Abefroeman

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Somewhere off the Northern Coast of Hispaniola - Tropical Storm Clouds

Francisco de Peralta looked out the windscreen of the plane he rode in, watching as the heavy rains lashed out, while the winds buffeted the plane. He held on tightly as the wind seemed to dropkick the plane upwards, the wings and metal tensioning wires groaning loudly over the roar of the engines. He cursed the lack of a meteorologist on the islands, had they known about the storm, they would have waiting, but now... it was too late. He stepped back away from the pilot and copilot, looking over to the navigator. "How much further? We're burning through fuel faster than we've anticipated... This is now for sure a one way trip." He had to yell in order to be heard. The younger man looked up at his commanding officer, beckoning him closer to point out at the map.

"We're at worst...." He steadied himself as the plane shook violently, "No more than another two hours of flight time. The storm has slowed us down considerably. I don't dare radio ahead, the vanguard would know more, but we're too close to enemy airspace now, they might pick up radio chatter." The crewman turned away, trying to keep his tools from flying off his station, the plane now kiltering off and down to the side. Peralta patted the younger man on his back, nodding thank you to him, before returning to his perch, looking at the windscreen again. 'If, God willing, the invasion force isn't completely scattered, I'll consider it a blessing.' He tightened the chin strap of his helmet, hoping that he'd not have the unluck of the plane going down in the middle of the ocean.

Peralta looked up at the plane's ceiling, holding his breath as it seemed every piece of metal groaned collectively. He thought he could even here a few rivets popping, giving way to the strain. Ahead, lightning flashed brightly, blinding the pilots and him for a few seconds. 'Of all the luck, a tropical storm just happened to form on this day... figures.' Taking a breath again, he strapped himself into his seat making sure his rifle was still nearby, Peralta clasped his hands together and began to quietly pray. He closed his eyes, focusing on his thoughts instead of the storm outside the thin metal body of the plane, and lent out his prayers to those on his own plane, and to all the souls on the other planes. 'We who fly unto the sacred lands of the our fathers, we who fight in God's name, we who are prepared to pay the ultimate price ask for your blessing and protection father. Grant us your holy strength, and if we are to fall in battle, allow your divine grace to guide us up unto heaven. Amen.'

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Eastern Caicos, Guarda Coasta Headquarters, King Alfonso Airbase - July 1955

The middle aged man sat quietly in the briefing room, watching the other officers briefing those in attendance. His glasses lay on the table next to him, his eyes already knowing what the maps displayed. He enjoyed this moment of respite, with a cold glass of orange juice held to his forehead, from the tedium of commanding his comrades. Thirty years, for his people, over one hundred for the Haitians, and for the Norteno Gringo's, a chance for a new home that wouldn't purge them. Leaning back into the folding chair, he brought his right leg up and over his left knee, taking another drink from his glass. El Exilio, his father and grandfather had referred to the mass exodus of like minded men and women who had fled from the Dominican Republic to escape the brutal regime of that American puppet, Horacio Vásquez. Of course now an even more brutal dictator ruled over their home, some illegitimate zorro named Rafael Trujillo, claiming to be the nation's president. Too bad for the ignorant pig Vásquez, he was too much of a lap dog for America to see his own traitors among his ranks. Finishing his orange juice, the man set the glass aside and rose up, putting his glasses back on. It was time for him to speak to his men.

The two officers that had been speaking stopped and turned, politely nodding their heads as the more senior of them spoke aloud. "General Francisco de Peralta, the floor is yours Señor." The two men backed away, and took their own seats. Francisco straightened his uniform blouse, before calmly presiding over the briefing room.

"Caballeros, Amigos, Familia, we are all gathered here today, from different parts of the world, but all with one goal, to retake our Patria so that we all may live as the true heirs and rulers of Hispaniola. I look around this room, at all your faces, and I do not see broken men, I do not see cowards or traitors. No, I see patriots and heroes, all willing to fight and die for a cause greater than themselves. Let us not waste time nor words, caballeros, for we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us, their hard work and sacrifice allowed us to be here. Behind me is what we all have been training for, what all of our hard work in all those petty conflicts across the world has been for. In roughly 48 hours we shall commence Operación Martillo, and there will be no going back once we start. We shall fight our common enemy, we shall kill those loyal to the enemy, and we shall take by force what is rightfully ours." He took his glasses off to clean them, taking his time before placing them back on and speaking more.

"Dios is on our side, and he is the only one we truly need to win our campaign. The Mexicano's have been covertly contacted, whether or not they decide to help is of no consequence. Those rumors are true, that we've yet to hear back from them, but let me assure you, we do not need their help to ensure victory. In the end, as with all things, it will be our sangre y sudor that shall pave the way to victory. Our landing sites have been chosen, these beachheads will ensure that we can take our foothold upon Hispaniola, and then press ever onward further into the country. Study this map, memorize it, ingrain it into your being. Once the planes take off, there is no coming back. There is either victory or death. We shall not retreat." Francisco de Peralta turned to the board, looking it over once more, before turning back to the cadre of officers.

