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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.
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THOROS SWANN
 Posted: Jan 30 2018, 05:39 PM
Quote
Lola is Offline
19 years old
STORMLANDS
Baratheon
Swann
Stormlands
N/A




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.

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THYELLA SWANN
 Posted: Feb 28 2018, 03:02 PM
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SHELBS is Offline
18 years old
STORMLANDS [A]
HOUSE BARATHEON
HOUSE SWANN
Stonehelm
Lady


It was not even an hour past sunrise, and already Thyella felt weary of the day’s events. Her jaw, so angular and well-shaped, homage to her exotic Braavosi blood, constantly clenched until her temples ached. Though her eyes were not the sharp and golden spheres of her brother, they drove sapphire, steel-tipped blades into their targets just the same. “But, my lady… he… he has been lucid all morning.” Her eyebrow twitched, thin and manicured in its shape, the unseen tendons pulling up the fine hairs for only the briefest of moments. “Only to wake to his suffering,” she replied, crossing a long leg over the other between the flowing umbrella of her skirts. “I told you to feed him milk of the poppy whenever he begins to rouse again,” Thyella’s gaze narrowed, studying Stonehelm’s maester with a disgust she did not try very hard to conceal. “Mistress, please, a perpetual sleep will see to it that he never wakes again. He-” in an unseen flurry, she stood from her chair, the movement so quick that it sent the piece of furniture toppling over onto the floor behind her. “He is SICK, Maester, and he is SUFFERING. To deny your liege lord relief will see you thrown from our halls before the Citadel can clear a space for you!” Even when shouting, her voice lilted to such an octave that it made something so vile as her fury sound like a minstrel’s song. “Question me again and I will ask Thoros for your tongue as a nameday gift to me.” Though he froze for a few moments, staring at his mistress as if he was either too shocked or wondered if he even believed her, his bow was deep enough to appease her. “This came for the Lord Thoros late in the night,” he moved forth with his head bent low, extending her a scroll that had already been opened. Snatching it from him, Thyella seethed. “Out.”

Turning, drifting past the overturned chair, her intrusive cerulean gaze studied the broken wax seal. The King. The slight metallic used in the crimson dye still shone against her chamber’s candles, the three-headed dragon of the royal House seeming magnificent even after a crack severed two necks and split the wax impression in half. Long and nimble fingers unraveled the yellowed parchment, eying the slanted script and feeling her glossed lips curl upwards with every word she read. Stupid dwarf, she thought to herself, moving to conceal the scroll into the pocket of her skirts. The Imp’s fate, much less the role her brother was summoned to play in it, was hardly a concern for Thyella… instead her mind turned with all that would need to be done before their departure. Their departure. She had no intention on allowing her brother to journey to King’s Landing without her, and was swift in ordering her nearest servants to begin preparations. Her wardrobe would need to be packed, her jewelry and her shoes, least of all the many attendants she required. Her physician and her barber, seamstress and laundress would need to accompany her, her personal food taster and even her septon would she command into her retinue. Of course, the latter she truly had no need of… but the image Thyella preserved about her, like a most skilled artist too proud of their own work, was all the more important to her.

It was well past midday, the sun still smothered behind the eternal blanket of the Stormlands’ clouds, when her own herald made his entrance into the busying chamber. “Mistress, your lord brother has returned.” Saying nothing more, departing with a low bow and closing the door behind him, Thyella smiled to herself. She rose as gracefully as if a crown sat upon her brow, exercising no sense of hurry as her her lithe legs carried her through the castle and out into the rain-kissed courtyards. The dampened ground gratefully prevented the broken corpses he and his men dragged from drawing up any clouds of putrid dust, yet still there was a slight crinkle to her nose as she approached the first body, using the sole of her shoe against his cheek to tilt the muddied face up to her. Meeting the dead man’s empty stare with a not-so-empty smirk, Thyella turned her eyes to her brother still upon his horse. The deferred greetings his men offered her fell on deaf ears as she floated over to him. “We’ve news, Thoros,” she spoke simply, looking up at him upon his saddle, “and you smell absolutely foul.” She turned, her hips swaying with every sauntering stride she took away from him. Though it seemed at first that she sought to return inside the castle, she paused long enough to turn her head over her shoulder. “The King summons you to court,” she called, mouth of apricot turned into a smile that he could not see. “We will be leaving in two days hence.”

