Explore the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros
A bit of a misleading name, the seven kingdoms is actually made up of nine regions:
The North
The Vale
The Iron Islands
The Riverlands
The Westerlands
The Crownlands
The Stormlands
The Reach
Dorne
Located in the country of Westeros, lying west of the country Essos, each kingdom has their own culture, resources and climates, with their own ruling lords that govern each kingdom. Each lord is a servant to the King of the Seven Kingdoms, who resides in the capital, King's Landing, located in the Crownlands. These differences between each kingdom make for a very diverse people, leading to conflicts and petty squables. The Majority of Westeros follow the religion of the Seven, but the North follow the Old Gods. This is largely due to ancestry, citizens of the North descend from the First Men, whereas the rest of Westeros are descendants of the Andals. Other religions include the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, and the Lord of Light, a religion scarcely followed in Westeros.
The North
The North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, twice the size of the other kingdoms combined. It is a vast and rugged land that stretches from the Neck to the Wall; a realm of cold winds and long winters, where the people are hard and the soil is stubborn. Rolling hills and endless forests of pine and weirwood cover much of its expanse, broken by moors, mountain ranges, and the icy shores of the Bay of Ice and the Shivering Sea.
At its heart lies Winterfell, the ancient seat of House Stark, built of grey stone and hot with the warmth of its natural springs. From there, the Kings in the North once ruled as independent sovereigns, their banners marked by the direwolf, their words a grim reminder; “Winter is Coming.”
The northern lords are proud and loyal, descended from the First Men who still keep the old gods and worship in sacred groves before heart trees with faces carved long ago. Their castles are built for defence against both man and the elements.
To the far north rise the frozen lands beyond the Wall, where wildlings, giants, and older, darker things dwell. The memory of these ancient threats lingers in the North like the chill in the air. For all its bleakness, it is a land of deep honor, old traditions, and enduring strength; a place where the past still walks beside the living, and every man knows that summer is fleeting.
The Vale
The Vale of Arryn, often simply called the Vale, is one of the most beautiful and impregnable regions of Westeros; a land of soaring mountains, green valleys, and sheer stone cliffs. Encircled by the towering peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, the Vale lies high above the rest of the realm, accessible only by perilous mountain passes and narrow goat tracks that wind between misty heights.
The Eyrie, the ancient seat of House Arryn, stands at its centre, perched atop the Giant’s Lance, a mountain so tall its summit touches the clouds. The Eyrie is small but unassailable, reachable only by a series of treacherous paths and narrow steps known as the Gates of the Moon. From its airy battlements, the lords of the Vale look down upon a world of mist and snow, ruling a land that has rarely been conquered and seldom even threatened.
Below the mountains lies the Vale proper, a lush and fertile basin watered by clear streams and dotted with prosperous holdfasts and farms. The people of the Vale are proud and old-fashioned, descended from the Andal conquerors who first crossed the narrow sea with their seven-pointed stars and steel swords. They are renowned for their chivalry, their faith, and their skill at arms.
Yet for all its beauty, the Vale is a land apart, isolated by its geography and by the pride of its highborn lords. The mountain clans still raid the lowlands, remnants of a wilder age that never quite died, and high above them all, in the white towers of the Eyrie, the Arryns keep their ancient watch, their words as cold and clear as the air around them; “As High as Honor.”
The Iron Islands
The Iron Islands are a harsh and storm-lashed cluster of islands off the western coast of Westeros, set amid the crashing waves of the Ironman’s Bay. Cold seas batter their cliffs day and night, and salt winds strip the color from the land. What little soil there is lies thin and stony; no golden fields or green forests grace these shores. The Ironborn say the Drowned God made them to be hard and strong, as unforgiving as the sea that birthed them.
There are seven main islands; Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Harlaw, Pyke, Orkmont, Saltcliffe, and Blacktyde, along with countless smaller islands where the gulls outnumber men. Each island is ruled by one of the noble houses sworn to House Greyjoy of Pyke, whose seat clings to the sea itself, a fortress of wet stone and crashing surf. The castle’s towers rise from jagged rocks connected by swaying bridges of rope and wood, forever shrouded in salt spray and storm mist.
The Ironborn are a people apart; fierce, proud, and devoted to the Old Way, the faith and custom of their ancestors. They do not toil in fields or craft fine goods; they take what they need from the weak, paying the "iron price". “We Do Not Sow,” their words proclaim, and to them it is no boast but a creed. They revere the Drowned God, who rules the sea and promises his chosen a watery rebirth; “What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.”
Yet the age of reaving and terror has long waned, and many among them struggle between the old faith and the newer ways of the mainland. Still, when the sea wind howls and the waves crash high upon their shores, the Ironborn remember who they are; the salt and the storm, the sea and the steel.