"We land at the following beachheads; Pepillo Salcedo, Monte Cristi, Punta Rucia, La Isabela, Luperon, and Puerto Plata. The two key locations are Monte Crisit and Puerto Plata, yet do not let the smaller landing sites lull you into a sense of complacency. We will all be fighting our enemy once we've made landfall, and I must stress this, all of us must keep to the timeline. We will have 24 hours to make it to the rally location, Santiago De Los Caballeros. Our intel suggests that the garrison there has been complacent in their duties for the last year, if not longer. We take this city as planned, the northern portion of the country will be ours uncontested. And an added bonus is the large armory there that shall be of great use to us. Remember your training, have faith in your men and yourselves. I leave the rest in your capable hands. Vida a la revolució caballeros. I salute you all, and I am honored to lead you into the hyena's den." The room stood to attention as General Francisco de Peralta took his leave, shaking the hands of a few senior officers, before heading out onto the beautiful tropical sunlit beach.

Peralta sighed to himself, fixing his cap upon his head, as he gazed out at the ocean. 'Soon, father... soon, you and grandfather will be home once more, and can lay at rest with your loved ones.' He smiled at a few of his friends, walking over to a strand of trees with them and of all things, to take a picture together on this monumental eve of battle. Dominican, Haitian, American, and Frenchman, the five friends stood together, and allowed their picture to be taken. "For the history books, my friends." Peralta said with a smile, before they all walked in the direction of the mess hall.

Background details

Moored to the beaches of Eastern Caicos, a small fleet of Seaplanes lay ready, their engines and other mechanical hardware being tended to. A small army of ground crew hurried back and forth, loading munitions, food, supplies, and a few jeeps, into the aircraft. It was a motley collection of older decommissioned American and British seaplanes, scooped up from arms deals ranging from the black market, to regional governments that offered them as payment. Painted in the colors of the Guarda Coasta, they served as the main air and naval power of the mercenaries. The largest of the planes were loading with spare fuel, in order to continue air operations once they had made it to the Dominican Republic.

• Consolidated PBY Catalina

  
• Martin PBM Mariner

  
• Short Sunderland Mk V

  
• Curtiss SOC Seagull

  
• Curtiss SO3C Seamew

  
• Vought OS2U Kingfisher

  

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Guarda Coasta - Dominican Mercenary Rebels

The Guarda Coasta - Dominican Rebels and Mercenary Force

Territorial Claims

The History of The Guarda Coasta

History:

The Guarda Coasta are the remnants of the Pro-Monarchist faction within the Dominican Republic. They see themselves as the true heirs to Hispaniola, with many in their ranks tracing their heritage to former wealthy land owners who flourished under both Spanish and French colonial rule. As the years progressed, with both Haiti and the Dominican Republic declaring their independence from their former colonial rulers, the Aristocracia from the Dominican Republic and the survivors of Haiti's war of independence, saw their lands, wealth, and titles confiscated. For a time, the Aristocracia were able to retain some of their land, all the while nursing a grudge against the governments that they saw as illegitimate. For the Aristocracia, and their Haitian friends, this came to an end in 1911, during the first Dominican Civil War, and again in 1914, during the second Dominican Civil War, which saw great turmoil and intervention by the United States negatively affecting them.

The Aristocracia, along with their private militias, banded together in 1917, opposed to the island's occupation by the United States. For the better part of five years, they led a guerilla war against the foreign invaders, working alongside other rebel groups who sought to expel the Americans and their imposed illegal rule. Though they fought in a number of decisive conflicts, in the end they could not defeat the Americans, nor their appointed puppet president, Horacio Vásquez. Seeing the writing on the wall, the Aristocracia fled from Hispaniola to the islands of Inagua and Turks and Caicos, all the while plotting their revenge. In late 1924, the Aristocracia formed themselves into a mercenary army for hire, known as the Guarda Coasta, using their experiences during the American occupation to great effect.

The Guarda Coasta have fought from the tail end of WW1 to the other regional conflicts within the greater Caribbean region into the 1950's. They've built themselves a name for ruthless efficiency and fierce tenacity, battle hardened through the years of their operation. Now in the summer of 1955, after years of planning and biding their time, the Guarda Coasta stands ready to launch their plan to topple the brutal regimes of Rafael Trujillo and Paul Magloire, both dictators of the Dominican Republic and Haiti respectively. Led by Francisco de Peralta, the Aristocracia hopes to see their dream of reestablishing a monarchy upon Hispaniola come true.

