Fandom The Driftwood Throne - A Game of Thrones RP

[TheAncientCelt]

King’s Landing

Viserys Velaryon - Hand of the King
(NPC)


“To the Father, we send you Lord Ormund Baratheon. May the Father judge his child justly.”

Crack.

“Take this child into your arms, O’Mother Above. May he be offered mercy in your company.”

Crack.

“May the Warrior Lord Ormund Baratheon bravery in his time of trial.”

A scream loosed from the lungs of a mossy haired man as the leather tanned his naked back for the third time. Blood dribbled freely from his lips, where Lord Baratheon had sunk his teeth to prevent such an outcry. The crowd gathered in front of the Sept of Aenys broke from their silence, a cacophony of mad jeers celebrating the stoic lords misery. Powerful arms flexed in a vain attempt to break free from the bindings that held him up, ropes tying his wrists to wooden poles and his feet shackled to the blood stained ground below him. Ormund Baratheon, entering his fifth decade just months ago was forced on his knees, blood leaking to the wooden boards beneath the once mighty lord. A great and mighty black beard that only in recent years abandoned whiskers to grey embraces had been shaved by the crown. A figure known for strength and battle prowess reduced to the appearance of a drunken beggar with only tenuous tresses of pride holding back a plea for death.

Viserys Velaryon watched with muted interest.

Standing not ten feet behind Lord Osmund, the Hand of the King wore the pin proudly, rich cloth garments declaring his status and house for all of King’s Landing to bask in. Eyes of a shallow sea peered out at the crowd, wretched beings wearing disguises as they passed off as common folk, spittal accompanying each curse at the stranger to them - Ormund Baratheon. Beneath the hastily assembled scaffolding sat five heads, each belonging to a knighted Ser who’s last duty was to keep the far end of a pike warm. Beneath these heads sat mangled corpses, those who were neither lords nor knights, but House companions that found themselves the subject of King Aenys’ ire. Broken on the wheel earlier that day, Viserys had the displeasure of announcing each crime and commanding the headsman to break these men. With each twisting limb, the snapping of muscle fibres and pleas for mercy, the Hand of the King heard civil unrest and drums of war.


“It is the duty of the Smith to mend this broken soul.” The High Septon declared to the crowd, silencing them near instantly. The portly man’s face was red, his knees shook as the prolonged exercise of the day finally brought his Holiness to his limits. Viserys gave little greater attention to the man. The crack of the whip deafened the air and brought another howl out of the already tormented man. Once more, cretins loosed primal roars of approval.

The elder Velaryon’s vision wandered as the Headsman, one Allor Clegane, granted the Lord of Storm’s End a moment of peace. His Holiness, for either his benefit or a rare instance of commiseration, gave no order to press forward. Further back the royal heir and several of his nieces and nephews were in attendance with King Aenys, seated atop an ornately carved wooden throne. All seven of the kingsguard surrounded the royal family, faces illegible as they stared at the horizon. Closer to the Hand of the King, nearly the entire small council was in attendance. To no surprise, they wore masks fit for a funeral as opposed to the mobs below. The commoners were blocked off by meager wooden palisades at the edge of the Sept’s staircase, a hundred goldcloaks with spears waving threateningly in the direction of the ravenous miscreants provided a case against storming the Sept. Of all his present fears, Lord Viserys Velaryon considered a riot conceived of visceral arousal to be chief of them all.

Allor Clegane’s right hand rose in collision with the Patriarch’s thunderous proclamation. “The Maiden bless she who was victimized, may the scorn she holds last forever on you, Lord Ormund Baratheon.”

Crack.

It was a repulsive and impulsive display.Viserys despised watching it. He loathed being associated with it. There was no disdain capable of matching The Hand’s at the fact that he assembled the disgrace that was called a trial. His fists were white as the Summer’s snow.

“In the days that follow, may the Crone bestow us all the wisdom we need to better ourselves. Indeed, may she smile on our days, lest we end in similar manners to Lord Ormund Baratheon.” Despite the impeccably loud High Septon, the voice carried barely past the first few columns, the counter cries snuffing out any hopeful message his Holiness had. The peasants came for a show, a chance to marvel at the mighty knights of Westeros and a lord brought to the brink of death. Not to listen to a fat man’s lecture on moral depravity.

