*Wikis are now available for viewing!

** Maps are now available in the "Files" section. These include maps of Westeros, the World of Ice and Fire, and all of the seven kingdoms. More are on their way. ;)

Following the timeline of Westeros up to the first ten years of the rule Robert Baratheon, this storyline diverges from George R. R. Martin's story for one simple reason: "A Song of Ice and Fire" isn't finished, and to attempt to follow his inspiring but incomplete story would lead the game to a squabbling of details and myriad of deterrence. Nevertheless, the setting itself has a solid enough history (and a vivid enough setting) to lend itself to a new story that, while completely separate from Martin's own plot, still adheres closely to his setting in terms of history, environment, authenticity and themes.

While the story has no intention of following the books after Robert's ascension, the story does not directly (yet) involve Martin's characters. Rather, it follows the same houses, kingdoms and cultures that populate Westeros and its neighbors. With the addition of two new houses per each kingdom (since not all houses as yet are known in Martin's own work) the story follows a course of events that, so far, were just as likely to occur as those described in A Song of Ice and Fire.

So far, the story follows a "Game of Thrones" participated by the members of House Adler -- a family in the Riverlands that has governed the Cape of Eagles since the Rhoynar invasion. A complete history of the house will be uploaded shortly, and can be supplied by request for anyone looking for one. Players are in control of two actual members -- the Lord's only remaining heir for one -- as well as the captain of the guard. A third player is controlling a ward (from House Redgate of the Iron Islands) and a fourth character, a wealthy merchant, fulfills the role of a commoner.