• Based on the islands of Inagua, Turks, and Caicos, the Guarda Coasta have built themselves a number of small military compounds, to include a small airfield at Inagua, used to house their small collection of aircraft. Due to the location, the bulk of their aircraft are seaplanes that they've collected from past conflicts and enterprising military officials looking to sell old assets.
• In the 1930's, after the purges within the United States, the Guarda Coasta welcomed exiled American military veterans and their families into their ranks, happy to have more people willing to fight alongside them.
• Haitian members of the Guarda Coasta are predominantly the descendants of French colonists and Creoles who had fled from Haiti during the 1804 massacre. They make up only roughly 20% of the Guarda Coasta. They above all else, hold a deeply seeded grudge against Haiti.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Guarda Coasta - Dominican Mercenary Rebels

The Guarda Coasta - Dominican Rebels and Mercenary Force

Territorial Claims

The History of The Guarda Coasta

History:

The Guarda Coasta are the remnants of the Pro-Monarchist faction within the Dominican Republic. They see themselves as the true heirs to Hispaniola, with many in their ranks tracing their heritage to former wealthy land owners who flourished under both Spanish and French colonial rule. As the years progressed, with both Haiti and the Dominican Republic declaring their independence from their former colonial rulers, the Aristocracia from the Dominican Republic and the survivors of Haiti's war of independence, saw their lands, wealth, and titles confiscated. For a time, the Aristocracia were able to retain some of their land, all the while nursing a grudge against the governments that they saw as illegitimate. For the Aristocracia, and their Haitian friends, this came to an end in 1911, during the first Dominican Civil War, and again in 1914, during the second Dominican Civil War, which saw great turmoil and intervention by the United States negatively affecting them.

The Aristocracia, along with their private militias, banded together in 1917, opposed to the island's occupation by the United States. For the better part of five years, they led a guerilla war against the foreign invaders, working alongside other rebel groups who sought to expel the Americans and their imposed illegal rule. Though they fought in a number of decisive conflicts, in the end they could not defeat the Americans, nor their appointed puppet president, Horacio Vásquez. Seeing the writing on the wall, the Aristocracia fled from Hispaniola to the islands of Inagua and Turks and Caicos, all the while plotting their revenge. In late 1924, the Aristocracia formed themselves into a mercenary army for hire, known as the Guarda Coasta, using their experiences during the American occupation to great effect.

The Guarda Coasta have fought from the tail end of WW1 to the other regional conflicts within the greater Caribbean region into the 1950's. They've built themselves a name for ruthless efficiency and fierce tenacity, battle hardened through the years of their operation. Now in the summer of 1955, after years of planning and biding their time, the Guarda Coasta stands ready to launch their plan to topple the brutal regimes of Rafael Trujillo and Paul Magloire, both dictators of the Dominican Republic and Haiti respectively. Led by Francisco de Peralta, the Aristocracia hopes to see their dream of reestablishing a monarchy upon Hispaniola come true.

• Based on the islands of Inagua, Turks, and Caicos, the Guarda Coasta have built themselves a number of small military compounds, to include a small airfield at Inagua, used to house their small collection of aircraft. Due to the location, the bulk of their aircraft are seaplanes that they've collected from past conflicts and enterprising military officials looking to sell old assets.
• In the 1930's, after the purges within the United States, the Guarda Coasta welcomed exiled American military veterans and their families into their ranks, happy to have more people willing to fight alongside them.
• Haitian members of the Guarda Coasta are predominantly the descendants of French colonists and Creoles who had fled from Haiti during the 1804 massacre. They make up only roughly 20% of the Guarda Coasta. They above all else, hold a deeply seeded grudge against Haiti.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

@Dinh AaronMk Roger that. Just to be fully briefed concerning the parameters, any divergence from IRL timeline can not happen until either the start of WW1 (1914), or a little before WW1 (No earlier than 1910?)

I'll revise/ create a more lore appropriate nation that falls within the parameters. Is there any more information that I should be aware of?

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Kingdom of Antilles

The Kingdom of The Antilles, Las Reino Antillas Occidentales

Territorial Claims

The History of The Kingdom of the Antilles

History:

• March 7th, 1760 - The Kingdom of The Antilles is founded by Duke Philip de Borbón, third born son of King Philip V of Spain. Philip I of Antilles declares his independence from Charles III of Spain.
• September 12th, 1760 - Spain and Antilles fight the War of Antilles Independence.
• April 26th, 1768 - Kingdom of Antilles wins its war of Independence, signs the Treaty of Santo Domingo, stipulating that King Philip I of Antilles is not beholden to Spain, nor Spain ruling over the Antilles.
• October 15th, 1777 - Kingdom of Antilles retakes Santiago (Jamaica) from Great Britain.
• July 19th, 1779 - Cayman Islands retaken.
• May 12th, 1780 - Kingdom of Antilles joins the fledgling United States in its war against Great Britain.
  
  History continues as normal (excluding territorial losses of Spain, as the islands within the Caribbean are now ruled independent of Spain/not embroiled within its wars.) until 1897.
  -
• December 3rd, 1897 - Under pressure from insurgents and rebels proving difficult to quell, King Ferdinand II cedes Puerto Rico to the United States in order to avoid war, and acquiesce to American interest in the region.
• December 5th, 1897 - King Ferdinand II abdicates his throne to his son, Carlos I of Antilles. This is done in order to allow a younger ruler to take control of the Kingdom, and one more favorable to the people.
  
  History continues as normal till 1916.
  -
• June 9th, 1916 - Kingdom of Antilles joins the Allied Powers in their struggle against the Central Powers.
• February 1st, 1917 - Kingdom of Antilles sends forces to help Monarchist forces in the Russian Empire.
  
