It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
[x] THE FATE OF TYRION LANNISTER HAS BEGUN! Mass thread HERE! If you play a character that has been selected as judge, please join in asap! Otherwise the thread is open to all wanting to participate!
[x] Keep an eye out for a new mini-event we have been planning! The bloodshed fun is never over!
[x] As always... we are in need of MALE characters!
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Alias: Lola
Age: 19
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Feb 27 2018, 02:20 PM

Was it a disease? A strange virus dissecting emotion from within, twisting each chromosome until it stood a grotesque malformation of what it once was. Could the sickness have been prevented, the insatiable desire to relish the pain of another. To feel a strange trickle of euphoria at a man’s misfortune, to embellish the sorrow of another for pleasure. Some swore he hadn’t been afflicted with the influence of the stranger for his entire existence, that there’d been a slither of hope somewhere in the cradle. But that had been wishful thinking, the notion of sentimental fools capitalising on their own preference. It was a matter of fact that no matter who Thoros Swann had been reared beneath, he would have been incapable of escaping the perverse fancies in his mind; the sickening appetite which had once been nothing but an underlying wonder - a what if. Corruption had played a hand of course, perhaps the sinister direction in which his pleasures turned was guided, after-all some knights, some hunters, some people had their own oddities but found them channeled in constructive directions. His had been left to manifest into something consuming, a constant shroud across his vision - dark and conniving.

At thirteen he stood no higher than others his age, perhaps a little broader across the shoulders and in slight disproportion with long agile legs in contrast to his shorter torso. The difference came in the soiled complexion of his skin, the colour like dust from the mountains to match the fevered gold burnt beneath his brows. It was a strange face, a face that had once drawn murmurs; taunts perhaps amongst those who visited. But humans marvelled natural strength, natural leadership - found awe in confidence, genetically structured to fall into rank. That’s where he’d found his stance, flourished in the presence of second-sons and cast-asides with little purpose despite perhaps aiming to be a knight. To be the brother of a Lord. Nothing in their own right. Those were the people he’d targeted, disguising himself as a protector, a leader, until the bond was forged and even his temperament couldn’t rekindle their sense. It was these boys he’d entangled in a web, bound them so tight that none questioned when he’d asked them which servant girl would make the best bed-mate, which one they’d take if it wasn’t frowned upon. He’d listened with intent, taken each into accord and come to the conclusion each boy found something appealing in Meredith. He couldn’t see it, she was just a peasant, too pale and too fair. But they’d all mentioned a want for her and that in itself stirred his primal instinct to take what others might like to pursue.

Once they’d disappeared, retired to their chambers or taken to their horses to follow the departure of their fathers or uncles, Thoros found himself unsettled, agitated in thought. From the moment he’d implemented the idea it hadn’t left him, it had regurgitated itself again and again each time he drifted towards something else. It was persistent, knocking on the inside of his head until a small headache pulsed against his temples; an incessant pin prick sharp and uncomfortable. With a begrudging grunt, for it seemed an effort to take himself back from his bed, he’d come to stand before the candle-light; where he’d watch his shadow cast itself against the wall. It seemed to flicker back and forth for a lifetime, the outline set aflame in a rim of dim orange, before a woman appeared to look upon him with unspoken accusation. “Good, Sybil. Bring me Meredith.” His voice had descended the year prior, his tone gruff with an almost suave undercurrent; produced under the deep drawl that rose from his accent. “My Lord, what do you want with her at an hour like this, you—“ Before she’d managed to finish whatever comment was about to spill with caution from her teeth he’d raised a single finger to his mouth, the olive digit pressed with force agains his lips. “I didn’t order you to lecture me. Now fetch her before you take my interest.” It was enough of a threat for the woman to hesitate, her heart caught against self-preservation and a need to shelter the youth. Of course the notion to save herself from the hassle outweighed the other - and why wouldn’t it? No one could be worth the trouble.

