It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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Age: 20
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Born to: Targaryen
Location: Summerhall
Title: Prince
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Joined: 6-September 17
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Last Seen: Jul 11 2018, 12:22 PM
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Mar 25 2018, 12:57 PM

King’s Landing had been a pleasant adventure, the congregation there however had seemed in far better spirits travelling to their destination rather than returning. Somewhere between the first ravine and the waiting expanse of Summerhall the skies had bruised, the mass swollen into a grotesque mound of blackening purple before the downpour had soaked those beneath. It took mere seconds for the earth to turn into brown slush, the mud thickening with each drop of water bouncing half a foot on impact. It wouldn’t have mattered much if he’d been alone, perhaps in those circumstances he might have laughed, cursed his ill-luck, tossed his head back and caught the water on his tongue to refresh the senses. But his companionship stretched between 60 mounted men, the hillside set alight with Targaryen colours vibrant against the stretch of pale luscious green. Not to mention two additional voyagers.

“Father! Father it’s hurting my face.” Turning his head aside he’d search the squinted expression of the small silver haired lad slowing the progression on his pint-sized mount. With cheeks fashioned red, their natural marble-white stained from the rain, and his mouth twisted in pompous disgust, Valarr couldn’t help but find some amusement in the flustered child tugging at his furs. “Rickard you need to —“ Before he could complete his sentence a similar voice sounded across his left shoulder, the exasperated sigh heard even against the rise of the wind; “That’s Rhaegar, I’m Rickard.. I’m telling mother you forgot again.” Without hesitation an apologetic smile would fall against his mouth, it was after all an honest mistake - especially when one considered the lack of clarity provided in the current climate. He’d never expected to have twins, although he’d been told it was quite common for a twin to produce a twin. But when both had been identical he’d found himself caught between a sense of awe and constant confusion. It wasn’t the first time he’d made the mistake and he doubted it would be the last, “Apologies, Rickard..Rhaegar, you need to get used to it. There might come a time you’ll be forced to travel in harsher weather than this. Think of what your Grandfather must travel in — ice hurts far more than rain.” There seemed to be a moment of contemplation gathering in the peaks of the young Targaryen’s cheeks before a resilient frown hardened his forehead leading his heels to press against his horse; the gentle nudge quickening the pace, “You’re right, this is nothing, I can do this.”

Rickard’s deafening snigger might have garnered his condemnation if it wasn’t for the overhead acrobatics diverting his focus. In what seemed like an instant Ghiscar had emerged against the lightening, as if the strike had birthed the beast and thrown her into the clouds twisting in a streak of vibrant white and unusual blue. “We’re close..” The statement was muttered more to himself, the declaration leading a pleased smile to dimple the sharpened edge of his cheek. Before his observant son could question the comment, a second sound bellowed against the thunder, the vibration holding far more power than the deafening drum of the storm. Rhaenna’s dragon, the creature far more elegant than his own, with a mythical like grace seemed to glide beneath the pale spectre, the duo engaged in some indelicate greeting he knew he’d never quite understand. As expected the men paused, their heads upturned to marvel at the might of two beasts spiralling against one-another, the colours a divine whirlwind against the otherwise bleak landscape; their presence enough to brighten the upper-world. Valarr could still recall their initiation into Westeros, their first hesitant appearance. After what felt like a life-time he’d resigned himself to the grim possibilities that perhaps he’d never be a dragon-rider, that he and his sister would stand as flightless beasts, as wolves amongst dragons. But upon their wedding night the pair had hatched, born to the fresh-warmth of a calm summer-eve. The same night they’d conceived the twins, or at least that was what he’d come to believe.

Now he couldn’t quite remember a time without them, just as he found himself unable to imagine a world before he’d crossed into fatherhood. Before he’d presented his father his first grandchildren, the infants of equal size blessed with hair as pale as northern frost, their skin more delicate than the softest goose feather, their heads no heavier than his left boot. Cast into a moment of thought the Prince almost didn’t notice the horizon disintegrating to expose the outline of Summerhall, the call of home ringing true as the rain dampened to nothing more than a meek drizzle.

“Race ya!” The sound of Rickard’s voice drew the Prince from his thought, the comforting recollection fading to dust as he observed the eldest twin throw himself into a sudden gallop, his cloak gliding out behind the fragile width of his childish shoulders.

“No! I want to see mother first! That’s not fair!”

Before he could conjure a breath of warning, he witnessed his second child flood after his antagonist, his knuckles born white against the stress of his fists balled against the reigns. The echo of hooves lingering long after the muck cleared and the pair were nothing more than silhouettes slipping between the towering stones. Of course the duo were chased with ease by the guards entrusted to their service, the men well versed in managing childish antics. But Valarr took his time, the wet cloth clinging to his skin offered a strange coolness which eased the heat from his flesh, like a cool flannel. Those about him hurried on, the promise of their wives and children urging their progress, the distance no longer preventing what he imagined to be pleasant evenings for all. Whether that be with a woman or with wine. He himself took a final look to the dragons disappearing overhead before urging his mount on, the promise of his own wife guiding him home.

