hereby summoned to King's Landing and to attend the royal funeral as his Grace is interred at the Sept of Baelor. Ellaria took in a shuddering breath at the news, Harald had been so young - not even reaching his fortieth name day. Far too young for a King. He had been a good King, better than Aerys - not that that was a particularly glowing endorsement of his reign. Schooling her expression and her posture she inhaled, sending a quick prayer to the Mother and the Seven for his soul. "The King is dead." Ellaria saw no use wasting words, watching as the shock rippled across the group. Suspicion clouding her Mother's features and Ellaria found herself matching it. "No mention on the cause of his death; he could have fallen to sickness, a hunting accident or something more nefarious. The scroll didn't say. He's taken his last breath and I'm invited to watch him be placed to rest in Baelor's Sept." At least he hadn't starved himself to death like Baelor, Harald hadn't seemed the pious sort to her. But he hadn't seemed sickly either.

"Gods rest his soul." Her Mother murmured, eyes flickering upwards briefly.

"If he's been poisoned then someone just killed the most powerful man in Westeros." Her Aunt murmured, the smell of wine clinging to her and filling the room as Ellaria tried to hide her frown and ignore the distaste she felt at the sight. "May the Mother save us all." She let out a half-laugh, half-sob at that, "We're doomed."

Her Mother looked over at her in disproval, "Or she's blessed us." Her Mother pointedly made eye contact with her and Ellaria fought the urge to sigh. They could argue amongst themselves another day.

"Of course it's a blessing, now there's just a boy sitting on the throne-" Ashara scoffed, "Do you really think he can control the seven kingdoms? He probably still hides behind the skirts of his septa-"

"He's fifteen, not five, older than Ellaria was-" Edric sighed from where he had placed himself next to her.

"But Ellaria wasn't Queen-"

"-No but she was in charge of a Kingdom-"

"It still doesn't mean we should bow down before him-"

"Whether a blessing or a curse you have a duty attend the funeral Princess, to not would be a grave insult to the new King." Maester Doran intoned gravely, cutting off the argument between the siblings before she could. The man had always been a serious sort and Ellaria had never been as grateful to the man for his dull disposition as she was then. "And to the memory of King Harald." The siblings seemed to sober at that, a grudging respect for the man their brother's had died for.

​

"This gives us a chance Nym." Ashara looked over to her, pleading in her voice even as she fought to keep it out. The girl fought to keep her expression neutral but the tightening of her fingers around her armrest had not escaped Ellaria's notice. Her sister held all of the Dornish temperament but she had much to learn before she could possess all of the Dornish wit. "Why not now? Why should we wait another decade?"

Would they honour the vows they'd made? Support the new King? Or make a grab for what they were owed.

And wasn't that the question.

Ellaria knew that some vows were writ in ink, others steeped in honour and tradition. The vows she had made, she and her House, were the ashes of her sister Tyene, her Uncle Arthur and her Father. They'd promised their souls vengeance, sworn it in front of the Mother and the Seven. Then the blood of her brothers, Lewyn and Olyvar, was spilt on the battlefield in the name of that. They'd killed a mad King and his eldest son but the dragons still remained, alive and well on their ancestral seat. But Dorne remembered what they'd lost, their history was written out for all to see; their past and present losses. Every other House than Sunspear had been burnt, every house had lost men and boys in the war and every house had watched as they'd waited for their justice, they'd supported Harald because he was just and everything the Scab King was not. But they'd still been denied their justice. So in the years since his crowning, Dorne had become reclusive at court. She'd appear in the Red Keep and remind the other Kingdoms of their existence and power but they'd turned their focus inwards, unifying and pacifying the Lords and finding places outside of the north to trade. They were working, slowly, to a new future - free from what had burnt them once before. Free to get what was owed to them.

There were those who claimed the desert was the place of the oldest habitation in Dorne, the place where life had begun under the harsh sun and during the cold moonlit nights, long before there were even Houses, thousands of years before Nymeria's ships landed on their shores and long before there had been an iron throne to bow down before. Others insisted that was merely something the Dornish told themselves, to give themselves a sense of pride and belonging the way the Northmen could claim to be descended from the trees themselves. It was the sort of place with a long memory, one not kind to those who wronged it. And they had been wronged. Dorne did not forget and they did not allow anyone to break them. Ellaria had not forgotten what was owed to her. She couldn't deny the burning in her lungs, in her veins when she thought of her family burning and suffocating and screaming - she hadn't been there when it had happened but for years she'd woken to the sound of their screams ringing in her ears all the same.