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The day before the Feast
      Hassan Allyrion sat on a hide stool outside the stable at the tourney grounds, watching Adler's knights at their swordplay. Since leaving his home in Dorne, he'd attended a wedding, traveled the Riverlands, found employ with Lord Adler, and become master of horse at Adler's clutch -- all before his thirty-third name-day. The sun was warm on his dark skin; he found even his first spring in the Cape of Eagles a might bit chilly compared to the hot summers he spent in Dorne. Perhaps the Myrish blood in his veins ran warmer still.
      Nevertheless, he found work pleasant enough -- the horses at Adler's Clutch weren't sand-steeds, but they were decent, and when there was no work he always found time to contribute to other interests -- hunting, reading, meeting with the engineers, and so forth -- and watching the knights in the yard reminded him of his own youth. He found interest in the observation that, as usual, the youngest knights made up the vast majority of participants -- the raw recruits were never too anxious to receive their first humbling experiences, and only a handful older veterans ever practiced at once. They instead preferred to watch, as he did, and today only a dozen or so of the men-at-arms could be seen training.
      "Ha!" A youthful squire from House Wayn called out triumphantly. He’d just fired his last shot into a straw dummy across the yard. "Now there’s a pretty thing. A dozen shots find their mark, and I’ve yet to miss." He unlaced the quiver on his back, and tossed the bow carelessly to runner.
      â€œEleven,” corrected a grizzled old veteran, smoking a pipe in the corner. He had curly brown hair and a short, neatly cropped beard. His faded, plain tabard fell long to his knees, and he wore a fine hammer on his belt, opposite a common longsword.
“Heh. That’s just because when I asked for a dozen arrows I didn’t get ‘em,” which was the squire’s way of concealing that he could not count.
      At that time in the others’ banter, Hassan was surprised to see Ser Veric Wayn ride up on his own stallion at a gallop. Four wagon wheels adorned his tabard. As he passed by, he shot three arrows to his right, at the targets across the yard. For the greater bulk of those watching, it was a most difficult shot. Nevertheless, he loosed three blunted arrows from a fine, goldenwood longbow, and they struck all three targets.
Cheers came up from the rabble on the edges of the field. Tyke was the loudest. “Heheh! Now there’s a ser I’d be willing to follow into battle” Tyke said. “He can shoot better than any ‘f us.”
Upon hearing that, Veric’s squire bristled. “Oh, but give me a bow like that, and I’d be shooting twice as well as I’m now.”
      "Easy boy," warned the grizzled veteran.       "You’ve got a good eye and a strong bow arm, but you've got a lot to learn."
      The squire was indignant. "Oh, but look at you, Dobkin! You've spent the last nine years as a hedge knight, and all you ever get for it is cold mutton. Last night, my lord got himself a fancy dinner. I'll wager my steel is as good as yours... by the time I count my years as you do, I plan to be married."
"Keep practicing," Dobkin countered, taking the pipe in his hand, "and someday I'll teach you more than you'll get from shooting at straw."
      The boy threw the wooden blade to the ground and unsheathed his sword, all in one, steady motion. “Teach me now,” he said. “First blood -- I bet you’ll learn something.”
      â€œNot alone,” Dobkin said. “Best you’d get your other patsies to help ye…”
      Two more lads then unsheathed swords – though one looked less afraid than the other. Older, perhaps – at least twenty.
      â€œMy lords…” said one of the other knights.
      â€œI’m no lord,” Dobkin interrupted.
      The boy laughed at that. “I can see why…”
      Dobkin smiled. “Here’s your first lesson on fighting while outnumbered.” He unsheathed his own blade – a longsword by the look of it, though barely long enough to be called such a thing. The blade was sharp, however, and Dobkin held it deftly. He also pulled the hammer out of his belt. Hassan could see it was of fair quality.
      The squire gave a cry and all three advanced on the hedge knight… but Dobkin acted far more hastily. He ignored the greater part of his foes, and went straight for the weak link – the nervous boy on the flank. By the time the other two could respond, he’d turned aside the boy’s own, longer blade and seized him by breastplate, hurling him into the squire’s path. They clashed, and the squire stumbled while trying to heave the nervous boy out of his way. That gave Dobkin time to deal with the third one – an older man-at-arms by the look of him. They crossed swords, but the hedge knight had been watching the this one practice earlier – he tended to push his opponents’ blades downwards, to try and move in for the kill. Knowing this, Dobkin turned both their blades upwards, bent his knees, and jumped into his opponent, knocking him to the ground.
      The squire was braver, though foolhardy – he charged headlong into the hedge knight, and would have dealt a firm blow had Dobkin not caught him on the helmet with his hammer. As the squire staggered back, Dobkin charged into his remaining contender and crossed swords – easily overpowering him, their difference in age obvious.
The others sighed – this was unsightly to some of them -- though Chadwick smiled.
      Dobkin had just disarmed the squire by batting the longsword out of hand, using the hammer. In the time it took for the squire to retrieve it, the older one was bleeding – Dobkin had parried a downward-swing with his hammer, stepped on the blade, and then slid his own weapon lightly across the man’s brow, making shallow cut across the eye.
      The third lad yielded.
      â€œThat’s your first piece of advice, boy. If three men come at you, one’s like to be a bit more timid than the others. Find him first –“ he glanced at the older one – “then deal with the bigger ones.”
      Ser Veric Wayn presently removed his half-helm. "Hedge knight," he called out. "You can heckle Adler's whelps as you like, but you'd do well not to draw my squire’s blood.”
Dobkin laughed. “Here that, boy? No more duels to first blood for you.”
      Ser Veric frowned. “I’m speaking to you, hedge knight, not my squire. You draw they’re blood again and I’ll see your own on my blade.”
      â€œIf you spoke to your squire more often, you’d have seen no blood at all.”
      Ser Veric sneered. “I wouldn’t take such a warning so lightly, hedge knight. I watched you ride today – not badly for a baseborn sort. But you hit only two of the targets on your first pass – one on the second pass – and only two again on the third.”
      â€œI only fired two on the third,” Dobkin said frowning. “And I’ve fired at men – not straw.”
      Ser Veric let his helmet drop to the ground. “I hit all three targets – with three shoots. At full gallop. You can hit one, maybe two.”
      â€œI’ll admit you’re a better shot, but I’m a better fighter than you.”
      â€œWith arrows?”
      â€œWith anything,”
      Ser Veric looked at him smugly. “Perhaps you’d like a little game, then? I’ll not allow more blood to be spilled, but I can still teach you a lesson. Three blunted arrows should suffice.” His squire brought up a courser, caparisoned with the blue and white colours of House Wayn. “Mount your horse.”
      Dobkin called out to Pouncifer Pyke, a nervous-looking lad who would answer any command rather than challenge it. “My horse…”
      But there was another nervous lad in the yard – the one who had yielded to him earlier. He led up Dobkin’s old garren. Dobkin frowned, but then nodded to the boy. Then he looked back at Ser Veric Wayn, smiling. “You shoot three arrows at me,” he said. “And I’ll shoot three at you.”
      Ser Veric Wayn nodded, and the two of them put their spurs into their horses. They galloped to opposing sides of the yard, Veric sighed the hedge knight, and knocked the first of three blunted arrows. “Fool,” he said, then charged towards Dobkin.
The hedge knight circled around him, expecting a shot, but apparently Ser Wayn didn’t see ample opportunity. Then he had an idea. He rode straight past his opponent, who charged after him. Wayn liked that well enough. He drew back on his longbow, and fired. As soon as Dobkin heard the twang of the bowstring, he ducked, and pulled himself as flat against his horse as possible.
The arrow flew overhead. Once again the knights and men-at-arms in the yard were cheering.
      Ser Veric spat and knocked a second arrow; he’d not miss twice. This time he rode passed the hedge knight at a gallop, turned in the saddle, and fired.
      As he’d passed, however, Dobkin had pulled his own mount to a halt; he now wheeled around facing Ser Wayn as he’d rode by. He saw the shot coming, and made his horse rear – the arrow bouncing off the garren’s chest.
      The others cheered yet again, but the horse bucked wildly. Dobkin pulled hard on the reigns to regain control of his mount, but Ser Veric Wayn had not waited – he’d already knocked his third arrow, and, the second the hedge knight regained his steed, loosed it. The arrow struck Dobkin hard in the shoulder.
      Now all the men and servants on the grounds in the were cheering, and all practice had stopped in the yard. Dobkin gritted his teeth, still smiling, reached for his first arrow. Ser Veric Wayn galloped away from him, and Dobkin followed on his old garren.
      Hassan frowned; Dobkin was drawing his bowstring but had not actually knocked the arrow. Instead he sprung an empty bowstring. Ser Veric heard the twang of the arrow and ducked down hard onto his horse’s mane. Dobkin caught up with him, took the blunted arrow in hand, and whapped the courser’s hindquarters with the stock of his longbow. The horse reared, but as it came down Dobkin fired his first shot. The knight leaned back as far as he could, and the arrow glanced over him.
      And so, as Ser Veric Wayn strained to pull himself back up, Dobkin rode up alongside him and took a point-blank shot at the knight. The arrow bounced hard off his breastplate.
      The knight was flustered, “It seems we have a draw…” but as he said so, Dobkin drew his bowstring with his third blunted arrow. Ser Veric began to protest, but alas, the third arrow bounded again off his breastplate, this time leaving a large dent in the coloured-metal.
      Ser Veric flushed angrily. “I count four shots,” he said.
      â€œNo, three – the first time I sprang an empty bowstring.”
      â€œSuch a nasty trick…”
      â€œAye, and shooting a man while he fights to hold his saddle…”
      â€œMy lords,” Hassan finally said. Both ceased arguing immediately – it was not often the horsemaster spoke, but when he did, he spoke eloquently. “I’m afraid I am weary of your discourse. Might I suggest a new game? Shoot against me, and if I can beat both you, let the quarrel be forgotten.”
      â€œGood!” Ser Veric Wayn shouted. “And if one of us beats you, he’ll be declared the victor!”
      â€œThanks, but I’ll pass,” Dobkin said. “Ser Veric has made his point, and I’ve made mine.”
Hassan smiled at him. “Oh? Are you less than eager to face a man from Dorne and such a contest?”
      â€œOf course I am,” Dobkin smiled back. “As my last two trials might’ve shown, I only take up challenges I can win.”