  History continues as described in OOC until 1927, with the cessation of hostilities being formally signed at Rotterdam.
  -
• May 21st, 1927 - All deployed forces have begun returning home, happy that the war in Europe is finally over.
• September 9th, 1929 - Communist insurgents launch a full scale rebellion upon the island of Hispaniola, sparking the Antilles Civil War. The conflict pits radical Bolshevik forces against the Monarchist Loyalist Forces.
• March 6th, 1928 - King Charles II is assassinated in a bombing at the capital, leading to his son, Vittorio to become King.
• November 19th, 1931 - Communist Rebel forces are all but contained to the island of Hispaniola. Rebels upon other islands have been defeated in a series of brutal engagements.
• May 5th, 1932 - Invasion of Hispaniola, and the campaign to liberate Hispaniola from the Communists.
• August 9th, 1932 - Hispaniola Communist leaders capitulate in final battle, having been devastated by disease and starvation.
• October 21st, 1932 - After a trial, rebel leaders are found guilty of treason and sedition. They are executed via firing squad. The Antilles civil war ends.
  
  The Kingdom of the Antilles enters a period of rebuilding and recovery following the end of its civil war, compounded by the Great Depression that began in 1929. Communism is banned within the Kingdom, and those found to be belonging to Communist parties are either imprisoned, or simply exiled from the Kingdom. From 1932 until 1947, the nation rebuilds itself, focusing on agriculture, trade, and infrastructure. In 1948, King Amadeo I takes the throne of Antilles, and with him a new focus is given priority. The military is in need of modernization, and he looks to the outside world for experts and advisors to help modernize the antiquated Antilles military.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Are you all still accepting applications for this RP?

Crisis of the Confederacy [Sci-Fi Warlords in a crumbling state]

7th Rift Replenishment Fleet

Name/Flag/Faction:

7^th Rift Replenishment Fleet

Ex-Confederate Armed Forces Remnants

Location/Sphere of Influence:
The 7^th Rift Replenishment Fleet operates primarily out of their former home station of the Perdacoth Rift Station, the first Rift station situated West of Sol. See attached image for reference.

Perdacoth Rift Station Location

Summary:
The 7^th Rift Replenishment Fleet are the remnants of Ex-Confederate Naval Forces who found themselves berthed at Perdacoth Rift Station for repairs and resupply when the bombs fell. As military and civilian leadership fell silent, command was quickly reestablished by Commodore Anne Perkins, who placed all military and civilian vessels under her command via marshal law. Now, the name of this remnant fleet serves as a bitter reminder of the past, for those whose paths they come across, the 7^th are hardly indistinguishable from the pirates and criminals they once hunted. The 7^th Rift Replenishment Fleet is content to collect supplies via foraging (or raiding, depending on who is spoken to), guided by the misguided principle of maintaining control over Perdacoth Station by any means. Amongst the military leadership, they hope to one day rebuild the Confederacy, without the civilian bureaucracy the crippled the old government. However, supply and manpower shortages keep that goal far down the road for the time being.

Resources:
Pre-War data available suggested that Perdacoth Station served as a major supply and repair depot for the Confederate Fleet. However, said supplies are not limitless, and border skirmishes and foraging supply runs have made it clear that the 7^th has to see to the bounty and "generosity" of nearby systems and worlds for future sustainability. Publicly available Pre-War data suggested that major supply/repair depots had enough supplies on hand to operate at least ---- (data corruption) ----. The 7^th retains sole control over both the Rift station itself, and the valuable fuel depot of the nearby gas giant Caldor Prime.

Military Vessels

The 7^th Rift Replenishment Fleet operates a collection of older Confederate warships, vessels that have certainly seen better days. While no exact number has been positively verified, intelligence and firsthand encounters report they operate Huscarl Class Corvettes, Morningstar Class Frigates, and Silesia Class Destroyers.

Huscarl Class Corvette

Morningstar Class Frigate

Silesia Class Destroyer

Administration:
The 7^th Rift Replenishment Fleet is run via a military hierarchy, with all power derived from its highest ranking officer, Commodore Perkins. They've retained much and more of their former Confederate military and governmental structure, though now without civilian oversight. For all intents and purposes, the 7^th can be best described as a military dictatorship or Warlord faction.

Leadership of Note

Strengths/Weaknesses:

Strengths of the 7^th RRF

• Military Discipline - Trained and drilled since the day they joined the armed forces, the 7^th are a force to be reckoned with. War is their profession first and foremost, and now with the very real prospect of war consuming the once proud Confederacy, they are ready to put their years of training, drilling, and exercising to the test.
• Weapons of War - The 7^th RRF inherited all the years and untold billions of dollars of military industrial might of the Confederacy. The ships may be slightly older and less modern, yet they were all designed from the ground up to fight in war and survive. These deadly machines, ships, and weapons are ready for whatever may come.
• Perdacoth Station - While their sphere of influence may be smaller than other emergent factions, their base of power is a fortress all unto itself. The military dockyard of Perdacoth Station served as the primary Confederate naval stronghold of the Western Expanse, and all of its stockpiled arms, munitions, and supplies are now solely under the control of the 7^th RRF.