This could be her chance to silence those screams, to get the blood Dorne craved.

"The majority of the Dornish nobles would be on our side, they remember what we've lost and they're a loyal sort. The Orphans are enjoying their freedom and so they can help watch the rivers." She mused thoughtfully, playing it out in her head. "The boy king is the gentle type but those around him aren't. If there were whispers of rebellion they'd sooner bring us in line than bargain." She wasn't sure who would be on the Boy King's council, especially if his Mother took on the role of regent. But if he chose the right people, if he heeded their council then their efforts would be in vain.

"They have the numbers, even with the gold from the trade with Bravos it wouldn't be enough." Edric seemed to be doing the numbers in his head as his fingers danced in the air, tapping out a rhythm only he could hear. "We'd need allies."

Ashara cut in, incensed at the suggestion. "We're not going to bow for scraps at some Lord's table. If it really came to it we could survive, not necessarily in an open field but we could kill them piecemeal. We know these lands better than anyone. We could cut them down, coat our spears so they rot from the inside out." The bloodlust in her sister's voice should have soured something inside of her but Ellaria knew they felt the same anger and knew that anger could be useful.

Her fingers tightened around the scroll at the thought, she fought to straighten her posture and quell the apprehension and anticipation that must have been dancing across her face at that. Ellaria had been a mere child when her Father had died and yet she could still remember how he'd sit during meetings, proudly at the head of the table. She could remember sneaking into the solar with her siblings and watching as he'd held council, he'd made it look so easy, so noble - she still couldn't understand how he had done it so easily even now. She schooled her expression into a neutral one before looking out at her private council; Maester Doran, her Lady Mother, her Aunt Meira, Ashara and Edric. All looking on her, waiting for her judgement.

"We'll attend the funeral, show our respect and move among the serpents of Kings Landing. If the boy king is weak, if he doesn't seem like he'd be amenable to our requests then we'll take action but I won't risk everything we've built unnecessarily. It'll do us no good to get what we're owed only to die ourselves in the process." Ellaria reasoned, resisting the urge to sigh in relief as those around her nodded in acceptance even if some were more reluctant than others. Truthfully from what she knew of the boy he was the kind and gentle sort, not the kind to murder in the name of blood - she doubted he'd do as they asked, not without some pushing from those around him. Which would mean War, of the political or literal sort.

Which would mean more lives lost either way.

She turned to the Maester, a fair haired man who'd taught her for as long as she could remember, "Send a message to the Harbour master, we'll set out for Kings Landing tomorrow. Tell him to get the supplies and the ship ready for sunrise." He nodded his acquiesce and hurried off, more nimbly than she'd expected given his age. Slowly the rest of the makeshift council shuffled out behind him and she headed to the balcony that overlooked the rolling dunes in the distance and the rest of the Watergardens. Her home, one she hated leaving. But Kings Landing called once again and it was her duty to heed it.

It seemed more blood would be spilt, one way or another. And this time it would be on her hands.

A Week Later . . .

She had left Dorne before, whenever the call from the King came or whenever it best served her interests but now she was arriving in uncertain times. The seas surrounding Kingslanding rarely made for an easy trip, especially during the rough winter months but haste was important if they were to make the funeral and so there hadn't been time for her and her retinue to ride across the mountains and through the Reach. When she was a girl she'd always taken to attempting to get as high as she could and imagining she was Nymeria sailing across the seas to claim their home. Of course as she'd gotten older she'd realised it was no carefree journey, they'd been fleeing for their lives, in a desperate and bloody search where the journey claimed most of them. She was thankful their journey had been relatively peaceful, the seas of Dorne easy enough to sail through and the Stormlands not living up to their name.

The captain called down to her quarters that they'd nearly arrived and she left her cabin for the deck. Wanting to see Kings Landing before they arrived. She headed to the bow, sticking to the side in her best efforts to stay out of the crews way. A few called out to or bowed to her but she waved them off to focus on their duties, not wanting respect to lead them all to an early grave. They weren't a Kingdom known for their skill at seafaring.

Her brother was already there, steady and seemingly unbothered by the movement of the ship beneath his feet.

