#g&m.plotdrop

PLOT DROP 005 ;;

the time had finally come, gathered in the great hall of the red keep, assembled were the lords and ladies of westeros both great and small. they were gathered together to bear witness to what would be the signing of the treaty that had been the center of so many talks, so many dinners, and so many negotiations. kings daeron iii targaryen and king walton ii stark were just finished putting their names to the paper, the ink signifying their hopes to usher in another sixty years of peace, just as daeron's grandmother and walton's mother had.

a small reception followed the signing of the treaty, the next big event on the e agenda to solidify everlasting peace between the south and the north would be the planning of prince jasper baratheon and princess serena stark's wedding. both of them deeming the union of the utmost importance decided that it would be a splendid affair, it had been after all some time since the realm had had a royal wedding, and the first between the two royal families.

as the two men were discussing some of the more diplomatic aspects of the wedding, several members of the order of the dragonkeepers, those responsible for taking care of drogon had arrived. they spoke to daeron in high valyrian, and his face quickly betrayed him when he smiled with pure joy. the targaryen king turned to the stark king, the targaryen knew he would have to leave the reception early along with his cousins, as this was. afar more pressing issue for the southern kingdom.

PLOT DROP 002 pt 2 ;;

King Rhaegar sat at the high table, a fine figure in his royal attire, adorned with the emblem of the dragon. His keen violet orbs watched his guests, a soft smile playing upon his lips as he savored the roasted boar, the meat cooked to perfection and subtly seasoned. He seemed to be enjoying the festivities, laughing heartily at the jester's antics, clapping in rhythm with the bards’ songs, and raising his goblet in several toasts. His charm was infectious, his charisma a beacon in the grand hall.

Rhaegar, resplendent in his silver and crimson attire, rose from his seat of carved ebony, a goblet of Dornish Red glinting in his hand. A hush descended upon the sea of guests as his voice rang out, the words of the peace treaty echoing in the grand hall. The room was charged with anticipation as the King brought the goblet to his lips.

As if struck by an unseen bolt, Rhaegar gasped, the goblet tumbling from his grip, crimson wine cascading down like a river of blood. He buckled, a proud tree felled in an instant, his life extinguished as swiftly as a candle in a storm. His goblet lay abandoned, a silent witness to a king's fall.

Panic rippled through the hall, a tidal wave of terror and confusion. Swords sang as they were unsheathed, metal clashed against metal, a symphony of chaos. The madness was curbed only by the combined efforts of Prince Daeron Targaryen and the Stark King, their voices booming through the uproar, a lighthouse amidst a raging storm. A grim decree was issued: the Red Keep, once a beacon of joy and revelry, was now a prison. No one would leave the capital; no soul would escape until the serpent that caused the tragedy was brought to justice.

Without wasting a moment, the royal guards began a frantic search throughout the castle, interrogating guests, scouring rooms, all in the desperate attempt to uncover the culprit. The Red Keep was on high alert, its once welcoming halls now a labyrinth of suspicion. The dawn brought no relief, only a chilling discovery. The news descended upon the court like a raven of ill omen, casting a pall of suspicion over the Stark household. The remains of potion were discovered in Prince Richard Stark’s and Ser Silas' chambers. In the eye of this growing tempest, a lifeline was thrown over the next few days.

A betrothal between Prince Jasper Baratheon and Princess Wylla Stark was announced, a bond aimed to unite the dragon and the wolf, to bridge the widening chasm of distrust. A glimmer of hope pierced the cloak of uncertainty, but it was a fragile thread holding the realm together.

The air in the Great Sept was heavy with expectation, the echoes of Rhaegar's untimely death still resounding in the hallowed stone. The coronation of King Daeron was fast approaching. For now, the realm held its breath, caught in the delicate dance of politics and power, the shadow of betrayal looming overhead from the loss of their king.

PLOT DROP ;;

The Queen is dead.

The 60 year reign of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen has ended. Kingdoms mourn for a Queen who made waves in a period of what many would call Enlightenment. With two Queen's ruling in the North and in the South, a powerful vassal House run by a former Queen in the West, Westeros found itself transcending boundaries formerly set by the rule of men, boundaries that some might see reinstated now that the Queen has perished.

With the deaths of the Queen in the North and now the Dragon Queen, tensions in succession and power has risen, some would see what has been done, undone once again, some would see the Targaryen's in power no longer, as memories are not as faded in some as it is in others, and some might even see the North as a Kingdom under the Iron Throne once more.