It took a moment longer than his patience stretched, but within several moments the delicate daffodil bloom of a girl crossed the threshold. Her skin reminded him of cotton, too white and too delicate. Her eyes something like moss, or pond-water, riddled in dirt. There was a crookedness to her mouth which offended him and her nostrils seemed a little too big for her small rounded nose. But they’d liked her and that’s what mattered. He’d stain her first before someone else took the chance. “Yes my Lord.” Meek was the word he’d use to describe the sound, a mouse of a whisper spoken in apprehension, urged on with fear. It was a pathetic squeak, the emission of a wounded animal impaled and emitting a final cry. “On your knees girl.” Was it his father’s phrase or something original? It didn’t matter, it was spoken with the authority of one who owned the command, a volatile dictator with an outstanding reputation. Dropping his breaches didn’t seem to shock the girl, in-fact she didn’t flinch at all - as if she’d expected the action all along and had come to accept it before he’d taken a single step. He took it despite her reserve of course, his cock flaccid against the inside of his thigh, his hand extended to reach for her head. With his fingers knotted into the mass of gold he’d jerk her forwards guiding her mouth towards his member with intended force, “Go on, put it in.” She did. And why wouldn’t she? It would be nothing short of a death-sentence to object. It seemed like a lifetime before the frustration of his loose member brought his teeth to grit and the distant ache in his balls to bring his hand crashing down towards the girl’s face in retribution, “You stupid bitch you’re not doing it right. Look! You’re meant to make it hard you useless cunt!”
Feb 18 2018, 11:14 AM

Judge Thoros Swann. Now wasn’t that a morbid idea, placing the fate of a man in the life of a rather malevolent sadist. Not that he had a particular desire to see the dwarf die, if he wasn’t the one committing the execution then it held no allure. The half-man could walk-free for all he cared, it made little difference to his circumstances; had no particular effect on his life. Of course his men would prefer the traitor to perish, they’d lost brothers, uncles, fathers to the war waged across the ocean and the catalyst of such events had been named Tyrion Lannister; and oh how people loved to believe the information they were given as if no other truth could exist but the word believed by the masses. Thoros wasn’t certain the Lannister had committed the atrocities listed against his name, nor was he convinced the events which had followed his departure had been within his complete control. Perhaps he’d been a man caught upon a wave forced to ride the tide. Or perhaps he was the elaborate puppeteer behind the chaos, the tactician moving his pieces one pawn at a time.

In perspective the Black Swan had rather relished the outcome, war had been a pleasant outing, an unexpected break in the mundane. Truth be told he’d lost little in the uproar, trade had been a little stiff, the sea had lost its usual hustle, but where exchanges between Essos had dwindled the market between Stonehelm and Dorne had increased; and of course product from his blood in Bravos continued to arrive without fault. Foreign wealth was a valuable asset when used in advantageous silence; at least mother had been good for something. He’d seen little of her since his return, but then she preferred the entertainment of whatever harem of whores she’d declared her dictatorship upon. Women from her homeland, companionship she could thrive from; or at least that was the excuse she’d given when requesting their importation. Father would have never allowed it, not when life had boiled in his veins, when his dick could still stand and his heart had raced under the influence of whatever substance he’d induced upon himself. Now the man clung to life on a slither of promise, forever asleep, capable of breath but unable to speak. The left side of his face had crumbled, melted almost towards his neck and appeared like blubber sagging under his chin. It was an offensive sound to hear him breathe, yet it was rather entertaining to watch, like marvelling a gargling fish stranded on land.

Before he’d departed of course he’d visited his mother, spurred through a curious inclination to see just what she’d been doing in his absence. After-all if in some miraculous turn of misfortune her stomach had managed to swell he’d have needed to dispose of the potential usurper nestled in her womb. Somewhere in his subconscious perhaps he’d yearned to find her in such a position, to give him a reason to handle her. It was no secret she was pleasing to look upon, a darker reflection of his sister, breasts swollen against her chest to a cushion almost unnatural against the deep curve of her collar bone and the skinniness of her waist. She had the same vulgar expression of vindictive delight he found so appealing on Thyella, the same doe-like limbs, the difference being the gold in her stare mimicked his own. To feel her recoil under his hands had been a reoccurring dream, fantasied in moments of reflection, played again and again. That scrawny neck would fit within a single palm, he wondered how she’d sound when he squeezed. Would she gargle? Splutter? Would her slender muscles convulse and tremble? Would she scream for him…