With the passing of the Maiden, Allor Clegane dropped the whip to his feet, the instrument bloodied with its nail head holding chips of white bone as it was retired. The headsman grabbed hold of an axe, curved beyond the extent of battle usage, resembling a lumberjack’s tool less than a levies cleaver. The High Septon bawked at the tool, exchanging a glance with the Hand. A solumn nod, Viserys Velaryon stepped forward, his feet clacking on the wooden platform, the scent of blood and piss fresh in the air.

“Not a dignified way to die.” Viserys spoke plainly. “Hold your axe Clegane.” Velaryon demanded of his croney. “Untie Lord Baratheon and hold him steady.”

Clegane set his axe on the wooden beams that bound Lord Ormund, the masked executioner carefully untying the wounded stag. Ormund’s body nearly flopped off the stand, though Allor caught it quickly, holding the Lord of the Stormlands up at his shoulders, careful to avoid the bloodied backside of the man.

As Ormund was spun to face Viserys, the peace that had taken hold over the masses shattered. Seeing the damaged lord, the white of bones subject to the sharp winds as any regular mug was tinder to dwindling flames. Viserys’ scowl deepened, looking at the tormented visage of the Storm Lord. Ormund did not look away from the Hand of the King. Eyes of unrelenting hatred burned deep in those sockets, even as his head sagged and strength all but abandoned him.

“Lord Baratheon.” Velaryon spoke to the man with limited respect. Beaten, bloody and at the end of his life, Viserys treated Ormund like the lord he was. However, this did not suggest the Hand saw him as an equal. Few lords were worthy of such respect to the Hand. “In accordance to your status, I’ve permitted you a lingering minute on this world. Do with it what you please.” Delivered with a dryness, detached from the man’s most prominent moment in life, Velaryon began to step away. “Pray, plead your innocence, it is the last. . Second to last courtesy afforded to you.” The largely painless execution that awaited him was the final gift Ormund had. Velaryon did not make it back to his former position before the low rumblings of the broken lord reached his ears.

The headsman continued to prop up the soon to be former Lord of the Stormlands as Ormund’s teeth cracked together, gritting in a loud and bone chilling sound. The Patriarch nearby averted his eyes, focusing elsewhere in a pitiable attempt to block out the irritation. Velaryon turned on his heel, eyes hard on the dying man.

“To you. .” Ormund’s voice abruptly halted. A quick exchange with Aenys assured both brothers that they were equally ignorant of the man’s words. “To you.” Finding a pocket of strength yet, Lord Baratheon’s head shook with fury and rose. Eyes of a black abyss stared past Viserys, finding its target in the king. “To you damnable traitors.” His voice roared a last time, cadence carrying the limited reserves Ormund had into his final statement. “You sit on a throne won by butchery, Aenys Velaryon. Yah honorless craven. I demanded trials by combat! By the faith! And ye took my fingers.” Ormund spun, nearly casting off his executioners hold. “Is this how a lord is treated? A whore’s words taken over mine?”

“The kings daughter and your princess.” The Commander of the Goldcloaks corrected the guilty man’s statement, aghast at an accusation being made by the dying man.

“Your minute has expired. As have you.” Viserys nodded to the headsman.

“And may the Stranger welcome you into his embrace!” The High Septon chattered onwards, resuming his sermon after the minutes break. “For neither wife nor son shall embrace you any longer!”

“I see traitors and liars, all too eager to spread their legs.” Baratheon growled as Clegane’s firm grip forced the man to his knees once again. Untethered, Ormund’s body squirmed. Grabbing hold of his axe, Allor raised it high into the air as Ormund writhed. “The father will see justice done! For me and for all those yeh murdered, false kiii-!” The metal kiss of Clegane’s blade struck the Baratheon’s neck, a geyser of red liquid sprayed out of the divide. However, to the delight of the crowd and some of the highborn, Ormund was yet to be stricken. His body shook and trembled as the bitten axe head remained inside his neck. Any words he had were lost. There was little the man could do as Allor struggled to remove the axe from the partially cut neck. By the time these efforts bore fruit, Lord Baratheon had passed beyond the world of the living.

“A despicable way to die.” Viserys muttered. “Take his body to the bridge. King Aenys wishes for the wretch to be hung high enough for all the city to see.”