Usually she'd remind him of the differences of Dorne and Kings Landing, the looks to expect and the whispers that would follow him wherever he'd walk but she knew he was aware of it by now. King's Landing was different, there were always eyes following you, swarming and circling like the vultures in the desert, ready to descent at the first hint of blood, scavenge from whoever was unlucky to misstep or misspeak. She knows how to enterain, befriend, twist and talk around those there and sometimes she even enjoys it, enjoys the power of knowing how to use people but hating the ugly part of her it brings out. Something cold and sharp and unfeeling, as cold as the Kingdom itself - at home she feels as bright as the sun whilst in Kings Landing she burns with anger and hides it behind glossy clothes and false smiles.

"Dorne was never taken. It was given, in the name of friendship and they forsook that. And now may be the time for us to take it back, so we can finally free ourselves from the Dragons for good. For Dorne." Ellaria said with her back straight as she stood at the bow, the wind whipping around her and the smell of the salt in the air. It was a promise to the Mother if she was listening, that she would do what needed to be done, they were a long way from the rivers of their home but she had faith the promise would be heard all the same.

"For Dorne," Her brother murmured softly from beside her, so his words were lost to the wind for everyone but her, as they looked out at the Red Keep in the horizon.

The figurehead of their ship held his spear aloft and towards the red castle on the horizon and Ellaria wondered what it was that awaited them, what it was that the young Prince she could remember would become with a crown on his head.

 

[Jabroni]

Markas Rykker
Red Keep, King's Landing

"Your Grace, it deepens me sadly to hear of your father. He was...a proud man," said Markas. "I remembered him at the Trident like it was yesterday. A fierce fighter in his time to be sure, and now he joins the Warrior as all soldiers do." This prompted an appreciative nod from the queen, who sat idly beside her son. Cedrick Arryn, Heir to the Iron Throne, and nothing like his father. The boy knew nothing about war and all the terror that affords it. He enjoyed every privilege a silver spoon living could promise, and it reeked from his pores. Not only that, but he was timid and quick to trust anyone so long as they were polite. As far as Markas was concerned, the only trait resembling Harald was the boy's straight, fire-kissed hair.

"My dear Lord Markas, I thank you for your kind words. You- you're a friend...a true friend to the Crown," came the reply. "We are indebted to you for coming on such short notice. It must have been inconvenient for you- I mean...You must have had a long day." The young prince smiled nervously as he stumbled through whatever it was he tried to say. Meralith brushed a hand across his back reassuringly. She coddled him then as she coddled him all the years Markas attended court.

A servant entered just as things began to get awkward, announcing the arrival of several parties. Russal Mallery, Lord of Dragonstone, arrived yesterday with an honor guard of twenty men-at-arms led by Ser Rickar. They also received word that Princess Ellaria's ship was spotted in Blackwater Bay just an hour ago. Special preparations were made for the Dornish, including "surprise entertainment" from Chataya's whorehouse and several kegs of Dornish red from the keep's personal reserves. For the Starks, three wagons of cured leather weighing a hundred stone. For the Lannisters, a pair of executive suites overlooking the Narrow Sea. And for the Ironborn...a drafty hold tucked in the keep's bowels with no windows.


Later that evening...

Various lords and ladies gathered in the main hall, commiserating over hors d'oeuvres and strong drink. A well-known harpist by the name of Syrello played a soft melody off to one side. Breaking through the monotony came a boisterous laugh echoing across stone pillars lining both flanks of the building. There stood a giant among men, probably the size of two people and then half that again in height. He wore a brown bearskin cloak and a boiled leather tunic. This was unmistakably Daman Tallhart of Torrhen's Square, and he appeared to be telling an amusing jape among several others in attendance. In one corner, an older, dignified man stood dutifully with hands clasped behind his back, apparently preferring not to engage in conversation. His cloak and that of two others beside him bore six white mullets over a purple field.

In the center of the gallery, a homely and rather chubby lady seemed emotionally distraught over something. She sat at the long table which extended halfway down the hall with baskets of fruit and cheeses, legs of lamb and fresh-cooked venison stew. An attendant attempted to console her woes with a handkerchief, but she waved her hand at him as she tried regaining herself. Just behind them sat the Crown Prince and Queen Regent on their respective elevated chairs. Meralith whispered in her son's ear before addressing a maester with curly brown hair. He appeared to hand something over, which he momentarily blocked out of view with his body. The queen was then briefly seen pocketing an object inside her left sleeve.

