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VelvetWhispers
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2024
- Location
- Paris
Hello, fellow wildlings, lords, ladies, and those who've yet to choose a side—
I'm currently craving some Game of Thrones RP, and let me tell you: it's the kind of craving that can't be satisfied by a bowl of brown stew or a flagon of Arbor Gold. I want scheming in candlelit halls, blades flashing in the frostbitten dark, forbidden kisses behind castle walls, and dragons lurking just out of sight. You know... the good stuff.
This RP would take place in an AU setting roughly during Seasons 1–2 of the show. Think: Ned's still alive (maybe), Daenerys hasn't gone full Targaryen firestorm (yet), and the Great Houses are still playing the chessboard of Westeros with pieces they don't realise are already on fire.
We're not bound to canon—we control the narrative here. This is not just a sandbox; it's a forge where we hammer out our own plotlines and play the game our way. That means drama, adventure, political intrigue, and sweet, sweet romance—all served with a side of danger and a dash of dragonfire.
The Pairing Menu
I'm open to both OC x OC and OC x Canon, depending on chemistry and story potential. If you've got a broody canon character you're dying to play (looking at you, Jon, Jaime, or even a well-crafted version of Tyrion), bring them on! Or, if you're brimming with original characters—northern bastards, exiled nobles, sellsword kings, rogue maesters—yes, please.
My Heart Belongs to Romance... But My Soul Craves Chaos
Let's talk tone. I adore romance—whether it's slow burn, enemies to lovers, secret trysts, or star-crossed affairs. But I need that romance served alongside plenty of grit and plot. Give me:
The story should feel cinematic—like we're scripting our own season of the show with fresh faces, familiar vibes, and jaw-dropping twists. Bonus points if you're comfortable with multiple characters and intertwining plotlines. (And yes, I love a good subplot or five.)
House Expectations, Sigil: Fun & Flexibility
A few things that make the RP even better:
Themes & Tropes I'd Love to Explore
Sample Writing Below – Just So You Know I Can Sling the Quill Like a Maester
If you've made it this far and felt even the tiniest spark of inspiration or intrigue, send a raven—or, you know, a DM—and let's start plotting our epic tale. Whether we're building from scratch or bending canon to our will, I want to make a world with you that feels real, dangerous, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
Until then, may your roads be safe, your wine be strong, and your plots be thicker than winter snow.
Valar roleplayghulis,
—Your future writing partner
I'm currently craving some Game of Thrones RP, and let me tell you: it's the kind of craving that can't be satisfied by a bowl of brown stew or a flagon of Arbor Gold. I want scheming in candlelit halls, blades flashing in the frostbitten dark, forbidden kisses behind castle walls, and dragons lurking just out of sight. You know... the good stuff.
This RP would take place in an AU setting roughly during Seasons 1–2 of the show. Think: Ned's still alive (maybe), Daenerys hasn't gone full Targaryen firestorm (yet), and the Great Houses are still playing the chessboard of Westeros with pieces they don't realise are already on fire.
We're not bound to canon—we control the narrative here. This is not just a sandbox; it's a forge where we hammer out our own plotlines and play the game our way. That means drama, adventure, political intrigue, and sweet, sweet romance—all served with a side of danger and a dash of dragonfire.
The Pairing Menu I'm open to both OC x OC and OC x Canon, depending on chemistry and story potential. If you've got a broody canon character you're dying to play (looking at you, Jon, Jaime, or even a well-crafted version of Tyrion), bring them on! Or, if you're brimming with original characters—northern bastards, exiled nobles, sellsword kings, rogue maesters—yes, please.
My Heart Belongs to Romance... But My Soul Craves Chaos Let's talk tone. I adore romance—whether it's slow burn, enemies to lovers, secret trysts, or star-crossed affairs. But I need that romance served alongside plenty of grit and plot. Give me:
- Sword fights with sizzling tension.
- Betrayals that make the heart ache.
- Alliances born of necessity but laced with desire.
- Magic creeping in from beyond the Wall.
- That "oh no, there's only one bed in this remote hunting lodge" moment right before a wildling raid.
The story should feel cinematic—like we're scripting our own season of the show with fresh faces, familiar vibes, and jaw-dropping twists. Bonus points if you're comfortable with multiple characters and intertwining plotlines. (And yes, I love a good subplot or five.)
House Expectations, Sigil: Fun & Flexibility A few things that make the RP even better:
- Advanced-lit to novella style. (Let's paint scenes with words!)
- Third-person, past tense preferred.
- Doubling is welcome but not required.
- I'm friendly and collaborative—plotting together is half the fun!
- Let's be consistent but low-pressure. I know life gets wild, just like Westeros.