Mar 6 2018, 03:26 PM

I'm not making this properly right now because I'm lazy but if you have a thread idea for one of these rapscallions throw ideas at me.

Elinor Stark

Valarr Targaryen

Thoros Swann (comes with explicit warnings cause boy be cray)

Kind Regards.

Feb 18 2018, 02:03 PM

Home. Well almost. It hadn’t surprised him when he’d been taken to King’s Landing rather than Summerhall, after all he’d been so close to death, teetered on the edge again as if the flirtation brought him some kind of thrill. No matter what happened in his life he somehow managed to become a spectacle, there was no will in the world which would have allowed him to sail off to Essos and return without an elaborate tale of heroism. The Silver Prince had steered Luce’s fleet from ambush, blessed with knowledge from the Gods; or at least that’s what the sailors had murmured. Touched with luck. That much was perhaps true. As if that wasn’t enough the pair had gone on to defeat the odds, seized as hostages, fought to what was meant to be the death, rescued through Dragon fire with regards to the streak of blue-lightening herself. There were sword-fights, drowning, blood and gore. Everything a good old-fashioned bed-tale was meant to include. Perhaps the Prince would have preferred a quiet adventure, a voyage without disturbance followed with a light scuffle on-land under the silhouette of Ghiscar - but that was hard to imagine. Life had never quite panned out how he predicted, which held an ironic sentiment when he considered the glimpses he’d been given of future things. Dreams that were albeit quite easy to misinterpret but informative all the same.

In truth he couldn’t quite remember returning, there were moments of segmented pieces he could stick together, fragments of broken people he could just about recollect if he tried with all his might. The sound of the ocean had caused him to convulse in a fit of terror, intensified due to the opium and so he’d been subdued into a state of dreamless sleep. Unnatural sleep. In brief instances it had broken, those were the moments he could almost remember, brief conversations fluttering in his head is spells of dizziness, distorted and strange. Memories that one couldn’t quite be certain if they were real of fantasies concocted in fear. One thing he could recall, could remember with distinct certainty, were thoughts of Luce. He hadn’t seen him since they’d been taken to land on the back of Ghiscar, his first ride shared with his good-brother. There wasn’t a man in Westeros in that moment he’d rather have had in his stead. Then he’d been in a tent, encountering his good-sister for the first time. Fate was a strange, taunting mistress and for some reason she’d found much delight in presenting him with the most unusual circumstances. After that came the boat and a deep unsettling feeling of being too hot, burning, itching and burning. If he could have torn the flesh from his bone there was no doubt in his mind he would have raked each inch beneath his fingernails until the sensation had ceased in favour of pain.

Once he’d woken again the haze about his head had taken awhile to clear, as if a fog continued to settle in the corner of his vision threatening to obscure all in his sight. He’d vomited, choked and spluttered, the taste of sea water still apparent on his tongue. The maester said it was all in his mind, that the ever-present aroma of salt was a trick, that he couldn’t hear the sea beneath his bed tossing him from side to side in his sleep. He’d proclaimed he had more important things to concern himself with, like the wound to his waistline, the lacerations to his chest, remembering to move his fingers so that the ligaments wouldn’t stiffen. Important things which seemed insignificant when chased with dreams, nightmares more clear than all those he’d had before. There were times he’d even thrown a tantrum, howled for the sweet oblivion the poppy-seed offered. But he’d been denied it, rightfully so, by order of the King. People had visited him in such states, but he couldn’t recall them, they’d been nothing more than disfigurements floating in the backdrop. Of course in time he’d calmed, the after-math of pain relief settled and he’d returned to his former-self - or at least a similar man if not a little more serious with the same dark bruises circling his eyes.

It was then he’d begun to ask questions, overcome with a nagging curiousness of all events. What had become of Tyrion Lannister? Where were Allara and Alea? What had become of his child, of his siblings? What of the North? The damn North which continued to come to him, assault him in each moment of peace he clung too. The vast expanse of endless white, too quiet and too calm, an all too familiar sight. So sombre in appearance, a silent wildness. Some questions he’d received answers too, some were brushed aside as if those he asked weren’t sure themselves. Some were answered himself in the depths of his dreams. But no matter who visited, what came to him, or what he was told, nothing infuriated him more than the fact every time he attempted to get out of bed there was someone at his side pushing him back down as if he wasn’t a Prince at all.

Oct 21 2017, 05:04 PM

Hola guys!

So I'm off to Ireland and I'll be gone all week. Expect snapchats of Winterfell though, I intend to be wearing a cape - they better provide them and swords.

