Game World: Westeros, as imagined in the “Game of Thrones” television series.
Period: Just after the end of the first series / book.
Summary: Low fantasy, swords and fur cloaks, with rumors of monsters in the dark. Players will choose different parts of the world (The Iron Islands, The Reach, etc) to base their characters on, and won’t know each other before they meet in an Inn in a deep forest in The North.
You have been on your horse for hours and your ass is finally starting to go numb. You are certain the numbness is from the saddle and not the freezing cold because beneath the layers of leather and metal armor and the fur cloak you are swimming in your own sweat, steam rising from your open hood into the frigid air. You turned off the King’s Road just after breakfast when the sun was bright enough to pierce the twisted canopy of frozen branches high overhead. Now, deep into the Wolfswood, the clouds have rolled in and filtered the light through an even white haze. You are not tricked by how soft the ground looks, under everything is a hard, slick ice.
It doesn’t matter where you came from, maybe it was Winterfell or King’s Landing or even Dorne, all you care about is where you are headed – some muddy hamlet called Deepwood Motte which should lie at the far end of this forest. You set off some time ago and will be glad when you finally arrive, welcomed warmly into whatever smokey tavern you first stumble into.
Your horse snorts uneasily. There are figures lying in the snowy road.
You swing your leg over the saddle and slide to the ground, trying not to catch your cloak in the horse’s bridle. The bodies are clearly dead, motionless, and although this scene was the result of violence the danger appears to have moved on. Still, your arm finds its way reflexively across your body and pulls your broadsword halfway from its sheath.
There are a dozen men here from two obviously different groups, all frozen solid to the ground. Half of the men are dressed in faded suits of linked mail partially hidden under fine woolen cloaks. The other half are dressed coarsely in furs, their beards stuck to the icy path. The entire scene stinks of piss and congealed blood, the smell so fresh you wonder at its source.
On cue, the source reveals itself in a low, guttural growl coming from the edge of the treeline behind you. In the moment before you turn a long forgotten children’s rhyme drags itself up from the deep recesses of your memory:
Wolf King has wo-ken
Ru-ins lay smoking
Dead spirits spo-ken
Life is now bro-ken