Themes & Tropes I'd Love to Explore- Arranged marriages with ulterior motives
- Forbidden love (noble/knight, captive/royal, etc.)
- Rival heirs and political manipulation
- Lost Targaryens or secret bloodlines
- Bastards trying to rise in the world
- Knights with a code vs. a world without honour
- Civil war tearing houses apart
- Secret orders, prophecies, and ancient threats
Sample Writing Below – Just So You Know I Can Sling the Quill Like a Maester The gods had blessed the North with cold and curses, and today, Elyra Frostmere was wearing both like a second skin.
Mist clung low across the Kingsroad, shrouding the trees in a ghostly haze, like the breath of the Old Gods whispering from the bark. The dawn sun struggled behind grey clouds, painting the world in steel and ash—fitting, she thought, for a morning stained in Lannister red.
Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword, leather gloves creaking. Not a lady's weapon, they'd said once. Her lips curved.
"They'll be on us in moments," muttered Corlen, the oldest of her men and the best with a spear. "Three score, maybe more. Flag of the lion flies high."
"Good," Elyra said, tugging her hood low to shadow her face. "I'd hate to think they were being shy."
She stood astride her courser, grey as a frost-bitten storm, dressed in hardened leather dyed black and dark blue, stitched tight to her frame for movement, not flattery. No frills, no silks, no ridiculous embroidery. Her doublet bore a subtle crest of House Frostmere—twin ravens over a snowy cliff—but only a Northerner would know it, and these fools weren't Northerners.
Her men—ten in all, lean, grim, and loyal—readied their weapons without a word more. They knew the odds. They also knew her.
She turned her face northward for one breath. "Father," she murmured. "Don't let me die stupidly. I know you didn't spend twelve years beating sword forms into me just for that."
She'd been sent south on her own will—"escorting supplies," the official lie. But in truth, she hunted messages. One of their raven carriers had gone down near Moat Cailin, intercepted, they thought, and the Lannisters were sniffing along every root and road trying to uncover what Robb Stark planned next. She could not let them find it.
The horn sounded—thin and brash, arrogant in that Lannister way. Hooves thundered. Steel glinted.
"Form up!" she barked, drawing her blade free. Moonfang—a name she never asked for, but it suited. Light as a whisper, sharp as betrayal. "They've brought lions to a wolf's hunt!"
The world erupted.
The Lannisters surged through the mist in a golden tide, but the narrow woodland path funnelled them—three abreast at most—and that, she'd wagered on. Arrows flew from the trees, finding chinks in armour. A pike took a rider through the gut, his scream high and sudden. Her horse reared and she sprang from the saddle, blade flashing in a perfect arc.
"Lannisters make terrible lovers!" she shouted as she ducked under a clumsy swing, her blade severing a knee from its leg. "All flash and no rhythm!"
Blood sprayed her cheek—hot, metallic, familiar. Her mind went still, even as her body moved—her father's voice guiding her through the chaos.
Turn the hips. Watch the shoulders. Their eyes always lie.
She parried a heavy blow with both hands, then riposted low, slipping her blade under the rim of a breastplate. The man collapsed with a gurgle. Elyra didn't linger—she pivoted into the next, blocking a strike meant for one of her scouts, Orlen.
"You're slow," she quipped.
"I'm bleeding!"
"Then bleed after we win."
Steel screamed against steel. The mist became smoke. Trees caught fire where torches had fallen, casting everything in flickering orange. Lannister cries echoed in the smoke—some bold, most panicked. Her men pressed forward, harrying the confused force, herding them into a death trap they'd planned days ago.
She caught a glimpse of a standard bearer, holding the lion crest high. Bold. Stupid.
She leapt onto a rock, then into the saddle of a downed horse, balancing with perfect grace. Her blade flashed again, severing the standard's pole. The lion dropped into mud.
"Tell your king," she called to the soldiers backing away, "the North remembers. Especially when you send amateurs."
They ran.
Smoke stung her eyes as the last few fled into the trees. Her breath came in harsh, victorious gasps. Blood slicked her armor, but none of it hers.
Corlen limped up beside her, wiping his blade. "You're mad."
"I'm Northern," she replied. "There's a difference."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of fire, pine, and blood.
Robb Stark was bleeding the Lannisters in the west. Her father fought beside him, leading the Frostmere spears. Her younger brother, barely of age, held their keep. And she—well, she was exactly where she needed to be.
Elyra sheathed her sword.
"There's still a message to find," she said. "Mount up."
And the hunt continued.
