#Game Of Thrones Map

[2minutetabletop]

The Royal Overlook Battle Map

A grand balcony looms over the city like a big, 16x22 boss room! Does your world have an NPC ostentatious enough for this building?

→ You can download it here!

[hlxc23]

The fantasy map (draft) (maybe) for my upcoming wolfstar fic inspired by Game of Thrones👀

I have the plot and characters down, I just need to start writing. Im planning to start tomorrow! I’m probably going to write the first 10 chapters before I post any of it, but it will be on AO3!!

[ravenhairedwaywanderer]

[leupagus]

A War of Seasons, Chapter 2: Daenerys

"Did you get lost again?" asked Tyrion a few days later, mild as sour milk. He and Missandei were sitting out on the great bench that ran along the Nursery's balcony; from the looks of things, they'd been there for some time, their pile of "to be read" books quite a bit shorter than either the "read and approve" or the "read and wish to burn" piles.

"Water," Dany croaked, half-falling from Drogon's back and staggering to the bench. Missandei, looking nearly as disapproving as Tyrion, stood and made her way down the stairs, calling for a refreshment tray to be brought.

[willigula]

Map of Modern Day Westros by James Shadrach

[napoleons-left-nipple]

I'm such a slut for fantasy maps

[3katanas]

@kisumshi asked: Icons only - Drogon incinerated all of Z's bandanas

[intofree]

the true ending is definitely more impactful if you’re familiar with the first game which I appreciate so much

[pryanie]

Hey everyone, pryanie#2536 here. I've decided to revive my ol' page as a dump for my Destiny mapping projects, starting with the most recent one - The Shattered Throne dungeon map, with every hidden chest, corrupted egg and collectible marked.

This is a massive and ambitious collaboration project that kinda took me and and my friend Tenrouken several months to make.

I know the dungeon isn't exactly new, but it wasn't covered in it's entirety by any other maps previously. It's so dark that I always wanted to have something topographical to navigate it with ease, and here we go, years later it is done.

Feel free to share, use in your videos, guides, discord servers, etc. I also made it easy to crop the right text panel if you don't need it.

You can also support me directly via Boosty.

[midmorningsong]

fuck meee I got some brainworms at work thinking about a trigun game of thrones au (when house targaryen is ruling westeros because dragons make story go brrr), and just opened a wee word document to throw up some bullet points for this 'WW being Vash's sworn shield in this politically uneasy time' short story, then I blink and it's been 2hrs, I'm dehydrated, there's 10 tabs open about various GOT lore and locations, the document has become two pages long with character backgrounds, motivations and storybeats. sending out a flare for help rn

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Tyrion II

The north went on forever.

Tyrion Lannister knew the maps as well as anyone, but a fortnight on the wild track that passed for the kingsroad up here had brought home the lesson that the map was one thing and the land quite another.

They had left Winterfell on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out to the sound of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and the groaning of the queen’s huge wheelhouse, as a light snow flurried about them.

The kingsroad was just beyond the sprawl of castle and town.

There the banners and the wagons and the columns of knights and freeriders turned south, taking the tumult with them, while Tyrion turned north with Benjen Stark and his nephew.

It had grown colder after that, and far more quiet.

[rexsregum]

The World of Rex Societas

Hey, this account is going to be entirely dedicated to highlighting the lore, events, and hijinks of the players and world of Rex Societas, a roleplaying, state building, letter-based map game. My players are not allowed to view any of the posts that use the #rexsocietas and instead will use the player #reso or #rexso to share their own lore and exploits. I hope you'll all enjoy witnessing our journey! :)

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

16, Est & friend(s)-of-your-choice?

poking pelennor until 'au where est does throne... sort of' pops out :D (edit- oh the actual prompt was 'aftermath')

The first sound that returns to you is the thundering of hooves. It’s so great it rumbles the floor of the cage, and beneath it and the jangling of heavy horse harness you can hear battlecries. You try to open your eyes. Nothing moves. Your arm. A foot. Nothing. You can huff a breath in frustration, though, and at the sound someone shifts under you. Someone’s holding you.

“Esterín?” Derufin calls uneasily. “Can you hear us?” You manage another annoyed sound. “Here, get her up-” There’s shuffling, and hands pulling you upright. With great effort, you at last pry your eyes open.