* * * * *

It was at the side of his tub did she sit, perched upon a cushioned stool that allowed her to look down upon her brother as he soaked in his steaming bathwater. She watched with mild interest as he read the scroll she’d finally given him, her fingers dangling just above the water’s surface that still dripped with moisture. She studied the way his eyes flickered across the looped ink, watched as the tendons in his jaw flinched to finally reveal a smile that stirred her innermost desires between her crossed thighs. “It appears they find your judgement impertinent to the Imp’s fate,” she remarked, lowering her hand into the water to find the hard slant of his abdomen, continuing to wash away the dirt and grime of the day’s tasks. “And yet it mentions nothing of payment.” Her fingers crawled to the wide expanse of his pectorals, her nails leaving brief, white-hot imprints upon his bronzed flesh. “Is this all for what? Duty? She scoffed. The good of the realm?”
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THOROS SWANN
 Posted: Mar 4 2018, 01:06 PM
Quote
Lola is Offline
19 years old
STORMLANDS
Baratheon
Swann
Stormlands
N/A




Arriving was as he’d expected, greeted with respect and valued silence. The blacksmith tilted his head, his features alight with dim orange and freckled with black. A stableboy paused upon the cobble, his head upturned to examine the Lord before observing each in his-stead. It would seem impressive to a child, men emancipating the lands of the scum and vermin polluting it. Cleansing the Kingdom of those who wished to tarnish it, those who stole from the hard-working and pillaged the dutiful. It didn’t take much to convince the less-educated to support a cause, to worship the wrong-doing of man under the scapegoat of Gods. They’d received cheers on the outskirts, cries of justice from those tending their livestock, husbands sheltering their children reassuring them their Lord was the reason they could sleep in peace at night. The reason bandits and troublesome foes didn’t threaten their livelihood. He didn’t raise taxes. He didn’t make unfair decisions. On the outside Thoros Swann might have appeared almost benevolent, a wise man who didn’t mind blackening his hands in the name of protecting his people. Wasn’t it beautiful how a situation could be twisted to make the sinner appear the saint?

With regimental precision the Lord was met with the house-guard and upon their heel the maester who no doubt waited to deflate his achievement with incessant reminders of the invalid festering in their midst. His father withering to nothing, being nothing more than a financial drain. A drain of which there was no trouble in affording, their wealth came from over-sea and was far greater than what one might have assumed; or more-so what Thoros allowed people to see. But a financial drain nonetheless. Before he could clear his throat and make a babbling announcement of how pleased he was of the Lord’s return and to inquire with false interest in the occurrences of war, the appearance of another shadowed him into silence. Brash conversations which had become a chorus of excitable jeers fell into quiet murmurs, obliterated within an instant. All heads turned, men fatigued with tiredness spurred on through adrenaline found themselves shifting upon their horses, all of a sudden reminded of their whereabouts. Thoros however found himself alert, his head craning with morbid interest to follow his sister’s footsteps, tracing each one with intricate detail until he could stencil the inside of her leg, trailing upwards remembering with salivating delight what waited him beneath. It had been too long.

News. Her voice maimed his fantasies, the defaced skull beneath her foot turned to look upon him and he found himself incapable of resisting the urge to grin back upon it. How perfect the engorged mouth appeared, split with dirt, the flesh grated from the bone in slithers of dangling skin. The nose had been worn to nothing, a bloodied indent indicating that once two pupils might have looked upon it but instead sat two sockets swollen shut. Manoeuvring his horse behind her rear he’d stand it against her back, the beast’s nostrils expanding to flush hot air against her neck. “Foul? I’ve smelt worse.” His mouth crept to crack against his cheek, a single side raising to carve an indent just beside his lip, a single devilish crease. Before he could comment again she’d turned from him, the ignorance bringing his knuckles to whiten against the leather in his grasp, his teeth barring beneath the steel bar of his lip. To wrap those reigns around her neck might have given him relief, to see her features lose their colour and admire the convulsions which would no doubt overcome her. The idea brought his chest to tighten, his cock to twitch against the girl still plastered to his chest until it threatened to push against the base of her spine. With disgust he’d throw her from the mount, the child spilling into the puddle whilst he rallied his horse to face his men. “Collect what is owed to you, return to your wives and dispose of these girls as you all see fit. It appears I have pressing concerns to attend.”