Like Stonehelm he’d left the idea behind him, taken back upon his mount on a road he’d had little interest in treading. In fairness he wouldn’t kill his own mother, that would be unacceptable, frowned upon to his own standards. But to fuck her… Now would that be so bad? He’d dithered over the thought until the Red Keep itself dismantled the image from his mind. Lords had appeared to orgasm over the place, he’d heard them rant and rave about the Dragon Lords, about beautiful women, untouched and awaiting their betrothals. It seemed a far reach to him that all those innocent looking girls that men dreamt of reddening their first bed with were in-fact untouched. More than one he’d likely ruined during some event or another. Not that they’d speak a word of it, it was their reputation in ruins not his if it came to notice they’d been tarred with another. Arriving had been underwhelming, the crowds irritated his nerves and the false compassion he could muster for all those deaths he continued to be told about was waning with each passing hour. Wasn’t it amusing that people flocked to observe the sentence of one man, most gagging to see him dead. Everyone was an animal beneath the surface to some level, afflicted with primitive desires and primal thoughts. Naturally he’d taken to avoiding the busier congregations, preferring to wander and see what fate decided to present him.

Jan 30 2018, 05:39 PM

War was a peculiar thing, it could make the greatest do-gooder do the most malevolent deed or redeem the sinner through an act of uncharacteristic benevolence. It had been suspected that with the dispatch of the Baratheon banner-men that unrest would unravel in consequence. Upon returning the Black Swan had been informed of incidents ranging from theft to murder; that was before he’d even began to meander back from the coastline. Like the shining beacon of justice he was, Thoros had volunteered himself and a band of others to remind those committing crimes that their disorder would no longer go unchecked. It was his duty as an honourable man to protect the land, to uphold the noble law of King and Crown. Under such a noble quest he’d demanded the horses fed and watered, rallied the men with a provoking speech of scum fouling their lands, raping their women in their absence, stealing their livestock. Once the fire had been cast into the bellies of the men, once the horses beat their hooves with anticipation, he’d mounted his white horse and had appeared the picture of heroism as he’d led the charge from the camp.

It hadn’t taken long, perhaps half a cycle of the moon’s change, before a tip had cohered them in the right direction. A beaten track overturned from the weight of passing carriages and churned beneath galloping mounts was the first stop, the second was a pass between two low-riding mountains, the stone a worn white rather than the dark charcoal of the more northern territories. There the remains of a used fire scorched the earth black, displaced stones signalled the disturbance alongside the scuffed dust and spilt rice. “Not long gone, I’d say half a day ahead.” A pale face split between a red beard and a pitiful scuff of hair crouched before the young Lord, his fingers darkened with the ash crushed between. “Then we best pick up the pace.” Before he could jerk his horse’s head aside the man’s voice drew his attention back, the meek tone threatened to draw a sneer across his jaw but he swallowed it beneath a tight irritable twitch, “My Lord the horses can’t go no faster, we’ll ride them to death.” Just the sound of the man’s voice disgusted him to the point his knuckles whitened in a grip beneath his leather gloves, the reigns preventing his fingertips from bruising the soft of his palm, “If you speak out of turn again I’ll have the horses ride you to death Arthur, am I understood?” There was a moment of silence, a distinct second where nothing but the horses low whinnies caught against the wind travelled between the men; a moment of understanding.

Then there was laughter, a low awkward nervousness which crossed between man and beast to ease beneath the small half-smile present upon the Lord’s face. Men were nothing but sheep after-all, eager to please the wolf among them. “Now, move it.” With the order given the band continued on, the familiar chill awakening a longing for the mild warmth of Essos. Perhaps he’d been designed to belong to his blood beyond the water, but of course he had no intention of chasing such musings. “Lord Swan, there, in the clearing.” Drawing his horse to a sudden halt, the Lord would cast his sights between the thinning branches, the forest no longer a green oasis to hide within. “Get them, keep as many alive as you can.” It was a pitiful resistance, the camp had been poorly constructed, their tents too close to the roadside, their fire too full of smoke. Those within had little time to protest, before a single weapon could be seized the men had fallen upon them, the confusion heightened with the rearing horses and howls of delight from the men atop them.

Within the hour five men, three women and two children sat bound with their wrists bathed in rope in a circle. “Thieves, dirty thieves! Look at this, they’ve got coin m’Lord!” A rake figured boy with wild curls threw himself from a tent, a bag in each hand hoisted above his head. With an air of content and absolute ease, the man with eyes the colour of molten gold eased himself before the woman swaddled between two desperate children; the pair leaning as close to her person as they could within their bind. “You, can you tell me where you got the gold from?” As the woman’s lips were poised to part another spoke, the man almost tossing himself forwards in haste, “Sir, we mean no trouble, no trouble sir honest we’re—“ A single motion of his head signalled the clear shot of a sword’s hilt into the cheek of the disruption, the collision a low resounding crunch — “Damn it Thoros, he got blood on my face, dirty fucking swine.” For that another hit, this one a fluid jab into the right rib just between the third and fourth. A shot which didn’t even draw a glance from the Lord, for his sights never parted the women’s widening gaze as he admired the trembling fingertips and the anxious bead of blood drawn from the outer-tooth biting at her inner-cheek. It was the sweetest sight, it was a smell, a feeling so elating it made his crotch ache. “I may be mistaken but that didn’t sound like your voice. Should we try again?”