You are still in the cage. Derufin and Duilin are with you, Duilin’s arm in a crude sling against his chest and both of them bloodied and bruised. You shiver, and Derufin rubs at your arm.

“What’s happening?” you croak, and both faces staring too intently at yours sag with relief.

“The Swan-knights,” Duilin says. “They’ve driven off the wraiths, at least for now.”

“Hopefully they’re coming back for us sooner rather than later,” Derufin adds with a tight grin.

“The wraiths...? The Nazgûl?” you demand suddenly, sitting up on your own and regretting it as your head spins worryingly.

“Not the ones in black,” Derufin says, “or the tall red one from the other day.” There were more than that in the field? you think, despairing. Who?

“We tried to fight after you collapsed,” Duilin says more seriously, “but against the red one...”

“We couldn’t touch him,” Derufin says. “There is some sort of truth in what he was saying in Osgiliath.” He says it almost accusingly, and maybe you should regret snapping at them in the stables but you are weary and you are still too angry to do as you think you ought.

“Too much,” you say, slumping against the cold iron of the cage. “Hopefully less than I fear.” You turn to them. “You are lucky you were not slain outright.” They trade uneasy glances and you sigh, thin and with terrible coldness. “What else?”

“He said he would find some use for us,” Derufin says. “We wouldn’t leave you alone with whatever he did to you, so he had us thrown in here all together.” You rather wish you could muster the energy to curse out Mordirith. There would be nothing new in it, but it would make you feel a little better.

“Thank you,” you say instead, “and I’m sorry.”

“Well,” Duilin says with forced cheer, “we aren’t dead yet are we?”

“There are worse things,” you say before you can think better of it. “The wraiths, the Nameless- trampled by a mûmak might be the least of it.” Their looks are dark, but you are right and you are tired and you are afraid, somewhere under it all. You had found Derufin and Duilin far from the rest of the archers of Morthond, separated and on foot, searching for mûmakil to feather with arrows. The beasts were charging in the distance, but you had come upon the boys on the other side of a great set of rolling holding cells from the charge, and they had followed you in search of stranger prey.

Even men who lived in the shadow of the Dwimorberg looked at the Nameless and backed away. They had returned, but they looked at the squirming darklings with revulsion and their bowhands had wavered before the monster barely restrained by the Morgul-sorcerers. After those things, the two Nazgûl had seemed nearly ordinary, cold and dreadful though they were.

The Nazgûl had been uninterested in you, though, and had abandoned their strange hissing fountains at the call of a great war-trumpet across the Pelennor. You can’t even say if they noticed you, and for that you are more glad than you can possibly say.

But Gothmog had waited beyond, and there he had turned something on you, and in your mind you had done battle alone.

“Who is this red one, Esterìn?” Duilin asks. “He seemed to know you personally.”

You heave a deep breath and wearily you face them. “He is a wraith. Lesser than the Nine, but more than dangerous enough. He is a lieutenant of the Witch-king- or, he was- and was his regent in Angmar until a few months ago. He-” you hesitate, then, and wonder how much you should say, and how much you have time for, and how much is true. “He was a man, once.”

“Are they all like that?” Derufin asks, as if you are some storyteller and not just as much a prisoner of the False King as he.

“Do you know who?” Duilin adds.

“It’s the nature of wraiths, yes,” you say. “...he was from Gondor.”

Eärnur is still a beloved figure in the kinds of tales often told to young boys. With everything the wraiths had said on the field, it’s enough for them to put it together. They fall silent, and you sit in uncomfortable quiet until the jingling of the harness of heavy cavalry returns. You tend to Duilin’s arm while they slow; your whole body protests the pull of the runes, as if you had used up all your strength in truth while trapped in Mordirith’s strange illusions.

“Prince Imrahil!” Derufin calls. The man at the cavalry’s head turns, his high feather plume streaked with soot.

“What have you boys gotten yourself into this time?” he asks, reining in near the cage. He nods to you and you wave tiredly.

“Long story,” you say dryly, and Derufin and Duilin shrug concession. “What’s the state of the battle?” Some of the knights behind the Prince look at you askance, but Imrahil answers readily.

“Ships that should have belonged to Balakhôr arrived some two hours ago,” he says, and you start at the realization of how long has passed. “They landed not far from here; you were brought nearly to the Causeway Forts.” You do start at that, paling at the thought of what Goth- Mord- the wraith had in store for you. You knew you had come into the southern half of the Pelennor by the time you met Derufin and Duilin, but you had not thought you were so close to the Harlond.