——-

Clean water. It was an experience one could overlook and forget. It didn’t bother him of course, the stench of battle was something one could learn to favour. A constant reminder of those who’d perished, the metallic air of blood, the odour of desperation, of burning flesh and infected wounds. But even he could not deny the fact it felt somewhat appealing to be submerged in warmth, to observe the filth oozing from his skin — the water a foul tinge of red and brown. He’d escaped being maimed, the Lord was too clever for that. In-fact he’d avoided most injuries one might acquire in war. A few bruises purpled his skin, his ribs a mass of dark flesh, his thigh scabbed and his shoulder stitched back together as if knitted. It was hard to tell of course on a canvas so vast in scars, in burns and lashes, which ones had been received in battle, which had come from his father, from his endeavours or which had been given from his sister herself.


With the scroll pinched between his fingertips he’d look upon it, following each delicate curl and emphasised letter. Penmanship a woman would pride herself in; elegant script with just enough weight applied as to not smudge the ink. Feminine. That was his first thought before he considered the call itself. It would provide something different to the mundane duties he was charged with in his father’s absence. It had been rather a long time since he’d indulged himself in the activities of court. Once he’d decided he’d looked upon it enough, he allowed the scroll to drift to the marble beneath his bath the parchment demoted to soak in a puddle out of sight. “It appears so.” He’d muse aloud, his head casting itself back into the white bath-mould until the weight fell from his shoulders and he could turn himself to watch his sister’s reaction; knowing fine well she wasn’t quite finished speaking. Naturally her touch was a distraction, the closeness of her fingers serving to remind him how long they’d been absent, how he’d been forced to find alternative methods of release. But he didn’t permit such primitive desires to obscure his thoughts, not when something more important promised itself.

“We don’t need payment. I’d do it for fun.”
The comment came with a declarative laziness, the ease of dismissal as he’d consider the idea as something more akin to entertainment. “Of course, we’re here to serve the King, we should be thankful we’re not charged for the honour of passing justice.” His mouth curved in cruel delight, the friction of her fingernails bringing his skin to bubble in apprehension, revelling in the sharp attraction of the faint niggling pain. Propping himself against the stronghold of his biceps he’d lift his head, the tension flooding through his torso until the fine muscle beneath drained of proper sustenance bulged against the thin preservation of skin. “Perhaps they’re going to offer me a wife while I’m there. I am after all eligible and in high-demand.” Knowing the consequence of his words he’d await the reaction, the fierce gold of his provoking stare narrowing in on her expression, relishing each moment in dire anticipation — the tension enough to cause a faint ache to throb beneath his flaccid cock.

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THYELLA SWANN
 Posted: Apr 2 2018, 11:35 AM
Quote
SHELBS is Offline
18 years old
STORMLANDS [A]
HOUSE BARATHEON
HOUSE SWANN
Stonehelm
Lady


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As if summoned by sheer thought alone, the door to the privy opened to reveal a pair of servants hauling a new bucket of steaming water inside. Thyella watched with a mild expression as the fatter of the two girls nearly stumbled, the clean bathwater inside sloshing about and nearly spilling onto the floor below. “If you spill but a drop on these tiles, girl,” she suddenly spat, crystallized gaze hardening upon her as they neared the other side of the marble tub. “It will be with your face that I will have clean them.” Clearly shaking, her overly-fed lips let out a faint squeak in response, her eyes only upon her own squat hands as she moved forth with a second silver basin. Removing a bit of foul water from the bath before having the clean bucket poured in its place, the two did not bother waiting for Thyella’s dismissal before hurrying from the chamber. Turning her gaze to her brother only when she watched the door click into place, the hard, aggressive expression that had twisted her face at the servants’ incompetence was now but a softly-glowing smile in its place. She made no move to retrieve the fallen scroll from the floor, her nails still trailing along his chest and collarbone. Yet, the scoff that plumed like a dry cloud of dust past her throat could not be helped. “Fun.” Though the word was stiff, it was somewhat mocking in a sense, as if she could not be convinced accompanying a panel of dull-minded, power-hungry nobles in the foul-smelling city of King’s Landing could ever be considered fun.

“You will be kept in a small, stagnant solar toiling over the mind-numbing details of a dwarf’s fate, while I shall fully enjoy all of the luxuries… and,” she peered down at him through her thick lashes, her smile seeming almost hungry as it curled just enough to show a glimpse of her teeth, delicacies the royal court has to offer.” Her fingertips, pruned by the hot water of the bath, journeyed over the ridges of his abdomen, the lights in her gaze almost glittering. Though life at court was hardly familiar to the Mistress of Stonehelm, it would not be a foreign place for her, nor would she seem an alien or outsider to those who regularly called it home. Already she could envision the cavernous corridors, the domed great hall, the crowded markets in the courtyards… as if a child given an entirely new playground to rule, Thyella felt her excitement simmering all the way down her core, trickling deep between her legs.