Clegane nodded, “As my lord commands it.”

The noise generated from the denizens of King’s landing failed to garner any attention from Viserys. The day of executioners was a resounding success, in technical terms, though the elder Velaryon felt a pit grow in his stomach. That final stroke had signalled the beginning of a new turbulent age. Beyond peasants revolting, lions dueling for the pride and a witch’s folly, The Hand felt uneasy at the executions conclusion. What was next to come would be a ferocious uprising not seen since the Kraken rose in futile resistance, when Viserys and Aenys were young men full of vigor and ambition. “Lord Commander,” His voice picked up, dim violet eyes finding their target. “Escort his grace and the royal entourage back to the Red Keep before the scent of carnage draws in scavengers.”

As Velaryon left the scaffolding, a queer tremor shook his right hand, giving Velaryon slight pause. Nothing of this day would produce fruitful yields.​

 

[Hypnos]

Two Weeks Later

Aenys Velaryon
The King​

Hollow and sunken eyes, ringed with the black bags that came as a symptom of many sleepless nights, glazed over as if searching for something that was not entirely there; that was the sight that would greet Aenys Velaryon as he stared into the face that he barely recognised as his own. It was not a face of which he was particularly fond. No amount of gold dragons could put warmth back into those cold, lifeless eyes, no glory in battle could refill those cheeks with the colour that they once held, and no crown could change the man who looked back at him with disgust. Aenys hated that man. He hated the way that age had weathered away at his face as he swiftly approached his fiftieth year, leaving him a feeble shell of what he once was, he hated the way his hands shook, refusing to calm or steady themselves no matter the circumstance, most of all, he hated the way that he looked at him with such contempt. He was the King. He had vanquished countless foes, won every conflict in which he’d fought, climbed his way up to the very highest position of government, yet the only one who seemed unimpressed by all this was himself. When he was a younger man he had dreamed of a day like this, where he would rule supreme and no one would stand in his way. Now he was here, everything felt so - empty. The problem with climbing the highest mountain was that once you reached the peak, there was nowhere left to climb. He had reached his own peak almost a quarter century ago and now there was nowhere to go but downwards.

Aenys tore his eyes away from the mirror just long enough to remember why he was here in the first place. It was his nameday celebration, or at least it would be soon, for the real celebration was the better part of a week away. Were it up to him, little fuss would be made, whilst it was true that this year would herald half a century of his life, he saw little reason for celebration. For what was there to celebrate? Osmund Baratheon lay dead, his body hanging limp from the crimson crossing for all to see. Aenys did not regret his decision. He couldn't. The man had been a traitor and a scoundrel who would be much less of a threat now that he hung from a rope, but that did not mean that his passing should not be treated with the sobriety it deserved. The court thought differently.

Even after several decades upon the throne Aenys still fell prey to the whims of his court. They were hungry creatures, eager for festivities and longing for a spectacle. Aenys had learned long ago that the only way to keep the court happy was to put on a show. And what a show he would put on. His son and Master of Feasts, Prince Corlys had assured him that his fiftieth nameday would be the envy of every lord in Westeros and that it would be rivalled by no other. Half the realm was to be invited, and the other half would turn up anyway. Perhaps it was a good thing, a celebration might be enough to bring minds away from the recent tragedy and towards a more happy future. That’s what he would try and convince himself.

‘Your grace?’ The previous silence in the chamber had almost allowed Aenys to think of himself as alone, though in truth he knew that was never the case. He was removed from his thoughts by the words of his kingsguard knight: Ser Olyvar Dalt, who revealed himself with the telltale drawl of a Dornishman. ‘His lord hand has requested your presence at the Dragon Gate. Lord Daemon Longwaters has arrived in the city.’

‘As you were, Ser. Saddle some horses and we shall ride to greet him.’ As Ser Olyvar walked away, Aenys couldn’t help but notice that the man looked as he felt: tired. The King didn’t have to wonder why, for the Kingsguard had been working tirelessly in recent weeks to help ensure the king’s safety. Following the assault of his daughter Aelora, Aenys had assigned two of his own kingsguard knights to protect her from further harm, though that did leave those that remained at his side with increased duties. Something no one was particularly happy about. A fact that hadn’t escaped Aenys’ attention.

