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At the end of the day, God is everyone's bull.
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I can't speak for the others, but there's a number of vacancies on the Small Council & Kingsguard that can be filled if you're so inclined.
Character Compendium
The Crown
House Targaryen
King Aerys I
The Small Council
Hand of the King
Prince Maekar Targaryen
Grand Maester
Mathis
Master of Coin
Ser Mychel Grafton
Master of Laws
Lord Oswald Darry
Master of Ships
Lord Denys Velaryon
Master of Whisperers
Ser Rolland Waters
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard
Ser Alyn Connington
Prince Maekar Targaryen
Grand Maester
Mathis
Master of Coin
Ser Mychel Grafton
Master of Laws
Lord Oswald Darry
Master of Ships
Lord Denys Velaryon
Master of Whisperers
Ser Rolland Waters
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard
Ser Alyn Connington
The Kingsguard
Lord Commander Alyn Connington
Ser Roland Crakehall
Ser Donnel of Duskendale
Ser Harwood Manderly
Ser Steffon Tyrell
Vacancy
Vacancy
Ser Roland Crakehall
Ser Donnel of Duskendale
Ser Harwood Manderly
Ser Steffon Tyrell
Vacancy
Vacancy
Great Houses
House Tyrell of Highgarden
Vassal Houses
House Dayne of Starfall
House Thorne
"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.
Albrecht von Varley
Interacting with: Everyone & No One — Location: Garreg Mach Monastery
It was a strange thing. Albrecht had spent most of his young life preparing for moments like these. To take up arms in the name of the Goddess, defending her loyal worshipers from the depredations of those who chose to flout her laws, or live beyond her light. Yet now, standing the thick mists of Magdred Way, he found himself beset by a foreign unease. If it could have been classified with a single descriptor, the feeling would not vex him so. Not fear, no. He had looked oblivion in the face when the Black Death burnt through Fódlan and lived to tell the tale. Nothing a group of heretical mountain brigands could bring to bear could hope to rival that which fell commoners and kings alike. Apprehension perhaps described it best. He had never tested his steel in true battle. He had sparred with some of the finest blades in all of the valley, yes, but never with the aim of truly harming his opponent. The men he would face on the field were apostates, but could he truly bring himself to fell them like so many trees? Perhaps his gentle nature betrayed him. The Goddess was forgiving, but those who fought in her honor would sometimes need to be merciless. Today, Albrecht would reconcile that fact.
Their foes had certainly made that much easy. While he lived in his own mind, caught up in a philosophical reverie, the enemy had managed to surround his company. They had employed some foul sorcery to encircle the group entirely, and it seemed they would need to fight for their own lives before they could begin to save the lives of others. The young knight drew the blade at his hip, taking comfort in its weight as he rolled his wrist in preparation for the combat to come. The Professors did well in delegating tasks to the forces under their command. He could do little and less to the mages on the roof tops and the pegasi soaring high above, and so their elimination would have to fall to their own mages, and the archers who supported their efforts. That made things all the easier. All he had to do was place himself between the heretic infantry and the ranged component of their group. With the Goddess guiding their hands, the rest would solve itself.
Professor Tomai's standing order to hold their positions proved unnecessary—they were descended upon by footmen from every direction before even the boldest of their number could go charging into battle. His prince had taken to one of their flanks to engage the soldier closest to him, and to better round their defenses, Albrecht hurried to the side opposite of Kayden. It was somewhat difficult to see his opponent through the remaining mists, but armored in his faith as he was, he found the apprehension of earlier moments melting away in the face of the coming fight. Fingers coiled tight around the tilt of his blade, the blond called out to his opponent.
"Are you men or beasts, to attack a foe while unseen? Do your worst!" It wasn't entirely clear to him whether his rebuke of their actions caused the brigand to charge forward, or whether he had intended to attack anyway, but true to the orders given, Albrecht fell into the defense as the enemy's blade rushed to meet him.
Fortunately for the young Varley, he had always been fleet of foot and lithe of build. He was able to backpedal a step and a half, leaning back so as to let the sword cut the air before him rather than find purchase against his mail. The opening strike had been wide and powerful, and it took the footman a heartbeat to recover his momentum and prepare to swing again. He let the sword roll, channeling the momentum of the first into his second, another heavy diagonal swing. In the heat of the moment and with fog blurring his vision, Albrecht couldn't make out much of his opponent, but he must have been powerfully built to depend so heavily on might. But might did not trump skill, and the flower of a thousand practiced parries bloomed as the blond raised his own sword and let it clash against the incoming blow. With the side of his blade he deflected the incoming strike, letting it fly to the wayside.
He could still feel the familiar ring of steel on steel in his hand and up his arm as he stepped in. Albrecht's parry had opened the man's guard, and he executed on that opening with a rare swiftness. Normally, he would stop shy just before contact. Normally, his opponent would also be dressed in fine plate and steel rings, good armor to stop the tip of his blunted weapon before it could even result in an accidental injury. But this was no normal spar in the yard. This was a fight to the death. A fight for the Goddess and a fight for good. He wouldn't stop.