Weaknesses of the 7^th RRF

• Specialized Training - All you need is a group of men, or women, give them matching clothes, a few hours training, something that passes for a weapon, and you have an army, not the best army, but still an army nonetheless. That can’t happen with the navy, any navy. Any ship, no matter how crude, requires considerable energy and materials to create. The army can replace its cannon fodder in hours; for us, it might take years. This tends to make us more pragmatic than our compatriots in green. We tend to look at a situation with a bit more… I don’t want to say caution, but perhaps more strategic conservatism. Withdraw, consolidate, husband your resources.
• Hostile Region - The Western Expanse has for decades, been the next frontier of the Confederacy, a Wild West so to speak. Funds and supplies were always needed from the more developed regions of the Confederacy. With Sol completely locked down, whatever the 7^th RRF has, is all they will have for the foreseeable future.
• Confederate Nepotism - While Commodore Anne Perkins has done what she could to assign less than stellar subordinates into positions that will not do more harm than good within the overall fleet, not everyone can be monitored at all times, and those from Sol and other influential worlds, bide their time and seek their own glory.

History:
Once is a while, competent commanders arise within the ranks of the Confederacy. Perhaps more often than not, these commanders succumb to the allures of power within the ladder climbing of the military. Yet, of those, Anne Perkins learned to play both sides, not only rising through shrewd political cooperation, but also tactical knowledge and ability. In the end, she found herself as Commodore, installed as the commanding officer of Perdacoth Station. For those who knew her in the academy, they all would remember how driven she was, to the cause of the Confederacy. This one individual is the embodiment of the 7^th RRF. As news reached her of the apocalypse upon Sol, she quickly seized control of the station and its assets, and intends to use them with deadly military efficiency for the betterment of the Confederacy and the Western Expanse.

Blood Runs Over Westeros Mk4 - A Game of Thrones Roleplay

Icecrown - Frigid Eastern Coast of Skagos

"Lost... I am lost." The twisted and angered voice speaks aloud to no one in particular. The male covers his eyes, gazing off upon the endless cracked leagues of ice and snow. He hisses between his teeth, before taking a drink of the rapidly dwindling wine skin. "I was once a prince... no... no... I was the Crown Prince, I was the heir to a kingdom." He kicks at the frozen remains of a long dead seal. His eyes narrow hatefully, full of barely contained madness and malevolence. He takes a few more steps, before falling to his knees in the snow, the soft crunch and cracking sounds echoing off the valley walls to either side. "I was son to the most powerful man in the world once...I was destined to become... so much more." He slumps back onto his haunches, licking the cold and cracked lips that had once been the delight and desire of an entire realm.

"That old man took everything from me... he cheated me of my destiny. Of my birthright." He licked his lips once more, before forcing himself back up to his feet. "Trapped like a rat, on the ass end of the world, with nothing but the dead and dying to keep me company... and..." He turned, looking back to a ruined tower-house... "Well, much and more." He squinted his eyes venomously at the sun above, before turning and stalking back to the tower-house, muttering to himself lower than before. "Sun will be setting soon... soon it will be dark... cold... and then they will come... oh yes... howling and chittering in their harsh barbaric language. But we both know... a dragon eats any and all, it doesn't shy away from meat..."

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A Golden Dragon, A Black Heart - Blackwater Bay

Prince Corlys sat upon a worn chair, slowly and methodically sharpening his blade. Dark violet eyes peered out from a weather worn face, scanning the snapping banners and creaking hulls of the hundreds of ships rocking back and forth. The rhythmic scraping and grinding echoing out across the bay, the only noise that the Targaryen Prince heard. The world seemed to ebb and flow around the chair and man, his breathing slow, measured, paced with each precise movement of stone against steel. The muscled hands gripped each tool without fear, without hesitation, moving mechanically as the man's mind thought inwards, looking upon a world all his own.

'A royal wedding and feast, tournament and festivities. All for my dear cousin Maegelle... and some lofty Arryn. No doubt some contrite pretense for Aerys to garner glory for his beloved boy... what a waste. Had only the sickness taken a few more... had a woman proven barren...' He looked up from his work, now focused intently upon the glory of the Red Keep. It had a cruel beauty to it, a might that was wrought in blood and fire, pain and misery, triumph and achievement. A seat befitting a warrior king, a conqueror, rather than the asses of timid men who had come after. How he had longed to sit the Iron Throne as a youth, now for such a dream to be taboo, even then deep within his heart, that wanton desire burned with the kindled fury of Wildfyre. Closing his eyes, he set aside the blade, stone, and oil cloth, to free himself from his thoughts and musings, and rose to his feet.