Once the man was gone from sight, Aenys studied himself once more in the mirror, offering a scowl before he forced a smile that did not belong to him. It would be a long week.

When Aenys finally left his chamber, he did so as the king. Gone was the self hatred and insecurity that had previously plagued him, replaced with a confident and condescending aura. The crown of House Velaryon was nestled within his hair, a beautifully ornate silver headdress, inlaid with countless sapphires and surmounted by intricately forged seahorses, almost leaping off of his scalp. The king looked every bit the man that everyone thought him to be, and that was what Aenys wanted. He strolled down the corridors of the Red Keep with little hurry, flanked by another kingsguard knight. He was not in much of a rush to meet with Daemon Longwaters, that fact was apparent by his slowed steps, but he knew that he would need to greet his guests.

It was not long before he found himself upon the horseback, having traversed the Red Keep slowly yet efficiently. Ser Olyvar sat atop his own mount, barking orders at the smallfolk and forcing them out of the King’s way. Aenys gave his people a brief wave, eager to be on his way rather than being held up by people far below his position: people that were not worth his time. In recent weeks, the common people had grown restless, be it due to excitement for the celebration or fear regarding the repercussions of the execution of Osmund Baratheon. Aenys’ brother had warned him about the potential for a riot, a warning Aenys had very much taken to heart, though as of now it seemed as if the people were content to merely gawk at the passing nobility.

‘We shall have to divert our path through Eal Alley your grace.’ The Kingsguard knight informed him, ‘the Street of the Sisters is completely jammed with party goers and preparations for the celebration.’

Aenys nodded, well aware of the situation that currently occupied many of King’s Landing’s street.

Truly no expense had been spared in this display of House Velaryon’s wealth and power. Prince Corlys had brought in entertainers from all across the known world, even her in Eel Alley, one of the quieter parts of town, Aenys could see pieces of a much larger picture. As they traversed the city, the King saw no less than three Aenys lookalikes who were intended to participate in the many shows and plays that had been set up around the city to reenact important parts of the reign of King Aenys Velaryon. In addition, he saw large cages placed precariously on the back of wagons with various different creatures in side, a troupe of fools and jugglers, seven dancing little men surrounding a fair maiden as she sang some hymn and even men dressed up as Greyjoys clearly meant to take part in some anactmen of Aenys’ victory over the ironborn.

It should have been flattering, he supposed, but as Aenys passed reminders of all his past glories and achievements, his heart couldn’t help but sink. This was a mockery of his reign. A great farce that removed all the great atrocities that he had commit, all the great hardships he had pushed through, everything that Aenys could say he was proud of. Were he not in public, it may have brought a frown to his face, but as it was, he would simply pretend to be greatly impressed by the whole proceeding and sit in silence as he was led through the city and towards his destination.

The Dragon Gate was perhaps the grandest of the ‘old’ gates within King’s Landing, a fact that did not amuse Aenys. During his time as king, he’d scrubbed the city of a lot reminders of the past Targaryen kings, or when such was impossible such as with the Great Sept of Baelor, he had simply strived to outdo them, to outclass the past and let everyone truly know which house now ruled the realm. This was not the case with the Dragon Gate. He could not very well tear down one of the primary entrances to the city, nor would the smallfolk accept or adapt to a renaming or rebranding of a gate which had been here for longer than anyone could remember. He was powerless in this regard, and as the King approached the gate he could not help but feel it’s mocking gaze.

Beneath the towering walls of the city, Aenys could make out a small crowd gathered closely around an expensive looking carriage. At first he thought them to be knights and soldiers meant to protect the lord whom resided inside, but as they grew closer, the dark hair and violet eyes informed him that they were all the brood of the man whom he had come to greet. Daemon Longwaters.

When they were younger men, Aenys and his brother Viserys used to share stories about Ser Longwaters, who at the time had been a sworn sword to their father. They were cautionary tales: were you to step a foot out of line, Ser Daemon might come along and beat you bloody, or kidnap you and take you to his secret lair, some of the more outlandish stories had even made mention of Daemon Longwaters eating naughty little children. As Aenys grew older, he no longer feared the man, though his belief in such stories failed to lessen. The man was a monster, no one would deny that, but he was a useful monster, and Aenys often found himself needing such men by his side, much to his own chagrin.

‘Lord Daemon, welcome.’ A muted greeting for a less than pleasant occasion.