*Active Scene* (Lasts until march 6th or whenever everyone is finished)

Festivities for the reception continue for several hours, and those who are not there already would be announced by a herald upon arrival. For anyone who is running behind in their travels, there would be an opportunity to appear the next day for the funeral procession across King's Landing. There will be a parade of sorts leading from the Red Keep to Baelor's Sept.

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Location: Blackwater Bay/the Red Keep
Interactions: open

Reynir Greyjoy
​

Blackwater Bay
The Blackwater was still as the Iron Serpent turned into it, the winds gentle as they pushed inland. It wasn’t until King’s Landing came into sight that Reynir called for oars and the deck burst into activity. The sails were trimmed, the oars extended, and the drums began pounding, keeping time as they rowed into the harbor.

Even though it had been ages since the Ironborn had raided in Westeros, Reynir liked to imagine that the sight of a longship still struck fear into the hearts of the Westerosi people. What if this time, he imagined them thinking, What if this time the Ironborn came to reave instead of trade?

Little fishing boats scurried out of the Serpent’s way as they rowed into the harbor, like fish fleeing an approaching shark, making Reynir crack a grin. Ahead of them, a lovely Dornish galley sailed with slow grace, and the Iron Serpent out paced her with little effort. Njall, head of Reynir's guard, started whistling the Dornishman's Wife as they passed, and Reynir smirked wider and sang along. Njall stopped whistling to sing as well, and the two belted out the final stanza, Njall off-key and hearty, Reynir in a clear tenor:

"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,
the Dornishman's taken my life,
But what does it matter, for all men must die,
and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"

The crew hooted and laughed with them as they finished, and the Iron Serpent sailed on in high spirits.

“Eyvind, you have the Serpent,” Reynir said, as they anchored her in the harbor, sails furled. “Njall, you and your men with me.” Eyvind had once been part of his father’s crew, and he had been Reynir’s first mate since he received the Iron Serpent at seventeen. Eyvind was as humorless as they came, but his experience was worth more than humor.

Eyvind looked at Njall in his black iron and leather armor and said, “You’re more than welcome to it,” to which Njall laughed.

Reynir turned his attention to the rest of the crew. "Play nicely, my sweets, you know they bruise easy in the greenlands," he said, and the crew laughed. "I'll only bail you out from the gold cloaks if whatever you did was extremely funny."

"Don't encourage them, Captain," Eyvind said sourly.

"Someone has to," Reynir said, and winked as he went to join Aino at the rail, where the smaller dingy was being prepared to bring them to shore. Reynir took her by the hand to help her into the boat, and to see what they'd find at the Red Keep.

The Red Keep
The gathering in the main hall was, perhaps suitable for a funeral reception, rather dull. It was preferable to remaining in the drafty hold the Grayjoy entourage had been given, however.

Aino was clearly having similar thoughts, as she leaned into Reynir and asked, quietly, "Do you think the rest of them have been given rooms without windows too, or are we just special?" She was dressed for court in a long gown of blue silk so dark it was nearly black, cut more in Esterosi fashion with a plunging neckline under a black leather collar shaped rather like a piece of armor, tooled with the Grayjoy kraken and tentacles tangled in intricate knotwork. The knotwork was mimicked on her belt, as well as on Reynir's own belt, boots, bracers, and the single pauldron he wore on his right shoulder. Under it, over his long dark jerkin, he wore a sort of half-cape, the golden kraken of his house folded over on itself. His hair was loose, while Aino's blue hair was braided back with gold and glass and bone beads. She may have once been a slave girl from Tyrosh, but she held herself like a queen, and Reynir thought with with pride that no nobly bred lady in the room could hold a candle to her.

Reynir smirked and said, "The queen isn't afraid of the rest of them."

Aino raised an eyebrow. "You'd think she'd be nicer to us then."

"Oh, it's easier to pretend she can bully me a bit and then I'll behave."

Aino smirked and adjusted her hold on his arm. "They would know you better if they ever left their silly little castle," she said.

"They would." The philosophy of ruling that those who held the Iron Throne did truly baffle him. How was one supposed to rule seven kingdoms when one never left King's Landing? Reynir reached for a glass of wine from a passing servant and handed it to Aino. "We'll have to present ourselves at some point, but I think we deserve a drink first."

Aino smiled and gently touched the rim of her glass to the one Reynir took for himself.