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The Wards of The King- A Song of Ice and Fire Roleplay

The Prince of Dragonstone

Appearance:

Aenar has a slender almost feminine build to him, taking more from his mothers Dornish side than his Targaryen father, notable by his light brown hair. He has the unmistakable princely look of someone who's yard sparring partners always seemed to fall suspiciously easy.

“You look at the Iron-Throne like it might eat you.”

“In the end everyone always seems to want something, everyone.”

Name: Aenar Targaryen
Nickname: The Sea-Dragon, Aenar the Absent
Age: 15
House: Targaryen
Parents: Daerys Targaryen and his Martell Queen

Personality:
Worrisome would be a fitting word to describe Aenar Targaryen. Thousands of people are looking up to him and depending on him, he feels this weight quite strongly. Though some might call his temperament only natural for someone whos grown up in the vipers nest of Kings-Landing, he still fails to instil any real confidence in those he meets. Despite this though he does have strong pragmatic elements to him and has a sense of duty.

Skills:

Dragon dreams: Though he seems to take more from his mother’s side in appearance Aenar will sometimes have prophetic dreams, though more often than not they leave him stressed and often ill.

Sailing: Before Pythrax grew large enough to carry him Aenar used to adore sailing and used it to get away from his worries, so much so it earned him the nickname, the Sea-Dragon.

Religion: Faith of the Seven

Bio:
Aenar grew up under the greatest of pressure. King Daerys and it seemed everyone in Westeros was always intent on reminding him how much the realm expected of its prince. Needed to be wise, kind, witty, brave, greatest of swordsman, adept at politics. To hear so many say it he was already all of this and more; but the young Aenar was astute for his age and always found himself falling short of their lofty expectations. It gradually ate away at him.

Things came to a breaking point one night when Aenar dreamt a disturbingly realistic vision of himself as a dragon but his wings were broken and a hundred smaller animals were eating him alive. It was too much for the prince and he fled the Red-Keep out to sea with a dozen close companions.

It was more than a month later when the prince returned to Kings-Landing finally coaxed back by his shipmates, though his skittish mood had not improved any. The stunt earned him moniker ‘Sea-Dragon’ and seemed to make many at court regard Aenar as an issue, worrying what his reign might entail.

Eventually it was decided that Aenar would take up his role as Prince of Dragonstone, ruling the relatively small Crownlands from the ancient Targaryen fortress as befitted the heir of the king. It has been a year since his appointment and Aenar has returned to Kings-Landing to meet the wards, he is somewhat wiser, but no less wary.

Other: Rider of Pythrax, a small blue/silver dragon, only recently grown large enough to ride.

The Wards of The King- A Song of Ice and Fire Roleplay

((Meant to post in OOC plz ignore))

Game of Thrones - a Song of Ice and Fire

What is dead may never die...

Game of Thrones - a Song of Ice and Fire

Faircastle had been redecorated in red. Tapestries once enamouring lay strewn across the floor torn and charred, gold coins were scattered about soaked in blood and sobbing could be heard occasionally, breaking an otherwise deafening silence. A great banquet had been laid out in the main hall, fine food from all across the Seven Kingdoms sat delicately untouched or else splayed out across the floor like many of the unfortunate guests. Their celebration had come prematurely.

“Peace?” The word sounded queer coming from his mouth, like a man tasting sour wine. Dalton Greyjoy swilled the idea around in his mind before spitting it out, face ever passive. He was the only person sat at the great feast table, but he wasn’t feeling much of an appetite, he hungered for something different.

“Please, the war is over damn you!” The lords voice sounded desperate and distant, Dalton paid it no heed. She looked like her...His attention was focused on one of the serving girls, her hair a faint shade of gold, almost grey, her blue eyes staring vacantly into nothingness as blood pooled out of her. No, he thought, not like her.

Why do this? The question came to him unbound. A thought that had haunted over him for a while now, he had never cared for gold or glory, but he liked to believe there was some method to his actions, some overarching point he was trying to make. He’d made a mistake so long ago and for that it seemed the world needed to pay.

