"They say the spring was bad in Lannisport and worse in Oldtown, but in King’s Landing it cut down four of ten. Neither young nor old were spared, nor rich nor poor, nor great nor humble. Our good High Septon was taken, the gods’ own voice on earth, with a third of the Most Devout and near all our silent sisters. His Grace King Daeron, sweet Matarys and bold Valarr, the Hand… oh, it was a dreadful time. By the end, half the city was praying to the Stranger."
—Septon Sefton
I N T R O
It has long been thought that the winters of Westeros are the most damning part of life in the kingdoms. Their cold sinks deep into the land, robbing the fields of their grain and leaving the people with nothing. It lasts for years at a time, children born and dying without ever knowing the kiss of summer and the sweetness of warmer times. Spring is normally a great joy because of this. Festivals are planned as soon as the Citadel's archmaesters announce its pending arrival, plowmen eagerly return to their farms to sow food for their wives and kin. The great houses sally forth from their castles to break bread with friends and rivals alike, to forge new relationships and mend old wounds in the season of rebirth.
The year 209 was not so kind as to deliver that sort of spring. Nobody truly knows where the plague began. The pious claim it a punishment, sent from the Gods themselves, whilst learned men speculate the malady came by way of the trade winds and the foreigners who sailed them. The origin mattered not. The Great Spring Sickness, as it became known, crossed Westeros like wild fire. Through villages and hold fasts, cities and strongholds, the pestilence claimed both high and lowborn alike. Strong men would wake fine in the morning and be ferried into shallow graves by nightfall, so quick was it to act. It ravaged the countryside badly, but nowhere was it worse than the cities; Lannisport, Oldtown and King's Landing most of all saw swathes of men, women and children die in the streets as the year dragged on.
By the time the year closed and the sickness abated with it, Westeros was in disarray. Tens of thousands of smallfolk lay dead, houses lost lords and lordlings alike, with boys young as five forced to rule with the deaths of their fathers. In the capital, four in every ten had succumb and the meddling of pyromancers burning bodies by the hundreds set a fourth of the city ablaze. Not even the great dragons who sat the Iron Throne were spared the chaos. Good King Daeron, his Hand of the King Valarr and dear grandson Matarys fell ill and perished within the Red Keep by spring's end. His second son, Aerys, a spindly scholar with more interest in reading than ruling ascended the throne soon after. Only the Vale of Arryn and Dorne survived unscathed, sealing mountainous borders and awaiting the blight to pass.
Yet, when crisis on such a scale occurs, rarely does it slink away with a whimper. Not fourteen years prior, half of Westeros rose with the black dragon Daemon Blackfyre when he sought to overthrow his brother. The rebellion cut lines deep into the unity of the kingdoms, and warfare consuming Westeros until the Battle of Redgrass Field. Named for the blood that stained the very ground in its wake, it saw a much needed end to the conflict. Thousands perished, among them Daemon himself, his sons Aegon and Aemon and his half-brother, Brynden the Bloodraven.
Many of those who rebelled and lived to tell the tale took to exile with the other sons of their king and his most ardent supporter, Aegor Bittersteel. Those who remained lost lands, titles, wealth and forfeit heirs and children as hostages to the throne. The sickness claimed these hostages too, leaving houses that had been long slighted by the throne with nothing to dissuade their scheming. With a weak king upon the throne, some whisper worrisome words; that the time for war is again. That the black dragon shall rise a second time.
To the west, the Ironborn fly their banners and take to the waves. The Lord Reaper of Pyke sets longships across the coasts of the mainland, raiding the western coasts with impunity, while King Aerys affixes his eyes across the Narrow Sea, more concerned with the threat of another Blackfyre pretender than the plights of his banner lords. The ironmen grow bolder by the day, and it is only a matter of time before the kraken rises up with its full strength and crashes against Westeros' shores looking for blood and gold among its weakened lords and frightened peasantry.
In the Red Mountains, a man has donned the crown of the Vulture King, playing upon the nostalgia of days long gone, with promises to raid the Dornish Marches as their ancestors once did. With the marcher lords weakened by the sickness, and Dorne left unscathed, his host swells with the ambitious and greedy. As his lightning raids grow ever bolder and more frequent, it is only a matter of time before the tenuous peace between the Stormlands and their Dornish neighbors is shattered, the strain made all the worse by rumors of support among the Stony lords for this carrion king.
Further north, word from the Night's Watch claims a raider with a horn of legend names himself King Beyond the Wall. With him the wildlings willingly stride southwards, and the Starks find themselves beset by an ever growing number of ravenous freefolk, hungry for the plenty of the south and eager to exploit the fallout of spring.
The year is now 211 AC. The realm simmers with conflict, both internal and external, and as the nobility finally treat with one another in the shadow of the long winter and harrowing spring, many ask themselves the same question that arises any time the high lords play their game of thrones—how badly will Westeros bleed?