Those lights in her eyes, though, like loyal lanterns on a dark sea’s horizon, fizzled out if as if a cold hard wind had snuffed them. Her hand, having already wandered to the bones of his pelvis, suddenly leapt the remaining distance to grasp both stones and pillar between his legs. Seizing them without warning, Thyella squeezed tight, almost pulling them from their roots and cinching the soft pair of testicles between her fingers. The tips of her nails dug into the underside of his scrotum, threatening to draw blood the harder her unyielding grasp became. “A shame,” she began, words like silk on her tongue as she leaned forth, closer to his face. “I would be loathe to make the poor lass a widow so soon after her engagement.” Searching his gaze for the same vile fire that no doubt roared in her own cerulean depths, Thyella still did not relent, wondering if his precious manhood was slowly purpling from the strangulation. “Although perhaps sending you to the altar as invalid as that Spider that sits the King’s council,” her smile had twisted and morphed into a sick, twisted smirk, though one that still displayed the straight rows of her teeth from between her dark pink lips. She gave his scrotum a firm tug, still squeezing, no doubt her nails by now having carved away the first layer of skin. “Will truly be an idea of fun.”

She could imagine it almost perfectly. The dried, shriveled and mummified husk of her brother’s manhood, shaft and all. She’d keep them, of course, safely tucked away in a chest beside her bed. Perhaps she might even consider wearing them in a velvet pouch, like she’d heard the Master of Whispers would do. Though she could part Thoros from them, she did not think she could part herself from them. Not truly, at least. And she would rather watch her brother slowly, painfully bleed out in front of her than allow another woman into his bed, much less into their castle or House. Tightening her grip so much so that even she feared his sac would burst, Thyella finally released him at the final moment, chuckling beneath her breath in such a way that it nearly sounded like a whispered melody. It was here that she stood from the cushioned stool beside the tub, making quick work of disrobing herself until she stood as naked as Thoros. Dark curls tumbling past her shoulders, she lifted one nimble leg into the dirt and blood-stained water, the palms of her hands finding the tops of his shoulders as she lowered herself to straddle his lap. Knees bent beside his waist, Thyella smiled, batting her eyelashes as she settled atop him. “Any woman you find in King’s Landing,” she spoke gently, almost like a loving mother, yet the hand that lowered and wrapped around his manhood was anything but. Forcibly she directed him inside of her, lifting her hips just enough until she could engulf him whole with her already-quivering depths. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her jaw tilted somewhat back as she took him within her. “We will bring back in a painted box of bones.”
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THOROS SWANN
 Posted: May 15 2018, 12:43 PM
Quote
Lola is Offline
19 years old
STORMLANDS
Baratheon
Swann
Stormlands
N/A




Stirred beneath the delicate sound of hesitant footsteps, Thoros would find himself drawn to spectate the entrance of two familiar faces. With an overbearing sigh, as if the sight of the pair disappointed him, he’d cast his stare to the ceiling, slipping between the intricate patterns in an almost tranquil daze. For a moment he drifted amongst the spirals, contemplating in mild amusement the similar patterns found in veins; more so when engorged, robbed of oxygen and throbbing in desperation beneath the surface of a man’s throat. He’d have lingered there a moment longer, content to consider such morbid fascinations, if Thyella’s voice hadn’t lulled him from the thought. The sound of her threat stirred a slight sentiment of amusement, but it didn’t quite coax him to engage, after-all it wasn’t entertaining unless she acted upon the notion. There was however something arousing in the tone, the bitter-sweet chime of something that appealed with vigour to the senses but spoke with such hatred that it filled him with a feeling akin to delight or perhaps a distant companion of pleasure. In silence he’d wait for the refreshment of water to pool about his being, the warm flush drifting about his thighs easing each muscle into a state of calm compulsion despite the underlying tension prickling beneath her fingertips; anticipating a coming strike despite the apparent calm in her composed smile.