Mist clung low across the Kingsroad, shrouding the trees in a ghostly haze, like the breath of the Old Gods whispering from the bark. The dawn sun struggled behind grey clouds, painting the world in steel and ash—fitting, she thought, for a morning stained in Lannister red.
Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword, leather gloves creaking. Not a lady's weapon, they'd said once. Her lips curved.
"They'll be on us in moments," muttered Corlen, the oldest of her men and the best with a spear. "Three score, maybe more. Flag of the lion flies high."
"Good," Elyra said, tugging her hood low to shadow her face. "I'd hate to think they were being shy."
She stood astride her courser, grey as a frost-bitten storm, dressed in hardened leather dyed black and dark blue, stitched tight to her frame for movement, not flattery. No frills, no silks, no ridiculous embroidery. Her doublet bore a subtle crest of House Frostmere—twin ravens over a snowy cliff—but only a Northerner would know it, and these fools weren't Northerners.
Her men—ten in all, lean, grim, and loyal—readied their weapons without a word more. They knew the odds. They also knew her.
She turned her face northward for one breath. "Father," she murmured. "Don't let me die stupidly. I know you didn't spend twelve years beating sword forms into me just for that."
She'd been sent south on her own will—"escorting supplies," the official lie. But in truth, she hunted messages. One of their raven carriers had gone down near Moat Cailin, intercepted, they thought, and the Lannisters were sniffing along every root and road trying to uncover what Robb Stark planned next. She could not let them find it.
The horn sounded—thin and brash, arrogant in that Lannister way. Hooves thundered. Steel glinted.
"Form up!" she barked, drawing her blade free. Moonfang—a name she never asked for, but it suited. Light as a whisper, sharp as betrayal. "They've brought lions to a wolf's hunt!"
The world erupted.
The Lannisters surged through the mist in a golden tide, but the narrow woodland path funnelled them—three abreast at most—and that, she'd wagered on. Arrows flew from the trees, finding chinks in armour. A pike took a rider through the gut, his scream high and sudden. Her horse reared and she sprang from the saddle, blade flashing in a perfect arc.
"Lannisters make terrible lovers!" she shouted as she ducked under a clumsy swing, her blade severing a knee from its leg. "All flash and no rhythm!"
Blood sprayed her cheek—hot, metallic, familiar. Her mind went still, even as her body moved—her father's voice guiding her through the chaos.
Turn the hips. Watch the shoulders. Their eyes always lie.
She parried a heavy blow with both hands, then riposted low, slipping her blade under the rim of a breastplate. The man collapsed with a gurgle. Elyra didn't linger—she pivoted into the next, blocking a strike meant for one of her scouts, Orlen.
"You're slow," she quipped.
"I'm bleeding!"
"Then bleed after we win."
Steel screamed against steel. The mist became smoke. Trees caught fire where torches had fallen, casting everything in flickering orange. Lannister cries echoed in the smoke—some bold, most panicked. Her men pressed forward, harrying the confused force, herding them into a death trap they'd planned days ago.
She caught a glimpse of a standard bearer, holding the lion crest high. Bold. Stupid.
She leapt onto a rock, then into the saddle of a downed horse, balancing with perfect grace. Her blade flashed again, severing the standard's pole. The lion dropped into mud.
"Tell your king," she called to the soldiers backing away, "the North remembers. Especially when you send amateurs."
They ran.
Smoke stung her eyes as the last few fled into the trees. Her breath came in harsh, victorious gasps. Blood slicked her armor, but none of it hers.
Corlen limped up beside her, wiping his blade. "You're mad."
"I'm Northern," she replied. "There's a difference."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of fire, pine, and blood.
Robb Stark was bleeding the Lannisters in the west. Her father fought beside him, leading the Frostmere spears. Her younger brother, barely of age, held their keep. And she—well, she was exactly where she needed to be.
Elyra sheathed her sword.
"There's still a message to find," she said. "Mount up."
And the hunt continued.
The afternoon light spilled through the arched windows, bathing the tapestry room in a golden haze. Dust motes danced lazily above half-stitched lions and falcons. The air smelled of warmed wool and lavender, and the high, pleasant hum of gossip floated between the ladies like smoke in a sept.
"He's an imp," said Lady Maeryn, biting into a honeyed fig as if she were devouring the man himself. "A Lannister, yes, but one with crooked legs and wandering hands."
"Twice-wed and no children," added Myra, her voice muffled behind a length of embroidery floss. "Probably cursed. Or poisoned by all that wine."
Laughter flickered among the circle like a passing candle. All eyes shifted to Lady Cerella of House Hetherspring, needle paused mid-stitch.