“We’ve come from up North, trying to escape the cold.. we brought everything, that’s our—“ For each word her mouth formed a euphoria built within his muscles, a tightness which wound and wound under the pressure until it throbbed in his bicep and he felt inclined to bring the back of his hand with a resounding clash against her cheek. It wasn’t as satisfying as he’d have liked, she didn’t scream, but those around her flinched, their bodies straining against the restraints in anger, their eyes bulging somewhere between rage and panic. “Do we believe her boys?” Naturally the crowed responded, their jeers echoing with the excitement of a pack, of the feral hunger one could ignite when rallied into a group. “I didn’t think so… You know what we do to thieves?” Tilting his head aside he’d run his gaze across the pink print spreading itself in a red haze across her cheek, the detail delightful as he counted each finger in silent amusement, “We’re not thieves you here me! We’re not thieves!” Another squirmed against the rope, the pressure bringing each vein to bulge against his throat, the purple lines violent beneath the surface threatening to burst with each passing second. For him Thoros brought himself back upon his feet, his steps finding a content bounce as he’d slink forwards, his persona rather defined up until his boot connected square against the face of the speaker and then again when his head hit the earth beneath.

“What should we do with them my Lord?” Another reappeared, his hands clasped about a silver platter, his expression almost tainted with adoration as he looked between the Lord and the accused, the women raping, gold steeling, cow killers. “We will take the little ones, they can seek salvation. Hang the women. Tie the men behind the horses, we’ll make a show of them, remind the villages we pass through there are laws to follow and we are here to keep them safe!” With that he’d seize the first younger girl, her resistance futile as he’d enclose her two fragile arms beneath a single one of his own, her back drawn in against his chest. “Come now, you can seek redemption and the seven may save your soul. But first you must see the consequence of breaking rules.” Of course the hanging wasn’t the first punishment, the men had after-all been at war for a long time and Thoros found no harm in watching them claim their reward. In fact he rather enjoyed it. One after the other, two at a time. Now she screamed, so shrill and sweet. Then silence. Three naked bodies scorched with T’s upon their foreheads left to dangle back and forth, caressed with the gentle nudge of the coming wind.

The men too screamed for a good while, the Black Swan imagined they’d tried to resist, but it was hard to swallow the pain of being dragged through gravel behind the might of a horse. Perhaps it was the first bone to poke through the flesh which cut the air with a violent howl. Or perhaps it was the dislocation of both shoulders, the first major tear to the flesh or maybe it was the last. Each visited village watched in curious groups, some cheered, some disguised their sickness with a haughty cough. Not that it mattered, as far as everyone was concerned these men were thieves and the children in their possession would be sold on the river to someone who needed a serving girl, that was if luck was on their side. Perhaps it would be a brothel, or a perverted nobleman of some lesser household. Or maybe a major one. Who was he to judge the fancies of those with coin available to purchase their servants. The possibilities filled his mind with company until the cobbled gateway of Stonehelm welcomed him home and his band of merry-men dragged their prized corpses through the dirt and into the courtyard.

Jan 28 2018, 05:57 PM
[dohtml]<div class="n-site-template">
<h1><stormlands>Thoros Swann</stormlands></h1>
<h2>19. Black Swan. Stormlands. Brian Shimansky.</h2>
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<div class="genhead">I'm a change what you call rage</div>
<div class="gensmall">Tear this motherfuckin' roof off like two dogs caged </div>