“I do doubt that sister. I shall be free to do as I please, the fate of the dwarf is all but sealed — it is nothing more than a theatrical demonstration and I’ve been offered a front seat to the spectacle.” With an almost dismissive laziness the Lord to be would permit himself a passing yawn, the sound deep as it echoed through his throat, disturbing the water in its passing. He wouldn’t rise to the implication of her entertainments, knowing full-well the comment had been spoken to provoke his temperament and in doing so he aspired to do the same in his ignorant dismissal of the taunt itself. Instead he focused the violent-gold of his stare upon her finger, hypnotised with each tempting stroke, admiring the sensation as it slithered between each abdominal muscle before creeping into the steep indent of his hips. He’d once swelled with protruding mass, but war had worn the flesh and what had once been bulging slimmed to a lean trim, the cut of his bone expelling itself atop his groin. It didn’t bother him of course, he’d feast in good time eliminating the fatigue of the King’s conquest.

Of course the Lord was under no false impression that his words would find no consequence, in-fact he welcomed the malicious reaction with a warm grimace; the pain expelling itself in a taunt smile stiffening across his mouth. A comparison in which would be adequate would perhaps be the moment he’d felt the searing impression of his father’s scalding cattle-brand compressed into the tender flesh between his shoulder blades; a wound he’d since marred into a mass of maimed flesh. It was the same instant pain which brought with it a frantic sense of twisted pleasure, walking the line between an intolerable ache and enlightening thrill. Somewhere between the two his muscles contracted into a vice, from the clench of his buttocks to the swell of his shoulders, almost thrusting him from the marble beneath. Despite the displeasure mounting in his nerves, the defiant tremble spasming against his inner-thighs, the man made not one sound, not a yelp nor squeal and instead probed a lop-sided smile to slither in spite upon his face. “Dear Sister, you fight the inevitable.” Under the pressure he’d give a strained grunt, the grit of his teeth grinding behind his lips as he’d lunge forwards, his fingertips lacing about her throat in an instant coil, his grip sinking into the dusted flesh with a composed squeeze, “If you remove it now then you’ll fail to be the last person I fucked.. and I know that’ll keep you up at night Thyella.. knowing that someone else had the last drop of me instead of you.”

Under the release of his purpling sack, due to one reason or another, Thoros would unravel his hold albeit in absolute reluctance. There was something about feeling the tenderness of a weakening pulse withering to nothing, fading from life beneath his palm that brought him an indescribable amount of pleasure. Even more so than the sadistic rush he found himself relishing in the build up of such a moment, he doubted even his sister could comprehend the euphoria it brought, the final expression of desperation, the occasional plea if a person could still muster the strength to form a comprehensive word. As the blood began to return to the engorging head of his tormented member he’d become conscious of the sudden swell, the erratic throb convulsing in frantic pounds from base to tip. What had been pain evolved into hunger, the desire ravishing his senses under the exposure of her figure, the scarred skin a canvas of memories set aglow against the reflective glint of the water atop him. Each tarnished piece of flesh a delicious reminder of their time together.

As the water lapped beneath his chin with the invasion of her presence, Thoros would lash his fingers against her waist clasping the curves beneath with such force he felt his wrists groan in quiet protest, the impact vibrating through his palms inspiring his grip to tighten until his entire being seemed to tremble in excitement. How long had it been? Even his polished sense of control seemed to slip further and further from his mind, abandoning him in favour of primal instincts. An effect no person but Thyella could have upon him, he’d swear it was witchcraft if he bothered to spare a thought upon the matter. But his mind could no more travel than it could part itself from the movement of her hand, the guidance begrudged but welcome as he’d thrust against her touch ensuring his entrance received resistance as he’d drag her hips down refusing them their preferred arch. The sensation was enough to drive a mortal mad, to push the sanest creature to the brink of combustion. It would come as no surprise that her words floated across his head, missing his ears and dissolving into oblivion with no regard in the slightest. There was not a single word she could speak that would matter more to him than the sweet sensation of her cunt puckering about his cock, the swell fattening itself against the incessant throb as he’d thrust himself upwards with a sudden feverish haste, robbed of the feeling for so long that even he found himself driven with starvation, with uncontrolled all consuming lust.