The man that returned his welcome was not the shrivelled husk that Aenys had been expecting. He’d heard that the years had not been kind to Daemon Longwaters, though as the man exited his carriage that did not seem to be the case. He seemed to be as healthy as ever, very much the same strong, handsome, yet somewhat repulsive man that Aenys remembered from his youth. He was several decades Aenys’ senior, though he could certainly have been mistaken for a much younger man, and as he looked as the King with distant eyes, Aenys could help but feel a little disgusted.

‘Your grace, my father is slightly unwell. Many apologies.’ Aenys’ face turned to see a younger man, yet one of similar appearance to Lord Longwaters, save the fact that this man looked younger, and had a pronounced spot of balding upon his head. ‘He has requested some peace until he arrives at his chambers.’

‘And who might you be, that you deem to speak for him.’

‘I am his son, your grace, Ser Aegon. It’s an honour to meet you.’

Another rat bearing the name of a king. ‘I suppose I have ridden out all this way for naught then?’

Aegon Longwaters did not look apologetic.

‘Then this has been a waste of time.’ Aenys confided in Ser Olyvar who sat upon his horse nearby. ‘I should not have left the castle.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I would leave your father to tend to his illness then. Though I wish to speak to him once he has firmly recovered. I would bid you farewell Ser Aegon.’ He did not wait for a reply, turning his horse to gallop back to the Red Keep and Aegon’s High Hill. Another wasted day.

 

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The ghostly whips of summers breeze outstretched its fingers within the gardens of the Red Keep; a soothing remedy from the common commotion of court life. Sunlight shone for all to behold, despite its few interruptions of shade provided from palms, or the overgrowth upon the decorative pillars that lined the walkway throughout the Keep. Ryland Lannister sat under one of the few shaded areas, a simple chair, table, and his work to keep him company. Adjusting the paperwork that sat upon his lap, he meticulously flipped to the final matter of business he needed to attend to...

King Aenys Velaryon had approached his fiftieth nameday, a event he honestly was surprised to see in the flesh, which meant the Crown needed a party.... With the influx of wars along with the Prince's desire for a navy, has led to headache-inducing magic the Master of Coin could miraculously provide. With long hours as well as the slight taxation increase Ryland was able to pay for almost all of the festivities that the King desired. Minus of course the few outrageous requests. No room for such idiotic extravagance.

Quickly scribbling the last bit of the expense report, the lion took a deep breath once complete, then set the parchment and quill down upon the table. Heaving a tiresome sigh, he ran a hand through his golden locks as he leaned back in his seat.

The past few weeks within the Council had been more revolting than usual. With the King's decision to execute the rebel, Osmund Baratheon, left much aggression and protest in its wake. Ryland knew the outcome would be unfavorable towards the Crown and had advised against the man's execution, however he was overruled; a unsurprising result to him...

The loud padding of only one creature arose the man from his political reveries, which was Baegel. His dearest wife, Valaena, had dreamed of a elephant in her days long ago. Ryland remembered as a boy her chatting for hours upon the subject of her dream pet, in which he almost wrote to Lord Lannister about the prospect of buying her one! However the King luckily beat the boy to it, and purchased the creature for his beloved daughter...

Baegal's leathery trunk wrapped itself around Ryland's newly tailored tunic in a unexpected embrace. "It's a pleasure to see you as well..." His Western accent filling the void of silence in the gardens as he gently rubbed the elephants trunk. After the minute had passed, he gently tapped the trunk to signal his release, in which Baegal gingerly obeyed. Flattening the black and red fabric, he watched as the creature slowly made its way around to the front of the lion. "You should know by now I don't have food for you. I'm not your mother. I simply pretend to know what i'm doing with you." Baegal snorted in a defeated retort, it's ears flapped in frustration as the man chuckled at the beast.

"Well Seven Hells, your luck is much more impeccable than mine..." Spotting a elegant source of approaching fabric from under the legs of Baegal, he recognized the beauty of the legs instantly... His wife.

[/div][/div][/div][div class=credit]credits RI.a [/div][div class=overlay]Lord Ryland Lannister[/div][div class=tags] deer [/div]

 

[Braddington]

Lucerys Velaryon

"Papa, papa. Do you love me?"

Hypnos ​