Cerella smiled softly and looped her thread through a golden lion's mane, calm as a moon-touched pond. "You say it like wit is a fault," she said. "I'd rather cleverness than dull-eyed brawn. And I've heard Lord Tyrion is clever indeed."
"Clever or conniving?" someone muttered.
Cerella didn't rise to it. She pressed her thumb gently to a knot of thread, anchoring it in place. "He reads more than most septons," she said. "And he's fluent in Valyrian. I daresay he's more prepared to rule a household than half the highborn men I've met—who think a ledger is something you sharpen."
That earned a few glances. Lady Myra's cheeks went pink. Cerella kept her tone pleasant, warm even, but it landed like a blade slipped between ribs.
She paused, then added, more thoughtfully, "I saw him once, you know. Years ago, in Lannisport. I must have been ten. He was… smaller than I imagined, yes. But he was standing atop a barrel at the docks, scolding a red-faced knight twice his size for mispronouncing 'Essos.'" Her lips quirked. "He called him 'a walking bucket of horse dung with the diction of a drunken goat.' Then he bowed and said, 'No offense to the goat.'"
The ladies stared.
Cerella beamed. "I laughed so hard I choked on my sweetroll. He saw me, winked, and said I had excellent taste in comedy. I decided I liked him right then."
There was a pause—long enough for the wind to whistle through the narrow windows.
Then Lady Maeryn rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"And you're predictable," Cerella said sweetly, resuming her stitch. "We all have our faults."
The room chuckled, and the conversation meandered to some other poor girl betrothed to a gouty bannerman with more pigs than teeth.
But Cerella let her thoughts linger on the man with sharp words and sharper eyes. Perhaps he was a drunk. Perhaps he had whores in every brothel between here and Harrenhal. But so did half the men the realm worshipped—and none of them had made her laugh from thirty paces with a single insult.
Let them talk. Let them whisper and snicker and cluck like hens.
She'd rather have a lion who thought than a falcon who only soared in circles.
"He's an imp," said Lady Maeryn, biting into a honeyed fig as if she were devouring the man himself. "A Lannister, yes, but one with crooked legs and wandering hands."
"Twice-wed and no children," added Myra, her voice muffled behind a length of embroidery floss. "Probably cursed. Or poisoned by all that wine."
Laughter flickered among the circle like a passing candle. All eyes shifted to Lady Cerella of House Hetherspring, needle paused mid-stitch.
Cerella smiled softly and looped her thread through a golden lion's mane, calm as a moon-touched pond. "You say it like wit is a fault," she said. "I'd rather cleverness than dull-eyed brawn. And I've heard Lord Tyrion is clever indeed."
"Clever or conniving?" someone muttered.
Cerella didn't rise to it. She pressed her thumb gently to a knot of thread, anchoring it in place. "He reads more than most septons," she said. "And he's fluent in Valyrian. I daresay he's more prepared to rule a household than half the highborn men I've met—who think a ledger is something you sharpen."
That earned a few glances. Lady Myra's cheeks went pink. Cerella kept her tone pleasant, warm even, but it landed like a blade slipped between ribs.
She paused, then added, more thoughtfully, "I saw him once, you know. Years ago, in Lannisport. I must have been ten. He was… smaller than I imagined, yes. But he was standing atop a barrel at the docks, scolding a red-faced knight twice his size for mispronouncing 'Essos.'" Her lips quirked. "He called him 'a walking bucket of horse dung with the diction of a drunken goat.' Then he bowed and said, 'No offense to the goat.'"
The ladies stared.
Cerella beamed. "I laughed so hard I choked on my sweetroll. He saw me, winked, and said I had excellent taste in comedy. I decided I liked him right then."
There was a pause—long enough for the wind to whistle through the narrow windows.
Then Lady Maeryn rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"And you're predictable," Cerella said sweetly, resuming her stitch. "We all have our faults."
The room chuckled, and the conversation meandered to some other poor girl betrothed to a gouty bannerman with more pigs than teeth.
But Cerella let her thoughts linger on the man with sharp words and sharper eyes. Perhaps he was a drunk. Perhaps he had whores in every brothel between here and Harrenhal. But so did half the men the realm worshipped—and none of them had made her laugh from thirty paces with a single insult.
Let them talk. Let them whisper and snicker and cluck like hens.
She'd rather have a lion who thought than a falcon who only soared in circles.
If you've made it this far and felt even the tiniest spark of inspiration or intrigue, send a raven—or, you know, a DM—and let's start plotting our epic tale. Whether we're building from scratch or bending canon to our will, I want to make a world with you that feels real, dangerous, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
Until then, may your roads be safe, your wine be strong, and your plots be thicker than winter snow.
Valar roleplayghulis,
—Your future writing partner