"The wedding will be soon, and soon, the King will return, with all his glory and majesty, let us not disappoint him. Make way for the harbor, let us be done with this leisurely pace, and find some warm food, wine, and women..." He smiled, as he turned to his squire, handing the youth the blade. "You might even win yourself some acclaim... now hurry along Wensington, your mother insisted I take you as my squire, and thus far, she was good in that judgement as she is in bed." He spoke curtly, striding as a man with the intent purpose of being done with the business of the day, so that he might retire to endeavors more enjoyable to his own tastes. Soon, Prince Corlys "The Black" would be walking the streets and thoroughfares of Kings Landing.

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The Hands of Gold - A Kings Landing Tavern

"So this is where Lord Tyrion hid his lady love... the woman he threw away his life for." The youthful prince spoke aloud to his companions. His silver blonde hair shown brightly in the flickering torchlight of the tavern. "She would appear to be ungrateful... to have been given all of this, a Lord and Hand's love and affection, and to throw it back in his face. A pity... yet, they say love is fickle, and that it blinds even the greatest of us." He mused mirthfully, before breaking into a sweet bit of song from the False and the Fair.

"The lord he came a-riding upon a rainy day, hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey...
The lady sat a-sewing upon a rainy day, hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey.
Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey.
The lady lay a-kissing, upon a mound of hay,hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey..."

"Oh end your singing, you keep that up, my prince, and all the women in this tavern will be too interested to take notice of the rest of us." Ser Willem Frey of Darry said playfully, pushing the Prince on his right arm. "You have a delightfully beautiful wife as well, no need to be greedy now." He laughed cheerfully among the rest of the party, as they found themselves seated at a large oaken table.

"Yes, our noble Prince Gaemon, patron of song and dance and music, stay thine tongue and hand, so that we may enjoy what King's Landing has to offer in entertainment, both of the voice and of the flesh..." A hulking ox of a man bellowed out from behind a massive mustache. "You keep your pretty eyes and tongue to yourself, or I be having words with you. Us common knights need to have some love too, you know." He smiled brightly, before taking a swig of ale for himself.

"Ser Lyle Bracken, King's Landing has women to offer, not horses. If you wish to rut about like a beast in heat, you need only head to the Royal Stables..." Prince Gaemon jested back, pointing his fork at the hulking knight. "Unless, you want to risk crushing these dainty women beneath your mammoth body." The party laughed brightly, watching as Ser Lyle rolled his eyes and turned red from both amusement and embarrassment. Soon enough, serving women had made their way over to the tables occupied by the Prince and his retinue, much to their delight.

Gaemon watched his noble knights and friends enjoy themselves, after riding hard for King's Landing. They had dallied at a few castles and halls along the way, enjoying the weather, the outdoors, and of course, being away from their duties back home. Tired and road weary, it had been Gaemon himself who had suggested they enjoy some revelry outside of the Red Keep, and the tourney grounds, before preparing for the wedding, tournament, and all that entailed. The King was still gone of course, but, knowing Aerys, he'd arrive last minute as always, no doubt with some surprise wedding gift for his niece Maegelle. Ever since her father died, Aerys had been their for her and her siblings, doing all he could to be a father figure.

A happy sigh escaped the prince's lips, as he leaned back in his chair, content to let his friends drink, wench, and feast themselves for today and into tonight. There was no need to rush, no need to concern oneself over what may happen, when here and now, well, there is just so much more to live for. "My friends, gather round, and enjoy another round of drinks on me, for all who drink in the Hands of Gold are welcome to a refreshment on this fine day. To the King!"

"TO THE KING!!!" The tavern shouted back.

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A Prince and the Lord of Laws - Gardens of the Red Keep

Hard seasoned hands gripped the stoneworks of the garden walls, his eyes scanning across Blackwater bay for something that he was not seeing. His leather attire bore the passage of hard work and use, yet retained an air of elegance and regal defining. The cool breeze slowly made its way up to where he and three others were currently occupied, food and refreshment sitting upon the oaken table the others gathered around. Central on the table, lay an old worn map, beautifully illuminated upon leather. Turning away from the bay, Prince Maelor strode back to his seat, standing above it as his eyes studied the map intently, its markings, both his own, and those of maesters of old, and what they all meant to him. At long last, a beautiful feminine voice broke the silence which had engulfed Prince Maelor's world.

"My love, my darling dragon, sit down and breathe. This is not Dragonstone, this is not a problem that looming over as Balerion did can solve. You need to eat, refresh your mind and body. All you've done is add more wear to the bottom of your boots, and fret over that which you can't control. We are here for our dear Princess Maegelle's wedding. Let us enjoy that first and foremost. Cousin Aerys and his untimely delay are of concern, but you must eat first, then we may speak of other things." She smiled ever so sweetly at her husband, gripping his hand tightly, before guiding him into his chair, putting before him a plate of spiced boar and potatoes. Lastly, she poured him a tall mug of Dornish Red, mulled in spices to add flavor. "There, my love, enjoy your food as I speak with our dear brother and friend. A moment of rest will do you good, and allow your mind to think more properly." She planted an alluring kiss upon Prince Maelor's lips, before turning to face the other two men at the table.