Foreign blood, spawned from a place beyond the ocean. People whispered, their forked tongues slithering behind the back of their Lord, their opinions snivelled behind the whites of their hand. Lord Swann had taken a foreign wife, a woman laced with the riches of tainted blood, Braavosi blood. Wild. Uncouth creatures. Words spoken behind treacherous teeth, naive to the land beyond the earth they’d never left. It was only once the benefits began to blossom and the fruition of wise decisions filled the pockets of those beneath the Lord’s banners that speculation turned to praise. Trade had been guaranteed, alliances had been forged, new doors opened in a world of ghosts and wonders. Lady Swann found acceptance, yet distrust remained, for there was something unyielding in the gold of her stare, something merciless sinking into the dust of a dessert long lost to the fertile lands.
Within the year of their marriage Stonehelm found its newly replenished walls alive with the sound of tears, sharp thunderous shrill shrieks biting back at the thunder beyond the mountain ridge. Thoros Swann. A babe with the complexion of his father, dusty in skin with coal coloured hair curling atop his crown. Yet his eyes refused to conform, their depthless reach a clear reflection of his mother’s gold, screaming of his heritage beyond the reach of Westeros. A year later another, a girl reversed. Her features bronzed, stained with the sun of a distant place, her hair the colour of night. While her stare exploited a cleaner world, a fog of blue struck with a fading emerald haze. Thoros grew with haste, as if the child was in a rush to defy the restriction of age. Yet nobody seemed to notice. His father found interests elsewhere, his mind drawn towards the poppies milk, his urges satisfied in brothels between the thighs of over-stretched whores and their untouched children. His mother detached from the workings of her unwanted marital match spent her time with women. Their laughter strange to the boy’s young ears as they pressed against her chamber door, the sweet soft moans unexplained as the exasperated gasps and groans drifted beneath the wood to brush against his cheek, offering an intimacy deprived of him elsewhere.
At the tender age of four he dared to ask, the words confident as they slithered from between his teeth, squinted eyes full of accusation sharp on his father’s hollow cheeks, their sunken state a familiar sight to the accustomed child. “What is mother doing with those girls?” The repercussion came with the swift contact of his father’s palm across his cheek, the impact enough to send his unbalanced youthful limbs tumbling to the stone beneath. Before the boy had time to regain his stance the nape of his neck was already claimed, the tightness of his father’s fingers compressing on the flesh enough to bruise as he was hoisted upon his feet. “I don’t give two shits what your mother is doing. Now you’ll learn what a woman is supposed to do.” His words were harsh, yet the sharpness was a comforting sound, for it so often graced the drum of his ear. The boy did not struggle, nor did he whinge, instead he meekly cupped his cheek within his hand and dragged his feet the best he could to keep pace with his father’s strides.
Within the hour he found himself blinking into the dimness of a strange room. The ride had been short, the guards accustomed to the cobbled street. Dull crimson silk strung from the ceiling, the aroma of sweat and the tangy iron of blood drifted against his nose until he forced his throat to stifle a choked cough. “You don’t pay no mind to your filthy blooded mother boy.” The words were slurred, cold and distant, as if spoken through a fog. Thoros nodded mindlessly, his lower lip permitted a slight tremble before his feet were whisked from beneath him once more and he joined his father within a room of vibrant cushions. Before he knew it three women were brought before them, their bodies exposed, their shapes distinct. Staged with fright the child did not stir, his arms locked against his sides as he stared blankly at the bare forms, his breathing uneasy as instinct drove him towards the door. Instead however his arm was stolen, the steel of an old warrior’s worn fingers breaking against his skin enough to draw a sharp whine as he found himself pinned against his father’s front, his trembling form pushed towards the first woman. Before he could protest his hand was pushed against the strange mounds of flesh, their warmth foreign as his wrist was dragged downwards, his clenched fist forced between the parted thighs to press against a crevice of moisture.
The minutes proceeding passed in a blurred mist, the strike of his father’s fists against the woman’s face, the blood which dripped against her defiled skin. The removal of his father’s clothes, the silhouettes as he forced his desire against the bed and took her as a dog would take a bitch. Then the next. Then the third, bruised beneath his teeth and scarred beneath the thrash of his rings against her delicate back broken beneath a look of sick satisfaction. For a while the child had clenched his eyes, listened to nothing but the sounds, but something had forced them open, something had drawn him to watch, for the last two imprinted on his mind. The smell. The sound. The taste on his tongue. Forever a burden. Forever engrained. On returning to the keep Thoros brooded in silence. The images vibrant in his mind, the sounds strange yet quaintly appealing. Was that what it was meant to be like? Was that love? What the maidservant spoke of in those tall tales of Princesses. It took an entire year for the child to ask his sister. His world obscured by estranged thoughts, plagued with his father’s mind-frame.