The Riverlands
The Riverlands lie at the heart of Westeros, a broad and fertile region where countless streams, brooks, and great rivers weave together through fields, forests, and rolling hills. It is a land of abundance and life, watered by the Trident, the mighty river whose three forks meet at the crossroads of the realm. The soil is rich, the air sweet, and in summer the land seems to overflow with grain, fruit, and flowers.
Yet the Riverlands are also a land forever at war with itself. Its central position makes it the centre of every great conflict, a prize coveted by kings and armies alike, but rarely held for long. Castles rise upon its banks and hills, strongholds of houses both proud and perilous, most famed of all, Riverrun, the ancestral seat of House Tully. From there the Lords of the Trident once ruled as wardens of the waterways, their words are a simple truth; “Family, Duty, Honor.”
The people of the Riverlands are sturdy and plain-spoken, used to rebuilding what war and flood have taken. They till their fields and fish their rivers, mindful that peace in their homeland is brief and fragile. The ruins of old keeps and burned villages stand as reminders that every age of glory here is followed by another of ruin.
For all its beauty, the Riverlands bear the scars of centuries; the ashes of rebellion, the bones of countless battles fought beside the waters of the Trident. The rivers run deep, and so too do the memories of those who have suffered and bled to defend their homes.
The Westerlands
The Westerlands lie along the sunset coast of Westeros, a realm of rugged hills, deep valleys, and windswept shores where the mountains glimmer with gold. It is one of the richest regions in all the Seven Kingdoms, not for its size, but for what lies beneath its soil; the hills of the Westerlands are rich with mines, their veins heavy with gold and silver.
House Lannister governs the Westerlands from their ancestrial seat; Casterly Rock. Carved into a massive seaside cliff rising high above the waves, Casterly Rock is as much fortress as symbol, a monument to power, wealth, and ambition. Beneath its halls, tunnels and vaults twist through solid stone, their walls gleaming with the treasures of a thousand years. When the sun sets over the Sunset Sea, Casterly Rock burns with a golden light, as though the gods themselves had forged it from molten metal.
The Lannisters of Casterly Rock have long ruled the Westerlands, their banner, a golden lion on a crimson field, a sign of both majesty and menace. Their words, “Hear Me Roar!”, are seldom spoken, but all know the more common saying whispered in their shadow; “A Lannister always pays his debts.”
The people of the Westerlands are proud and prosperous, accustomed to plenty and loyal to those who guard them. Their lands range from the soft meadows and vineyards near the Crag and Kayce, to the ironbound coast where ships brave the stormy western seas. Yet for all their wealth, the Westerlands are not without hardship; raiders from the Iron Islands still prowl their shores, and envy ever follows gold.
It is a land where every stone seems touched by the promise of riches, and where the gleam of treasure often hides the shadow of pride and the echo of an old song still whispered in the mines beneath the Rock; “From the mines and the mountain, the lions roar.”
The Crownlands
The Crownlands lie upon the eastern coast of Westeros, where the waters of Blackwater Bay meet the narrow sea. Though not large, this region holds a weight and power far beyond its size, for at its heart stands the greatest city in the realm, King’s Landing, the seat of the Iron Throne. From these lands the king’s reach extends, and from here the realm is bound together, or torn apart.
The countryside around the capital is a patchwork of fertile fields, dark forests, and low hills dotted with keeps and villages. The soil is rich and warm from the sea air, and the harvests are good, though much of it feeds the endless appetite of the city. The Blackwater Rush winds through the land, flowing past Rosby, Stokeworth, and Duskendale, where proud and ancient houses serve the Iron Throne more out of caution than love and loyalty.
King’s Landing itself sprawls over the eastern shore, a city of a thousand smells and a million souls; gold and filth, power and poverty, beauty and rot all mingled together. Its seven gates open upon crooked streets and teeming markets, and above it all rises the Red Keep, crimson and implacable, watching over the Iron Throne and the city that feeds it. To the south lies Dragonstone, the dark, smoking fortress where the Targaryens first came to Westeros, an ancient relic of dragons and conquest.
The people of the Crownlands are many and varied; fishermen and farmers, merchants and knights, courtiers and beggars, all living in the shadow of the throne. They are as changeable as the tides that wash their shores, loyal to power more than blood, for power here shifts with every king and every war.
The Crownlands are the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, not by nature’s gift but by man’s will. It is a land forged by conquest and held by rule, where the stones remember dragonfire and the air still hums with the echo of kings.
The Stormlands
The Stormlands stretch along the southeastern coast of Westeros, a rugged and windswept realm where the sea forever hammers the land. It is a country of jagged cliffs, rain-soaked forests, and stony shores; a place where thunder rolls almost without cease and tempests lash the coast so fiercely that the very air seems alive with fury. The smallfolk say the gods made the Stormlands in anger, and every storm since has been their reminder.