He didn't stop.
The sickening crunching noise that accompanied the sharpened tip of his sword finding purchase in the brigand's throat. Right where the collarbone terminated, where a gorget would ordinarily be on a man who could afford it. He drove forward, hard and fast, bracing his pommel with his off hand as the opponent recoiled in shock and pain. Another horrible crunch, and he was convinced the tip must have exited through the other side. He stood for a horrible second, staring with eyes so filled with adrenaline that his pupils may well have been pinpricks. He had hardly realized what he had done until the body slumped forward and he was forced to shove the staggering swordsman off him, pulling the stained steel of his blade free and watching the life blood pour from his foe like so much water.
All the agonizing he had done, and in the blink of an eye, on a reflex alone, he had taken a life. And in the moment, with the knowledge that others would soon be upon him, and he would be forced to take others, he felt only a numbness in his heart as he wheeled around to face another.
"Who is next?!"
Their foes had certainly made that much easy. While he lived in his own mind, caught up in a philosophical reverie, the enemy had managed to surround his company. They had employed some foul sorcery to encircle the group entirely, and it seemed they would need to fight for their own lives before they could begin to save the lives of others. The young knight drew the blade at his hip, taking comfort in its weight as he rolled his wrist in preparation for the combat to come. The Professors did well in delegating tasks to the forces under their command. He could do little and less to the mages on the roof tops and the pegasi soaring high above, and so their elimination would have to fall to their own mages, and the archers who supported their efforts. That made things all the easier. All he had to do was place himself between the heretic infantry and the ranged component of their group. With the Goddess guiding their hands, the rest would solve itself.
Professor Tomai's standing order to hold their positions proved unnecessary—they were descended upon by footmen from every direction before even the boldest of their number could go charging into battle. His prince had taken to one of their flanks to engage the soldier closest to him, and to better round their defenses, Albrecht hurried to the side opposite of Kayden. It was somewhat difficult to see his opponent through the remaining mists, but armored in his faith as he was, he found the apprehension of earlier moments melting away in the face of the coming fight. Fingers coiled tight around the tilt of his blade, the blond called out to his opponent.
"Are you men or beasts, to attack a foe while unseen? Do your worst!" It wasn't entirely clear to him whether his rebuke of their actions caused the brigand to charge forward, or whether he had intended to attack anyway, but true to the orders given, Albrecht fell into the defense as the enemy's blade rushed to meet him.
Fortunately for the young Varley, he had always been fleet of foot and lithe of build. He was able to backpedal a step and a half, leaning back so as to let the sword cut the air before him rather than find purchase against his mail. The opening strike had been wide and powerful, and it took the footman a heartbeat to recover his momentum and prepare to swing again. He let the sword roll, channeling the momentum of the first into his second, another heavy diagonal swing. In the heat of the moment and with fog blurring his vision, Albrecht couldn't make out much of his opponent, but he must have been powerfully built to depend so heavily on might. But might did not trump skill, and the flower of a thousand practiced parries bloomed as the blond raised his own sword and let it clash against the incoming blow. With the side of his blade he deflected the incoming strike, letting it fly to the wayside.
He could still feel the familiar ring of steel on steel in his hand and up his arm as he stepped in. Albrecht's parry had opened the man's guard, and he executed on that opening with a rare swiftness. Normally, he would stop shy just before contact. Normally, his opponent would also be dressed in fine plate and steel rings, good armor to stop the tip of his blunted weapon before it could even result in an accidental injury. But this was no normal spar in the yard. This was a fight to the death. A fight for the Goddess and a fight for good. He wouldn't stop.
He didn't stop.
The sickening crunching noise that accompanied the sharpened tip of his sword finding purchase in the brigand's throat. Right where the collarbone terminated, where a gorget would ordinarily be on a man who could afford it. He drove forward, hard and fast, bracing his pommel with his off hand as the opponent recoiled in shock and pain. Another horrible crunch, and he was convinced the tip must have exited through the other side. He stood for a horrible second, staring with eyes so filled with adrenaline that his pupils may well have been pinpricks. He had hardly realized what he had done until the body slumped forward and he was forced to shove the staggering swordsman off him, pulling the stained steel of his blade free and watching the life blood pour from his foe like so much water.
All the agonizing he had done, and in the blink of an eye, on a reflex alone, he had taken a life. And in the moment, with the knowledge that others would soon be upon him, and he would be forced to take others, he felt only a numbness in his heart as he wheeled around to face another.
"Who is next?!"
I'll be putting together a GMPC and a House to function as examples for people who aren't quite sure what to do, as well as playing whatever relevant characters are necessary to help the plots along. Hopefully that'll give folks plenty to do even if we only have a few people.
Happy to have you.
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