Before his fifth name-day he’d been gifted with the chance to observe an interrogation, to be present as a man had his nail’s plucked from their beds before his frail form had been torn apart; skewered with strips of metal. The screams had sung against the stone, sharp and merciless. On his fifth however he located Thyella, his sister, his reversed reflection. Hesitation didn’t hinder the child, for it seemed natural to mimic what his father had done. How his father had shown his affection. Without thought the boy pressed his lips against his sister’s throat, wound his hand into her hair until the raven black knotted into his fist. Without thought he took her mouth against his own and bit into the bottom lip, drawing a bead of blood to settle on his tongue. Once he’d stolen another two he’d retreat to the corner, stood within the shadows as he looked upon the bewildered expression, the teared eyes and pink cheeks. It didn’t draw a single thought, no twinge of guilt, no line between wrong and right. Just a moment of fulfilment before the emptiness returned.
As needed of a medieval adolescent Thoros began his training in youth. Horses felt natural beneath his weight, his boots were fitted with metal slips, small pieces of sharp material to encourage their speed, to bite at their hinds until they were useless in riding and needed replacement. The sword felt unnatural in his hold, but a spear complimented his speed with grace. A trait inherited from his mother’s bloodline, that’s what those who watched whispered. The bow and arrow was of course another favoured method, the lightness encouraged his speed, yet the detachment between himself and the kill forever bothered the lad. Knives melting with delicate ease into flesh brought more satisfaction, to listen to the skin split, to hear the pained yowls from the creatures he practiced upon felt more fulfilling than a distant strike.
It was at the tender of age of twelve Thoros requested that his father allow him the honour of providing aid in the questioning of a man suspected of stealing. Of course his father obliged, his grotesque hand quick to caress the scarred back of the boy who’d faced the impalement of punishment in his youth; content with the demon he’d forged. The fine faultless strike of a tipped whip had been no stranger upon the ice of his whitened flesh. For every misjudged arrow Thoros had sent sailing he’d felt a strike. For every mistaken dagger just short of striking that centre piece he’d found another. Punishment was pleasure. Punishment was a necessity. Authority was necessary. Men needed to be reminded of their place, of their purpose. That’s what he’d been told. Those were the cold harrowing words forced again and again between his ears.
Of course the boy confided in his sister. Speaking of the chamber dampened by blood, stained with urine and excrement, built on the tears of those with no worth, of no purpose with nothing to offer. Of course he took her to see what he’d seen, to expose her to the exact place, allowed her to examine him as he ran his fingers across the tools, across the cool caress of metal and leather. In their childhood the pair had often exchanged estranged stories, lost themselves in twisted games, tormented those who’d visited. Their nonchalant expressions vacant of warmth unnerving to most who guested their father’s table. Children without their innocence, without the naive bliss of whimsical stories and bedtime kisses. They’d taunted each-other, baited each-other, fought and scrapped until her teeth had scarred his shoulder in the midst of their fights. Her poison had filled his ears and drawn tempted smiles. Her words were venom, yet to him they sounded so sweet, unrivalled by the sirens those upon the river had spoken about. They called him forwards and provided something, something strange, something capable of filling the void swelling in his soul. Swallowing whatever remained within his chest one moment at a time.
However Thyella was not his sole confident, for Thoros had friends. Friends who stood by his side in fear, friends who remained in his shadow in awe. Friends drawn to the darkness in his expression, to the strange manipulation in his false charm, dangerous intelligence and dark humour. Educated and well-spoken, unlike his father, Thoros carries the accent of his mother. In ageing his friends often jested at his desire to learn, yet the Lordling simply inquired over their intelligence and asked how they intended to progress in life without knowledge of their enemies. Despite the unease of his mind-set and the torment of his past wreaking havoc upon the internal workings of his fragile mind, Thoros remained dedicated to all he was certain would elevate his status in life. Warfare of the mind providing the most interest. After-all what was more dangerous than a broken mind probing another?
The Black Swann is well known in the Stormlands, the malicious creature spent time conversing with his father’s guests to weigh up his position against them and often visited Storms End in place of his father, accompanied of course by those who travelled in his footfalls. A man not to be underestimated, cold, calculating and unforgiving, deprived of light and destroyed in youth, the young Swann Lord is an unpredictable man; a cruel companion and a being incapable of attachment with the destructive mind-set of having nothing to lose.

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