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A letter arrives for Omar Redgate
The North's howling shores were wind-battered and soaked with ocean-air at the time when Omar Redgate's battalion landed. The stony shores were too treacherous for longships; perhaps that was why villagers felt so safe. There were more than a hundred of them left even as the first narrow flutes rowed onto the rocky beach, and by the time most of the peasants thought to head for safe haven it was too late. Disorganized, confused, badly trained -- they did not struggle. There were more than a hundred of them still here, and that disappointed Omar Redgate.

He leaned up against the petty stone fencing that the peasants used to divide one man's farm from another. At one point it may have been part of a ruin -- high enough to make the people feel safe, perhaps, when the hamlet was founded there, but now it was no more than waist high; it did little to stop the fighting from reaching beyond the beach. Omar sighed. There was no resistance here. He'd landed on the beaches of the North -- the first Ironman to lay claim to territory for over a hundred years in the kingdom -- and this was it. Looking out at the windy grey skies on this desolate, leaning on a stone fence, he was still a head taller than the others -- broad shouldered and muscular, with dirty blond hair that fell past his midsection in front, from a full beard, and locks that passed his shoulders, yet it was his eyes -- cold, coal-colored eyes -- that men feared. Not all Ironmen needed to be brash; some knew it was better to be cold, like the sea.