In an attempt to settle the Kingdom's, and restore faith in it's rulers, the Crown Prince and King in the North have agreed to come together for the Targaryen son's coronation, and to draft a Treaty of Peace between the North and Iron Throne, signifying unity between nations as had been done with their mother's for so many years. Some will attend in hopes of peace, some will attend in hopes of strife. However, nothing is ever certain in the game of thrones....

PLOT DROP 004 ;;

It was night, Daeron had stepped out onto his balcony Arbor gold in hand, and he was wearing a light robe of cloth of gold. Looking out over Kings Landing, his mind was unsure about where things were going to go from here now that the treaty was all but finished. He wanted to be the King his father and grandmother knew he would be, but with his father’s killers still loose, those who sought to undo 60 years of peace, he was anxious. His gaze was roaming out over the city, until they finally befell the grand site of the former housing pen of his grandmother's dragon, Drogon.  Drogan had grown to be one of the largest dragons in the history of Westeros now nearing the size of Vhagar at her passing, but shortly after his grandmother’s passing Drogon had taken flight, no one was sure where he had gone off to.  His new housing had been built differently than the Dragonpit. The intention was to make sure that, unlike the dragons of old his size would not be affected by containment. Rather, Daenerys had wanted to make sure that he grew larger and larger as the dragons of old Valyria and the dragons of Balerion’s age had before the construction of the Dragonpit. 

After Drogon’s departure from the city, his father had made the decision to move all of the dormat Dragon eggs into the open air structure. Perhaps it was a hope Drogon seeking out kin would return to them. Over the course of Daenary’s reign, she had managed to track down and recover 23 Dragon Eggs. All of them were turned to stone, and kept on display in her solar within the Red Keep. Now resting in their new home, under guard still. Neither Rhaegar nor Daeron had wanted to risk them falling out of Targaryen possession, and so had the Dragon Pen being guarded tightly. Despite being dormant and being turned to stone by time, they were still valuable, and that many eggs could make sure a man was so wealthy he, his children and his grandchildren would never have to want for anything. The eggs were now also the closest thing the Targaryens had as a sign of their power, especially since Drogon had left. The last dragon was out there somehwere alone, he wondered where. Dragonstone had been searched and there was no trace, Daeron imagined the dragon went to the Dothraki Sea to be reminded of when his grandmother birthed him. In many ways, Drogon was something of a much older Uncle. One of Daenary’s first sons. Arguably her first son, and easily her most powerful son. 

Daeron was bringing the glass up to his lips, when he heard the door to his chambers get thrown open, and the clattering of his Kingsguard’s armor following the frantic footsteps, “Your grace, your grace.” The voice was panting clearly he had ran to get here. However before the messenger could even speak, Daeron was already figuring out why he had come running so frantically, the moonlight was being blocked out, and the flapping of the wings flying over the Red Keep had his robe fluttering. Dropping his glass, the sound of it shattering against the ground and the splash of the spilt wine hitting his leg did little to bother him as he watched……Drogon fly towards his nest. Watching as the figure landed in the structure, Daeron wasted no time snapping his fingers to signify he needed to get dressed so that he could personally go investigate this matter………

PLOT DROP 002 pt. 1 ;;

The grandeur of the Red Keep was unmatched, its towering walls and grand halls adorned with intricate carvings and grand tapestries depicting the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Tonight, the castle was alight with a thousand torches, casting dancing shadows upon the stone walls, and filling the air with the faint scent of burning pine.

Guests had traveled from all corners of the realm, from the icy wilds of the North to the sun-drenched shores of Dorne, all in honor of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. The feast was a symbol of unity, a beacon of hope for the dawn of a new era of peace. The Great Hall was a sea of color, with high lords and ladies resplendent in their house colors, their sigils emblazoned on their chests. Banners of every House hung from the rafters, their colors melding together in a tapestry of unity.

A grand feast had been prepared in Rhaegar's honor, its magnitude rivaling the legendary feasts of old. A hundred tables had been laid, groaning under the weight of roasted boar, honeyed chicken, stuffed peacocks, and venison pies. Flagons of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red were passed around, their rich fragrance wafting through the hall. Minstrels played merry tunes while court jesters tumbled and jesters told ribald tales, their antics drawing roars of laughter.

Yet, beneath the surface of revelry, a shadow loomed. Not all who attended had peace on their minds. Whispers of dissent could be heard in the corners of the hall, drowned out by the music and laughter. Eyes watched Prince Rhaegar warily, observing his every move, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

As the night wore on, the tension in the air grew thicker. The feast was not just a celebration, it was a battlefield, and every lord and lady was a soldier. The night was young, and the true game was only beginning. As the first toast was raised to Prince Rhaegar, the future king, the wheels of treachery began to turn, setting the stage for a night that Westeros would not soon forget...