Princess Vaella smiled at the other two men, taking a small sip of her lemon flavored water, before conversing with them. "Lord Coldwater, we certainly appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule in order to attend our lunch, and speak with us on such close terms and matters regarding what we all are curious about. You are accounted as a most loyal and faithful retainer of the King, and we must all serve loyal to our ruler." She smiled again, this time more mischievously, before speaking again. "But of course, you were not taking time to come here and hear the endless prattle of courtly indulgence. No, we are all here, because something is wrong, something does not add up." She turned at looked at the other man sitting down, garbed in his fine whites and raiment of office, a member of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Viserys, brother and knight, you suspect it as well, don't you. We are here because just as all of you have surmised, the king is still... late." She spoke the last word with a refined sense of intensity. "Ser Viserys, you saw the king off, as did Lord Coldwater, and both of you have pointed out one enduring fact that may speak of some blindness in our ruler. He left behind the Lord Commander, purposely, as we all know that the old man and the Crown Prince did not get along... not that I blame Lord Commander Guyard Lonmouth, Prince Maekar was a... trying lad to be around." She placed her glass down, turning to her Lord and husband.

"Lord Coldwater, you and I are men of the sea, we've both done our fair share of sailing, plying the waves of the Narrow Sea. This is not in Aery's character to not have written to us of his travels, his whereabouts. The voyage from Braavos should have taken at best, fifteen days, give or take two. At worst, with storms perhaps twenty... maybe twenty-five. Its going on thirty-five now, with nothing from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I have only heard word of a few short summer squalls, of which only one may have given them any trouble. Did the King tell you why he had to leave in such short order... though, I doubt it matters now, as he is very much so beyond what one would consider late." He ate his food slowly, methodically ensuring none would fall onto him or smear upon his face. He placed the fork and knife down, before looking at his brother.

"Ser Viserys, blood of my blood, knight and sworn protector of the King... blood of the King, what say you? And nothing fanciful neither. I've heard the droll rumors of this being Corlys work, the work of the Others, some rogue dragon rider from New Valyria... what, if anything did you hear from our King. All anyone knows is that he had left with all due haste for across the Narrow Sea, and one arriving, that destination was Braavos. What would pull him away from home like this, especially so close to his niece's wedding?" Maelor looked at the map again, pointing out what everyone had known for some time.

"New Valyria had expanded ever since the conquest of Slaver's Bay. She took Meereen as her capital, then Yunkai, and then Astapor, butchering the slavers and their families. Later, she conquered Tolos, Elyria, and New Ghis, cutting down all who stood in her way. With so many lambs in her flock, she colonized Bhorash, and wrestled control of the entire region solely for herself and her dragonspawn. The Dothraki fear her, the Qarthian pay tribute to her to keep her from burning them again, all the people of Hesh, Kosrak, and Lhazosh do her fealty as their Queen. They've grown unchallenged by means of their dragons, save only for the fact that their enemies now only fight at sea, using storms and winter weather to their advantages. However, they've never flown further West than Volantis... and yet..." Maelor stopped, letting a servant refill the party's beverages, and waited till the servants had all backed away once again.

"Two dragon riders spotted over Lys, making north by northwest. Flying high, as though they were searching for something." Lord Coldwater spoke this time, knowing what Prince Maelor was referring to. He too had heard the rumors that had made their way up from the docks of Kingslanding, all those weeks ago. Even more so, he had reason to believe that the Prince knew more than the rumor mongers did. "Tell me, Prince Maelor, what makes you bring all this up... what do you know that even the Lord of Whispers may not know?"

"I know only what makes sense... Lord Coldwater, that the Dragons of the East are looking for something or someone. The king, the prince, no. Something else, more valuable that any one king, prince, lord, or triarch could ever hope to posses. Whatever it may be, it has riled them enough to send their prized war beasts flying far and wide. The pirates and traders of the East muse many things, but what I can say with certainty, is that the Emperor of New Valyria burned an entire island to ashes and cinders... not for mere defiance, no, because they played a role of some sort. Rebellion perhaps, but this..." Prince Maelor pointed to the map, "This is the reason why our King went to Braavos. The Braavosi are shrewd business dealers, and better bankers. They invited the King, they asked for him to come. We need the King to return to find out why." Prince Maelor finished, sitting back in his chair as he drank his wine. His face lost in introspection, he frowned and looked back out to sea.

"Lord Coldwater, Prince Viserys... I believe it is best that we keep what has been said here a secret. Furthermore, we must speak with the Lord Hand. He must prepare for the worst... should our King still be missing. Word has been sent to Eastwatch, has it not, to send out vessels to search for our King. Why haven't we heard anything from them yet?" Princess Vaella looked at the knight and small council member. "Surely the Night's Watch has..."

"They have Princess, and they say that they can not search right now due to storms bracketing the region. Maester Gorman says that they should be able to search again within a week. That letter arrived four days ago. The Watch hasn't forgotten what your family has done for it, and they will do all they can to find the king..." Lord Coldwater answered quickly, though a sense of nervous tension colored his voice. He looked to Prince Viserys, nodding his head. "Prince Viserys was there when we received the raven. We all know the point in which the King made to visit the Night's Watch at least once a year to give thanks to all those who died... so long ago."