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THYELLA SWANN
 Posted: Yesterday at 09:47 pm
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SHELBS is Offline
18 years old
STORMLANDS [A]
HOUSE BARATHEON
HOUSE SWANN
Stonehelm
Lady


Driven by the thought of court, of her brother’s prominence as an appointed arbiter over the trial, of the theatrics surrounding the dwarf’s soon-severed head, and coaxed by the odorous balm of his bath, Thyella felt herself moisten with excitement. The steam lifting from his muscled flesh brought with it perfumes of not only the lemon and rose used to scent the water, but the metallic, robust aromas of the blood and mud washing away from him. It was a mixture she found ignited her jowls once filling her nostrils, causing her tongue to salivate as if it was readying her teeth to tear into and digest a most savory meal. Though the stained color of the bath was all things unseemly, it did nothing to deter Thyella from her growing desires, her mind running amok between the image of the far away Red Keep and sight of the red clouds of blood in the water before her. Even her brother’s remark, one she answered in kind with the quick and unyielding clench of her hand, forced her to quiver between her innermost thighs. While his gaze may have burned with the yellow-gold fires of their mother, her own sapphire gaze seemed frozen, dead and unmoving as it pierced into his flames. Wordlessly, with that single look she bored upon him, Thoros was hers.

Dare she strike him? Dare she remove her hand from his purpling manhood and strangle his throat instead? A wave so hot, so white and so fast that it felt painfully cold rippled up each of her long vertebrae, causing the tiny unseen hairs on the back of her nape to stand on their ends in retaliation. Not for the first, second, third or even hundredth time she considered killing him then and there, using the ceramic wash basin to break over the top of his skull, and fishing for the broken pieces to open the veins in his neck. With wanton abandon she pictured her brother atop another, plunging his shaft into some wailing pig, letting her screams pierce her own ears until his very weight was like to suffocate her. She had seen it before, heard it before. Even now she could feel the edges of her mouth curl upwards ever so slightly, making some feeble attempt to reach her sparkling glare above. “Shall I reunite you with her, then?” She responded, knowing well the girl likely lay dead somewhere, no stone nor five pointed star to mark her grave... if she even had a grave. “Perhaps it best,” she mused airily, withdrawing her hand from the bath water and standing to her nimble feet.

“Your permanent absence would once more allow me the freedoms I so enjoyed with your Lord Captain,” she began to undress herself, quickly and without pause, her gaze lowered but still fixated upon her brother below. Uninterrupted she moved into the oversized tub with him, her palms curling around the ceramic edges to bear her weight only long enough to straddle his waist, before they reached out to find the flesh of his shoulders. Already her nails began to dig into them. “The freedoms your return from battle unfortunately interrupted.” There was little time for him to respond, much less react to the weight of her words before the weight of her own hips were pressing down upon him. With much resistance yet equal willingness, Thyella let herself sink atop his girth, ignoring the quivering, half-painful clench of her walls in favor for the internal pressure he applied against the very bones of her pelvis. An automatic gasp, nearly bordering a cry, escaped her throat, her nails pressing into the tops of his shoulders as she bore herself against him. Had she lied about his Lord Captain? Perhaps not. Or, perhaps she had, wishing only for her brother’s violent penetration provoked between her depths, unlike any appointed guard or soldier could provide her. Perhaps she wished for him to search for the truths on his own, punishing her as he saw fit, deeming her admittance truthful or not based on his own interrogations.

The thought itself was near like to push her to an early climax, so depraved had she been of Thoros’ touch that she could not clearly discern pain from pleasure, so equal did they find her begging for only more. Likely she had been born without the ability to ever distinguish it, but that mattered not, not any longer, her upper lip twitching into a slight scowl as she assisted in the plundering of her own intimate depths. The tips of her well-manicured nails dug crescent-shaped rivets into his shoulders, drawing forth small bloody scrapes and collecting the removed skin beneath them. Exposing her neck to him, long and slender, Thyella tilted her head back some, her eyes squinting softly shut as she bore the painful pleasure of her brother’s eager intrusion. Though she was no less eager to welcome him, her walls still fluttered around him as they were forced to adjust to the sudden penetration, widening reluctantly to allow him full measure inside. Even the outer, rosy lips of her center did not permit him much freedom, clinging onto the girth of his manhood as if the taut grasp itself could protect the sweetness he currently claimed. Lifting from his shoulder, her curled hand floated instead to the trunk of his neck, anchoring around the muscle and almost trembling in hunger against the feel of his pulse. The harder he thrust within her, the harder she found herself squeezing that precious little drum, as if, like his great burst of seed, she could burst that thunderous pulse in his neck, as well. “Harder,” she commanded breathily, whether of herself of or him was yet to be determined, though her fingers continued to tighten in kind around his jugular all the same. "Harder!"
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