The year 209 was not so kind as to deliver that sort of spring. Nobody truly knows where the plague began. The pious claim it a punishment, sent from the Gods themselves, whilst learned men speculate the malady came by way of the trade winds and the foreigners who sailed them. The origin mattered not. The Great Spring Sickness, as it became known, crossed Westeros like wild fire. Through villages and hold fasts, cities and strongholds, the pestilence claimed both high and lowborn alike. Strong men would wake fine in the morning and be ferried into shallow graves by nightfall, so quick was it to act. It ravaged the countryside badly, but nowhere was it worse than the cities; Lannisport, Oldtown and King's Landing most of all saw swathes of men, women and children die in the streets as the year dragged on.
By the time the year closed and the sickness abated with it, Westeros was in disarray. Tens of thousands of smallfolk lay dead, houses lost lords and lordlings alike, with boys young as five forced to rule with the deaths of their fathers. In the capital, four in every ten had succumb and the meddling of pyromancers burning bodies by the hundreds set a fourth of the city ablaze. Not even the great dragons who sat the Iron Throne were spared the chaos. Good King Daeron, his Hand of the King Valarr and dear grandson Matarys fell ill and perished within the Red Keep by spring's end. His second son, Aerys, a spindly scholar with more interest in reading than ruling ascended the throne soon after. Only the Vale of Arryn and Dorne survived unscathed, sealing mountainous borders and awaiting the blight to pass.
Yet, when crisis on such a scale occurs, rarely does it slink away with a whimper. Not fourteen years prior, half of Westeros rose with the black dragon Daemon Blackfyre when he sought to overthrow his brother. The rebellion cut lines deep into the unity of the kingdoms, and warfare consuming Westeros until the Battle of Redgrass Field. Named for the blood that stained the very ground in its wake, it saw a much needed end to the conflict. Thousands perished, among them Daemon himself, his sons Aegon and Aemon and his half-brother, Brynden the Bloodraven.
Many of those who rebelled and lived to tell the tale took to exile with the other sons of their king and his most ardent supporter, Aegor Bittersteel. Those who remained lost lands, titles, wealth and forfeit heirs and children as hostages to the throne. The sickness claimed these hostages too, leaving houses that had been long slighted by the throne with nothing to dissuade their scheming. With a weak king upon the throne, some whisper worrisome words; that the time for war is again. That the black dragon shall rise a second time.
To the west, the Ironborn fly their banners and take to the waves. The Lord Reaper of Pyke sets longships across the coasts of the mainland, raiding the western coasts with impunity, while King Aerys affixes his eyes across the Narrow Sea, more concerned with the threat of another Blackfyre pretender than the plights of his banner lords. The ironmen grow bolder by the day, and it is only a matter of time before the kraken rises up with its full strength and crashes against Westeros' shores looking for blood and gold among its weakened lords and frightened peasantry.
In the Red Mountains, a man has donned the crown of the Vulture King, playing upon the nostalgia of days long gone, with promises to raid the Dornish Marches as their ancestors once did. With the marcher lords weakened by the sickness, and Dorne left unscathed, his host swells with the ambitious and greedy. As his lightning raids grow ever bolder and more frequent, it is only a matter of time before the tenuous peace between the Stormlands and their Dornish neighbors is shattered, the strain made all the worse by rumors of support among the Stony lords for this carrion king.
Further north, word from the Night's Watch claims a raider with a horn of legend names himself King Beyond the Wall. With him the wildlings willingly stride southwards, and the Starks find themselves beset by an ever growing number of ravenous freefolk, hungry for the plenty of the south and eager to exploit the fallout of spring.
The year is now 211 AC. The realm simmers with conflict, both internal and external, and as the nobility finally treat with one another in the shadow of the long winter and harrowing spring, many ask themselves the same question that arises any time the high lords play their game of thrones—how badly will Westeros bleed?
P R E M I S E
This roleplay takes place in an alternate universe, branching off the main storyline of ASOIAF during the First Blackfyre Rebellion and leading into the Great Spring Sickness some fifteen years later. The plague has ravaged Westeros, leaving thousands dead and the houses which govern in utter disarray. As a weak king sits the throne and crises threaten their way of life from every side, they will need every ounce of cunning and strength they have to survive the long spring, much less the winters to come.
Players will take the role of either individual characters, or whole houses within Westeros as the kingdoms are assailed by danger from all sides, collaborating or competing to fulfill their ambitions whilst chaos consumes the terse peace. As this roleplay will be very sandbox in nature, with each player taking hold of and directing their own storylines with occasional GM assistance. I ask that those who express interest be prepared to be the driving forces behind their plots, and assume the initiative both ICly and OOCly.
Players will take the role of either individual characters, or whole houses within Westeros as the kingdoms are assailed by danger from all sides, collaborating or competing to fulfill their ambitions whilst chaos consumes the terse peace. As this roleplay will be very sandbox in nature, with each player taking hold of and directing their own storylines with occasional GM assistance. I ask that those who express interest be prepared to be the driving forces behind their plots, and assume the initiative both ICly and OOCly.
C H A R A C T E R S
As mentioned before, players will either take up the mantle of entire houses, comprised of multiple related points-of-view, or individual characters acting of their own accord without direct oversight from their houses. I encourage you to collaborate with your fellow players when making characters to try and tie the greater narrative together.
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