As Omar looked out at the grey skies, armoured soldiers around him took charge of what little the hamlet had to offer, and ushered the peasants into lines, marching them into the ruin. They were subjugated, now -- there would be little trouble from them.

A scream got his attention -- not a cry for help, nor despair, but a fearful scream of defiance. Omar looked over his shoulder. One of his subordinates was on top of a young woman on a hill outside the ruin. The ironmen had taken the best girls from the village for saltwives, and a few of the men for work, but this one resisted. She screamed and kicked and fought back.

The soldier grew annoyed. "I'll have you one way or another, wench," He said as he pulled a knife from his belt and put the blade to her throat. "Maybe I'll cut you into pieces first..."

The man was cutoff mid-sentence as Omar pushed him off of his quarry with his boot. The subordinate scrambled to his feet, as his captain circled around him, striding on the uneven terrain.

The men stopped driving the peasants forward. Many of them looked away from what they were doing. One of the peasants seized a spear leaning up against the stonework, but the soldiers cowed him. Omar wasn't looking. He was walking in circles around the subordinate, watching him, as the soldier regained his feet.

"What do you think you're doing," Omar asked him, in a deep, husky voice. He strained his voice too often when he was young; now he spoke quietly -- but the men heard him. Not all men needed to be loud -- when Omar Redgate spoke, even whispered, men listened. He only needed to yell in battle, and his soldiers could hear him all the better then.

"The woman is mine," the subordinate protested. "No one can come between an ironman and the spoils of our raids."

Omar looked at him questioningly. "No man may come between an ironman and his spoils, if he paid the iron price," he warned quietly, carefully. "You want that woman... you have to put a weapon in her hand. If you can win her, she's yours. If not, hold your tongue -- or she may cut it out."

"You'd have me take to bed a corpse?" The subordinate asked.

"I'd have you best her without killing her," Omar stood on the uneven ground quietly, while his fair caught in the breeze. Even when calm and relaxed, he could be unsettling. "That woman's probably never held a blade -- all the more sorry a state for the North, to do so little in the teaching -- but if her men can't defend her, take her." He stepped away from the rocky ruin and lumbered up to the soldier. His subordinate was tall -- but a head shorter than Omar. He looked down at the man and breathed a rumbling warning in his face. "If she can kill you, without you at least being able to knock the blade from her hand... maybe I'm better off putting her in your place..."

The subordinate spat and pulled his blade from its sheath. Omar watched him. For a moment, the soldier appeared to consider giving the woman a blade -- but then he turned and on Omar. Before he could strike, the captain hefted an axe over his head and nearly cut the subordinate in two, at the shoulder, and the blood-spattered carcass fell to the hill.

Omar whirled on the other men before they even looked away from the corpse. The wind blew on the hill. For a moment, he felt as fierce as when he was young -- but the moment passed. Omar Redgate was too strong to need ferocity now. Instead, he put leaned the axe up against the stone fence, and strode back over to the hill.

"He'd have had a better chance against the woman," Omar declared quietly. "Anyone else who wants to try their luck can say so."

"Captain," one of the soldiers said, as Omar looked at him. "I bring a letter from Adler lands in Miterport."

Omar frowned and took the letter, breaking the seal with knotted fingers. He frowned again as he read. He did not speak; his furrowed brow only remained the more he thought about the words he read.

Omar's son walked up to him. The lad was a youth no older than fifteen, but strong as well. He'd shaved his head and grown out a full beard, like his father, but the difference between them clearly showed. "Lorel wants me to travel to Miterport," Omar said to his son. "We may sail on the morrow." The men looked at him. Finally, he walked away. "You want those spoils, you'd better hurry."

By the end of the day, two women had won their freedom, and nearly a dozen of his own men were taking women back to the ships -- as saltwives, not slaves -- and some men as laborers as well. The rest were left to starve on the beach -- or fend for themselves, Omar knew not which, nor cared. He was, in fact, disappointed -- of all of the peasants, only two men were bold enough to volunteer to defend their women. And neither of them proved very good at fighting for them. Not this time.
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Dear Father
This letter comes with the first of what is to be many returns on your investment here. Things go well in the Cape of Eagles. Within the month my information network will take roots, and our influence will soon begin spreading into the Riverlands.