“Ah,” Imrahil says, “some of them are here now from the ships.” And you look up, and a familiar voice is calling your name in concern and surprise, and you sag with relief to see Golodir standing there.

“Stay back,” Derufin says sharply after introductions are made, pulling you back from the rusty bands of the cage and glaring at Golodir and you make a small sound of protest. “This is the one Gothmog spoke of?” This he directs at you, still watching a confused Golodir with naked hostility.

“Esterín?” But you’re shaking your head already, twisting away from Derufin to reach through the cage for Golodir’s arms because he’s here and you have been terrified for him since you left him in Pelargir and you had feared he- you had feared.

“He was wrong,” you say vehemently. “And he lies. He knows nothing.”

“Esterín, what are you talking about?” Golodir says, returning your desperate grip with great concern. Duilin reaches for you with his good arm but you twist sharply aside. Please, don’t let him have heard, you think, for all the good delaying it can do. Not yet.

“Gothmog,” you say, swallowing hard. “He- one of Sauron’s lieutenants below the Nine. He has command of much of their forces now. He... we saw him in Osgiliath. He claimed that he could not live while...” And you nearly can’t bring yourself to say it, but Derufin and Duilin are still bristling with well-intentioned wariness and they will not be so kind, and so the cage is struck open and you fly out of it to hug Golodir and hide your spinning head against his shoulder, and you whisper: “It’s Mordirith.” Golodir stiffens. He tries to pull away but you cling more tightly to him. “Golodir, I’m sorry,” you whisper pitifully. “I don’t know how. Some of the things he said, today and in Osgiliath... I do not believe them.”

“Esterín, you must explain yourself,” Golodir tries. To Derufin and Duilin he says: “What happened to her?” And you don’t care for the worry there, even if you know you must be acting bizarrely, and everything hurts and you can see all too clearly the things Mordirith showed to you in the Breach of Terror.

Grudgingly, the sons of Morthond answer, and terrible concern wars with some fearful anger you have not seen since Angmar in his face- but you are here before him, and Mordirith is not, and so the worry wins out, at least for now, and he leads you away, back towards the burnt-out farmhouse where the rest of the Grey Company waits. Derufin and Duilin trail unhappily after you, but when neither Golodir nor your other friends show any sign of manifesting an angry eight-foot wraith after hours and the enemy retreats from the field, they return to the city with other scattered soldiers of Gondor. You, despite your best efforts, can hardly keep your feet, and are kindly but firmly made to sit and rest, watching everyone else shuffle this way and that as they try to bring some order to the blood-soaked fields. You surprise yourself by sleeping that night, but perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising, with so many of your friends gathered close for easy comfort. Explanations will be had in the morning.

[dreadmilf]

The Original House of the Dragon

[therhaenys]

[3katanas]

@kisumshi plotted starter

Heat beat down upon him as he half hung, half slumped against the main beam to which he was tied. Arms raised to either side and securely bound in place. The assholes had used far more rope than was necessary, even for him, to ensure that no escape was possible. So naturally, he'd taken a nap.

The needed sleep was welcome as he bided his time for what was in store. Though why warlocks would even want him in the first place was beyond him. There was the possibility it was for his blood, the rumors that he was descended from the Tiger-men had spread far and wide by now. A fact that even he wasn't entirely sure if it was truth or rumor.

He'd noticed even as a young boy that he was stronger and faster then most. Yet he'd also trained his body daily. The routines he'd put himself through to follow his one dream and purpose in life caused an almost sadistic level of personal expectation to be placed upon his shoulders. Leading him to excel in the art of the sword at an unprecedented level according to his Sensei. The man going so far as to claim that he'd been born for the sword.

It was the sound of screams that woke him from his nap. Eyes slowly cracking open and rising from the sandy dirt beneath his heels to the entrance to the courtyard. A flash of blue and white catching his attention before it flicked up towards the windows of the tower above, noting the smoke beginning to rise from them before returning to the female that was now approaching him.

Even if he hadn't seen her in passing earlier that day she'd have caught his attention. Pale, sunkissed skin and white hair were as uncommon as the three small dragons now adorning her shoulders and hands.