“Someone, write this down.” Dalton’s voice was hoarse but there was power behind it, one of the Ironborn scrambled to retrieve paper from the twisted remains of a Maester. “Tell the king that I will keep his peace.” Dalton’s eyes slowly wound down to the letter upon the table, half blood stained; the Dance of the Dragons was over and Aegon III now ruled.

“Tell him he need not concern himself with the western shore now, his friend Dalton Greyjoy will protect it for him.” The remaining citizens of Faircastle were huddled against the throne, their eyes spoke fear and each hung on his every word. “I will be his warden of the west, hunt down the traitors and supporters of his false uncle and they will never trouble him again.” Dalton’s eyes locked with Lord Farman’s. “My lord,” He murmured softly. “You’re looking a little green.”

Dalton stood up with alarming speed; Midnight was in his hand, his stolen sword of Valyrian steel and he had the aged lord by the throat, Dalton’s formerly passive expression was now twisted up in rage. Slowly, slowly he slid midnight up into the man’s ribcage, watching as an expression of abject horror took over Farman and a scream that turned into a gurgle as blood dripped from his mouth before darkness finally took him.

“The Red Kraken does not heel.” Dalton spoke with a distant voice, but there was an undeniable edge to his tone. He wiped Midnight across the lords already sodden cloths then turned slowly to the nearest captain. “Where is my brother? I must plan and I need Veron.”

As the captain turned away Dalton found his eyes wandering back to the girl, this one was younger and her mouth was wrong, hers had always been smiling, this, mouth was screaming. He would find whichever of his men had done that to her, it was unforgivable.

“Her.” He said walking over to the corpse, his cloak draped across the floor soaking up blood as he went. He stopped in front of the girl, knelt and carefully ran the back of his hand across her lifeless face. “Take her to my bedchambers.”

Game of Thrones - a Song of Ice and Fire

@Hands Sorry, I genuinely did not see your post, was writing the bio as you put it up. PM me if you like we can see if we can work something out.

Game of Thrones - a Song of Ice and Fire

House Greyjoy
We Do Not Sow
Affiliation: Sided with the blacks

The Red Kraken

Lord Dalton Greyjoy
The Red-Kraken
Age: 39
Appearance:


Sigil


Long is the list of words used to describe the Red Kraken across Westeros, impulsive, hedonistic, merciless. By his own people he is seen as a true son of the Iron-Islands and a charismatic leader at that. Few though really know the man behind the myth.

Dalton is a troubled man, restless in both body and spirit. He was raised by his father steeped in the lore of their people, of the drowned god, the seastone chair and the glory days of the great Iron-Kings, Dalton drank it all up. But as he grew older and learned more about the wider world that great image of their people that his father had spun out to him seemed to shatter apart. They were not a proud warrior people, they were a barbaric culture who didn't know when they were beaten.

The revelation seemed to unhinge Dalton a bit, many noticed his behaviour growing somewhat erratic, even for a Greyjoy. In truth he had sunk into a depression, one he would never really come out of. Not long after Dalton announced he would be travelling abroad as a sellsail accompanied by his soft spoken uncle one of the few he could really connect with. The announcement was lauded by all, many thought it was good for the heir to gain experience of warfare and for others it was a sigh of relief after bouts of his unpredictable behaviour.

Years of fighting in various countries and battles across the known seas made it clear to Dalton that this life didn't seem to fill the emptiness he had inside him. The death of his uncle in a battle on the Stepstones earned him the name Red Kraken for what he did in retribution but also planted a rage within him that could not be soothed.

After several more incidents that reinforced his new nickname; Dalton found no peace and trying to remember his uncles words he abandoned most of his worldly possessions and travelled to the Summer Isles in an attempt to live a happy life. But all he found their was the same hollowness which had followed him around his whole life.