Sighing, Prince Maelor stood up, looking at those seated at the table with a resigned look. "Lord Coldwater, pass along my invitation to Lord Florian Tyrell. I believe it is best we speak with him with all due haste. I fear something is amiss in our king's absence, and there are those who would seek to capitalize upon a... vacancy upon the Iron Throne." Prince Maelor shook Lord Coldwater's hand politely, before walking with him away from the table, leaving Princess Vaella and Prince Viserys.

As the two men walked out of sight, the Princess beckoned the kingsguard knight over, both now standing at the balcony overlooking the bay. "Sister... " Viserys started to say, before he was silence by a hug and a gentle kiss upon his cheek.

"Viserys... Maelor may seem hard to understand at times, but he does not like the wind coming off from the sea. He says something ill is brewing in the waters, something that seeks to upend the peace we find ourselves living in. Call it a sailors intuition. Whatever it is, brother, protect Daemon. There will be those who seek to manipulate the child, others seeking to kill him. You mustn't let any harm come to that innocent child." Her voice was cold and distant, as she looked at the bay, taking note of Prince Corlys personal ship, along with many other banners proudly flying in the bay.

Blood Runs Over Westeros Mk4 - A Game of Thrones Roleplay

A Crown wreathed in Ice - Frigid Eastern Coast of Skagos

"I warned him..." The youth spoke aloud to the frozen knight, his teeth chattering from the cold wind blowing off the ocean. Deep violet eyes peered out from sunken sockets, their gaze cruel and vicious as they rifled through the dead man's affects. "Ahhh... tsk tsk Ser, keeping such tithes from the Royal Blood is tantamount to treason. Yet, I suppose I can forgive you..." He kicked at the shield, breaking a thin layer of ice from the front, revealing a duly colored sigil of pily grey and black. The youth took two long swigs from the skin, relishing the sweet flavors of the Arbor. "Your taxes are duly appreciated... but alas, you are a drab and cold companion for conversation. I must be off, places to be, women to bed, a kingdom to rule..." The youth's boot kicked at the knight's face, a dull thud and crack resonating out, before being replaced by the crashing of waves again.

"I warned him... and the daft fool didn't heed me..." The youth muttered again, as he stalked off further inland.
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A Royal Invitation - To all the Houses of Westeros, Great and Small

As the sun sets, the Master of Ravens within the Red Keep unleashes a massive murder of Ravens, each black bird carrying a royal invitation to a most joyous and celebratory occasion. Roughly two fortnights from the date of sending, or rather, coinciding with the end of summer, House Targaryen would be hosting the wedding of Maegelle Targaryen to Pickard Arryn, and the celebration of the year's Summer Fair. To mark this occasion, the King had decreed a massive feast, tournament of arms, and of course, the wedding celebration itself. The festivities would be taking place across from King's Landing, in a newly constructed pavilion by the Blackwater Rush and the Kingswood. Soon, word would be out all across the Seven Kingdoms, and with that, a massive influx of people all coming to drink, eat, fight, wench, and celebrate. Far below, in the Small Council chamber, Lord Royce Coldwater looked over a pile of documents, shaking his head.

"Easy enough to command me to keep the peace, when he's not bloody here," The man hissed aloud, as he took stock of the Gold Cloaks strength and roster. "I need more men to keep the peace, more money to pay the men, and more thrice cursed hay to feed all the horses for mounted patrols." Lord Coldwater leaned back in his chair, relishing a long sip of Dornish Red, before taking another bite of the summer sausage on his plate. He looked down at an open letter from the King, having been sent fifteen days ago now from Braavos, telling the Small Council that he expected to be home soon, and that things had gone better than even the Seven could have ordained. Trouble was, they should have had word by now from the King, who would have made port at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Perhaps a storm had slowed him, or the damned bird had died. Not much use in worrying over things he could not control. All that could be done was draft up a funding request to the Master of Coin, and implore the westerman Lord Gawen Payne of the need for all that he was putting down to paper. "I swear by the Gods, if he bloody refuses to grant the funding for more men, he can use his own personal guard to help us keep the peace." He took another swig of wine, before continuing to write. Beside him, the aged Grand Maester slept quietly, have drifted off a little while ago. "At least one of us can sleep..."

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In the royal apartments, the twin babes Daemon and Daenora slept peacefully, snuggled next to their mother, Princess Brella. She smiled at them both, planting a tender kiss upon their heads, as she sunk deeper into the bed with them. "My little ones, you are destined for greatness, your father, he is a great man, blood of Valyria and the Iron Isles. You two... I love you both so dearly. I can't wait for your father to come home and see you both again, and how much you've grown." Brella spoke aloud, ever so softly, as to not wake the sleeping babes. Her sea green eyes looked down at her babes, before they closed, and she too drifted off to sleep. A gray cat slunk into the bed, before curling up between Brella's legs, and she too, falling asleep, purring aloud.