See you all next weekend <3


Sep 22 2017, 08:55 AM

War had been a frequent state of mind for the Silver Prince, it seemed he’d spent more time engaged in battles than he had in Summerhall. Torn from his wife and unable to see Allara or the child that would no doubt have taken its first breath in his absence. Instead he’d been posted on a vessel, the sculpted figure head of a dragon breaking the ocean in a sharp split. It had been an encounter like none he’d faced to date, but he’d known of their ambush, he’d seen it in the midst of his dreams. So he’d informed Lucerys of a ‘feeling’ that had taken him and they’d come about the waiting fleet in a violent clash of reversed surprise. Ghiscar had led the charge, twisting through the clouds appearing like blue lightening in swift bursts. It had taken no longer than a moment before the shrill screams had sounded above the clash of metal and rush of water brushing the wooden sides. The smell of burnt flesh festered beneath the clouds of rising black, the men on both sides spluttering in the smoke. It was a sound the Prince was becoming familiar with, the decisive sound of men suffocating, choking on their own desperation to cling to clear air.

The first ship was conquered with ease, half the men had thrown themselves overboard to extinguish the flames nipping at their skin. Those that remained fell beneath an onslaught of blades, the varnished deck beneath smeared red. Valarr held no hesitation in disposing of those that opposed his bloodline, it was like hunting but it required less patience, more speed. The sounds were noises he’d become insensitive too, it was nothing more than white-noise humming under the crackle of rising flames, hidden beneath the groan of falling pine. Once seized the ship was driven into another, the roping intertwined in a tangle as the sails collapsed into one another. From there he’d leapt across, keen to fall into the frenzied mass of armed men riddled with doubt with the sound of Ghiscar bellowing overhead. The second however proved far more challenging than the first, the men more experienced or perhaps better trained struck with accurate cause and moved with a lightness which reminded him of Dorne. With each encounter his muscles ached a little more, his chest heaved a little harder and his heart pounded with a newfound fierceness.

It was the fourth boarded ship that brought the most resistance, the captain’s ship. He’d been identified in the distance, half-obscured within the smoke but clear enough to target. Lucerys had driven them towards it, as if the ocean itself rallied behind his decision. Both ships took more damage than Valarr could comprehend, for he wasn’t well versed in boats and he’d never taken much of an interest in their existence. Somehow he still managed to get them close enough, near enough so that the Prince and his men, soaked in blood both their own and of others, could climb aboard. Recalling all he’d learn in his childhood, all his training in youth, all the instruction he’d been given, the Prince weaved through each challenge. Wielding Dark Sister with silent pride, the weapon reminding him fondly of his father and reminding him of the reason he stood tempting the stranger once again. The Prince had embraced the idea of death once, opened it with the exposure of his chest, willing to sacrifice one life for another. Since then he’d not feared it. Since then he found himself grinning like some possessed madman at each strike from his opponent. Even in the midst of war, with his pale cheeks set aflame with streaks of borrowed blood, the Prince’s mouth curled into a cattish grin, as if executing some extreme exercise rather than engaging in war.

The foreign captain had time to analyse his challenger, watching as Valarr charged towards him with a wild determination. Perhaps that was the reason he interpreted each movement, guessing each style with careful consideration. He was fast, his movement fluid and his feet weightless. It would come as no surprise, and Valarr would find no shame in admitting, he suffered several painful blows. The jolt to his chest knocked the air from his lungs and the hilt driven into the crook of his ribs caused his muscles to spasm and his legs to groan beneath a sudden weakened shake. Twice the enemies blade almost caught his throat, but twice he escaped. It was once the sword was knocked from his fingers and Valarr was forced to absorb the impact of a downward strike forearm to forearm, that the Prince unveiled a dagger from his boot and drove it straight through the captain’s chin. It was a moment of relief, the quiet split of maimed flesh seemed louder in his ear as the blood dribbled down the metal, reaching to cloud against his gloved hand. With a rather grotesque squeal and a short violent tremor the man fell forwards and the Prince staggered back upon his feet, the pain in his side a persistent ache that urged him to bend forwards but he resisted the impulse.

Looking out against the carnage he raised his reclaimed sword, the orange light reflected from the flame caught like fire along the blade, “I Prince Valarr Targaryen claim this ship for —-“ Before he could even finish the sentence he found himself forced to look upwards, the shrill wail from Ghiscar snatching his attention in time to see the burning silhouette of another vessel barreling towards the one on which he stood.

Two choices.

He found his mind spinning with a sudden nausea, to go down with the ship or to go down without it. Ghiscar couldn’t reach him. In that millisecond of thought he’d become aware of that. But he detested the ocean. On occasion he’d dipped his feet into it, even swam when encouraged. For the most part swimming was reserved for lakes, small rivers in pleasant places where creatures didn’t lurk in the darkness. Where the waves didn’t wish to unleash an inhuman wrath on those that ventured too far. It didn't matter. He didn’t have time to think, to contemplate or consider what might be more beneficial. For in that moment he leapt with the others, chased the figures of fleeing men into the deep. The impact was perhaps the most pleasant part, the water wasn’t baltic but was cold enough to compliment the unusual warmth of his skin. But then the stinging. The pain like needles beneath the flesh struggling to escape. The constriction of his chest seemed to tighten as his side stiffened and his legs refused to kick, refused to push upwards and his lips split to inhale for air in a moment of panic. A moment that brought a sensation like grit being forced down his throat to force him to writhe within the emptiness. Dragons didn’t belong in water.

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