When word finally reached him of his fathers demise Dalton decided it was time to head home and rule, when the Dance began both sides tried to gain his allegiance, but it was the blacks and their offer of bloodshed over titles that brought him to the fold and made the greens an outlet to his anger. Eventually the war, like all others, did come to an end. The orders of a newly crowned boy king informing the Red Kraken to heel were left floating somewhere on the wester sea.

Veron Greyjoy

Veron Greyjoy
Age: 35
Appearance:


Affiliation: Younger brother to Dalton from their father Urrion's second wife, a lady of house Farwynd

There's said to be something...other about Veron. While Dalton is fiery, charismatic and impulsive Veron is generally much colder and ponderous. He is a well read man, what time he did spend abroad was usually in pursuit of some tome or other, he even reputedly visited the citadel on a number of occasions.

Veron is certainly very spiritual, called a fanatic by his critics and there are those that even whisper of him being a sorcerer. Suffice to say he isn't the most trusted man on Pyke.

Growing up Veron spent a lot of time in the shadow of his older brother, a martial and charismatic man Dalton always seemed to outshine his more bookish younger brother. Secretly Veron was glad when he left to become a sellsail, he soon became the favoured son and despite himself enjoyed the attention and prestige it brought.

By the time their father died Dalton had not been heard of for some time and so for a while it was thought that Veron might be the one to inherit in absence of his brother, but just as the Iron-Men were generally coming around to that view Dalton did unexpectedly return. Outwardly Veron was glad to see him but he couldn't fully repress some resentment at the return of this prodigal son.

Nevertheless Veron is and was a religious and dutiful man, he offered he advice and served to the best of his abilities. Including telling Dalton about his vision of a storm, one that would inspire his brother to start reinforcing their armies.

What is dead may never die!

Game of Thrones - a Song of Ice and Fire

Making up an app for the Greyjoys as we speak

Star Wars: Revanchism [Knights of the Old Republic/Mandalorian Wars]

SYSTEM OFFLINE.....
DAMAGE DIAGNOSTICS IN PROGRESS....
FUNCTIONS RESTORED.......
REBOOTING.......

Onsole gasped awake. It took him a moment to get to grips with the situation: facedown at the bottom of a small slope, with a blaster mark at the side of borg-construct headpeice. A lucky escape then? And a splitting headache. The cyborg rolled onto his back awkwardly and slumped against a dead tree. It was beginning to come back to him now.

Designated transport ship had been taken down by the unexpectedly advanced anti-air defences of the Mando's, but not before approximately 40% of the squadron had been able to initiate an early evac. By separating himself from the main clusters of troops Onsole had been able to make a successful landing, he even estimated that he had a short 1.27 minute burst left in the jetpack fuel tank. Despite a weak connection to what was left of the ship mainframe he'd been able to triangulate the position of the downed 'duct tape express' and make his way to it to salvage what he could and meet up with survivors...So why had he been facedown in a ditch?

The distinctive crackle of blaster fire overhead broke Onsole's chain of thought and snapped him back to reality, of course, the mandos had gotten there first, that ruthless efficiency was something you could depend upon. He dove for a patch of damp undergrowth in the hopes of better cover and grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, a part of him wanted to just curl up and cry but it was swiftly overridden by higher electronics. In such occasions he found himself missing Coruscant.

They'd given him a clear choice, pay your time in dank off-planet Republic mining cells or say goodbye to your personality and serve the galaxy with pride; most opted for the cells Onsole thought grimly as he struggled with unstrapping his jetpack. Judging by the erratic trajectory of their shots his assailants didn't know his location, that slope had most likelu saved his life; it was probable they were lying in wait to mop up any survivors, Onsole had to get out a warning and if possible stay alive.

Waiting for the shots to die down Onsole rose to a crouch position and fired up the jetpack, after a brief but exact countdown in his head he let go and watched as the well angled rocket swirled into the sky. Thee, two, one. Suddenly there was a small click followed by the explosion of the thermal detonator he'd tied into the straps. The blast ignited the remaining fuel into a bright iridescent ball in the sky, hopefully working as an impromptu flare to signal any of the other survivors. Onsole was already running.