Storm’s End, the ancient seat of House Baratheon, stands upon a headland above Shipbreaker Bay; a colossal fortress with walls so thick that neither wind nor wave can breach them. Legend holds that the castle was raised by Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King, who defied the gods themselves when he wed Elenei, daughter of the sea and wind. The gods’ wrath broke upon him in countless storms, but Durran built his castle stronger each time until Storm’s End stood eternal, unbowed before the fury of heaven and sea alike.
The lands beyond the castle are wild and varied; pine-clad mountains in the north, fertile glens and river valleys farther inland, and to the south, the storm-lashed peninsula of Cape Wrath. Its people are hardy and fierce, shaped by the endless rain and the crash of waves upon stone. The knights of the Stormlands are famed for their valor and stubborn courage; proud men who fight as fiercely as the storms that gave them birth.
For centuries, the Storm Kings of House Durrandon ruled these lands, their crowned stag banners flying over all the southeast. Their line was broken by Aegon the Conqueror’s dragons, yet the blood of the Storm Kings endures in the Baratheons, who rose in their stead. Even now, when thunder rolls across Shipbreaker Bay, men say the gods are still at war with Durran Godsgrief, and Storm’s End still stands, defiant as ever.
The Reach
The Reach is the fairest and most fertile of the Seven Kingdoms, a vast expanse of golden fields, flowering meadows, and gentle rivers stretching from the Sunset Sea to the Dornish Marches. Here the land itself seems to smile beneath the sun; orchards heavy with fruit, vineyards rolling across green hills, and villages nestled among fields of grain that ripple like waves in the summer wind. The air is sweet with the scent of blossoms, and the songs of larks drift across the countryside.
Highgarden, the ancient and stately seat of House Tyrell, is the heart of the Reach. Rising above the River Mander amid terraced gardens and marble courtyards, Highgarden is a palace of living beauty, a place where art, song, and splendor flourish as naturally as flowers in spring. Its lords rule as stewards of abundance, their banner a golden rose on a field of green, their words as proud and courteous as their people; “Growing Strong.”
The Reach is the breadbasket of the realm, its bounty feeding half of Westeros. But wealth breeds pride, and the Reach is home to many great and ancient houses, each with their own proud lineage and rivalries.
Its people are famed for their grace, chivalry, and love of beauty, knights in shining mail who fight for honor and for song, ladies who dance in gardens perfumed with roses, and maesters who keep the lore of ages past. Yet beneath the courtesy lies ambition as deep-rooted as any vine, and rivalries that bloom as fiercely as their flowers.
When the banners of the Reach are raised, the hosts that gather are vast and glittering, a sea of color and steel beneath the golden sun. For all its gentleness, the Reach is not soft; it is a land that grows strong in every season, where beauty and power walk hand in hand.
Dorne
The Kingdom of Dorne lies at the southernmost tip of Westeros, a land of burning sands, red mountains, and sun-drenched coasts where the desert meets the sea. It is the hottest and driest of the Seven Kingdoms; a realm of fierce beauty and fiercer people, where the sun rules by day and the stars blaze like fire at night. The air is heavy with spice and salt, and the wind carries the scent of the faraway Summer Sea.
The Red Mountains rise like a jagged spine along Dorne’s northern border, their passes guarded by ancient castles and watchtowers that have long kept invaders at bay. Beyond them stretch the great Dornish deserts, where hardy nomads ride under tattered banners and the sand itself seems to shimmer with heat. To the south and east lie the coasts; the Greenblood River winding through fertile oases, and the shining cities of the Boneway, Sunspear, and the Tor gazing out over the deep blue sea.
At the heart of Dorne stands Sunspear, the ancestral seat of House Martell, its spearlike towers rising above the Sea of Dorne like a mirage. The Martells rule as Princes and Princesses, not Lords and Ladies, a reflection of Dorne’s proud independence. Their words, “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,” speak for all Dornishmen; a people who yielded neither to dragonfire nor to conquest, who bent the knee on their own terms and never forgot it.
The Dornish are a people of passion and pride; olive-skinned and sun-browned, quick to anger and quicker to love. They are shaped by the harshness of their land and the mingling of many bloods; Andal, Rhoynar, and First Men. It was the Rhoynar, led by Princess Nymeria, who long ago crossed the sea and joined her fate with that of House Martell, remaking Dorne in their image, a realm where women may rule, bastards bear their status with honor, and customs flow as freely as the desert wind.
Dorne is a land apart, bound to the Seven Kingdoms by oath but never by spirit. It is a place of heat and heart, where vengeance burns as bright as love, and where the sun itself seems to whisper the proud words of its people.