The young lord Addler has named me his Master of Coin. I intend, an event that may prove itself quite useful to our endeavors. House Addler has bound itself to our success here, and thier growing influence with the House Tully may yet expediate our attempts to dominate this region.

This being said, I have infiltrated a meeting where a madman thought suitable to expound upon his machinations. He intends a full scale invasion of the northlands, using some unknown weapon to travel swiftly across great expanses of land and sea. This event has riled the local lords around the Cape of Eagles. For this reason I request that you please send me some of our finest stock of arms and armors. We have already born witness to this madmans ability to rally wildkin. I see a great opportunity to display our goods and fill Addler's rival lords with jealousy. Where this young lord to take the field in our equipment, I've no doubt we'd find market with the surrounding lords. They would be fearful of Addler's newfound power, if not the threat of this madman's barbarians.

In short, things go well. I intend to send you more returns within the next few months. Take care, Father.

Your Son,
Vladistern of Lannisport
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After Action Report, 96th Day of Summer: The Battle of Port Miter
My Lord,

As you know, my lord, we encountered a contingent of bandits on the road home from the Tournament at Peinhelve. After returning to our lands, I focused my energies on finding the source of these raids. Such an affront against the King's Law, especially this close to Port Miter, cannot be ignored.

Locals immediately reported suspicious activity around Miterport. There were strong indications that Miterport was in danger of an imminent raid from these bandits. There were also rumors of longboat sightings along the coast.

A local farmer reported that his farm had been taken over by bandits. Seeing this as an opportunity to lure out the main bandit force, I led the garrison unit stationed in Port Miter north. This left the town undefended and vulnerable.

Having coordinated with Arcadius, he secretly moved our remaining garrison regiment, along with a regiment of archers from Adler's Clutch to Port Miter by sea. Arcadius's force would serve as a powerful surprise to any bandits.

Several hours north of Port Miter, I received reports of a significant organized bandit force marching on the town. I immediately reversed direction and started back towards the town with the garrison.

By the time we reached Port Miter, the docks were in chaos. I observed two longboats offloading Ironmen into the town. Arcadius, the Ward Redgate, and their accompanying regiments had also reached the docks and were offloading.

I positioned my garrison unit in a blocking position between the Ironmen and Arcadius's offloading troops. The Ironmen quickly became disorganized in the confusion as they crashed upon the shields of our organized garrison unit. As Arcadius's garrison unit joined in-line with mine, the Archer regiment - under the command of Lorel Redgate, rained arrows upon the Ironmen from the ship.

Roughly 200 Ironmen landed upon the docks. By my estimation, only 80 were able to load back onto their longships and escape.

At this point, a bandit calvary regiment appeared on our flank. The combined force of our two garrison units were able to repel the charge.

We then started moving into the town, fighting bandits as we went. The battle culminated in the town center. When I got there, I observed a single regiment of bandit raiders along with their leader, a man who calls himself "Mad Jack". The bandit leader had taken several hostages, and was threatening to kill them as well as set fire to the town.

However, the bandits quickly saw that their position was untenable. After negotiations, the bandits were allowed to leave the town peacefully after they released the hostages.

A minimal amount of damage was inflicted upon Port Miter. Our casualties were fairly light considering the intensity of the battle.

After the battle, I ordered a heavy military presence be kept in Port Miter. I have also stepped up patrols along our border with House Irving.

I will not rest until the purpose of this raid is uncovered and its ringleaders are brought to justice.

Your Loyal Servant,

Ser Ichabod Kipling
Captain of the Guard, House Adler


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Dear Father
Dear Father,

Miterport is going well. Your contributions have swelled our coffers and House Adler is want for the economy we provide them. Our information network will endure its trial by fire on these coming eves. I will soon ascertain the worthiness of our employees. If nothing else, the knight Dobkin has proven himself an experienced, and worthy partner. However, I fear for his loyalty should house Adler prove itself worthy of his sword. Cobb, on the other hand, is a cutthroat who will gladly walk into hell for the right price. I assure you, our price is the best among bidders. He is worth consideration for his ability to not be fingered. The plot concerning Lorel Redgate is in place. We will not be betrayed without dire consequence. Miterport will continue to provide you with worthy revenue, I personally see to this even now.

Your son,
Vladistern
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Setting:
Westeros (1st)
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