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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Alias: Nica
Age: 35
Sworn To: Arryn
Born to: Baelish
Location: King's Landing
Title: Lord
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Joined: 28-November 16
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Local Time: Jul 18 2018, 12:02 AM
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Jun 7 2018, 05:23 PM
Going to Bonnaroo. I'll be back Monday. Pray to the sunscreen gods for my salvation.
Jul 19 2017, 12:38 AM
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osmund kettleblack

<span>joel alexander</span>
<span>the knight</span>

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<i>'delusional is easier than self examination'</i>
In canon, Osmund Kettleblack is one of three brothers hired by Cersei; but whose loyalty was bought by Tyrion. The web spins deeper, however, and all three are actually loyal to Petyr Baelish. Now, obviously, things are different here, save the brothers' loyalty to Littlefinger. Decades before, Petyr befriended the brothers' father, Oswell Kettleblack, and earned his loyalty through coin and favors; this morphed into the brothers following Petyr as well. Or, at least, to the brothers following Petyr's purse.
Osmund Kettleblack is the eldest, and the most serious. His lips tend to be a line upon his face; his eyes blank, unreadable. Still, like his brothers, he is notable for his easygoing humor; the smiles that leave his eyes dark, the jests that set a room to laughing. He stands at 6'6 of corded muscle, and is a match for Robert Baratheon at his prime, from biceps to height.
He's a hedge knight, and earned his spurs upon the battlefield, whilst he served with the Gallant Men in the Disputed Lands. Or, so he claims. Perhaps he's not a knight, perhaps Ser Robert Stone is a fiction. After all, even if he ever existed, Osmund claims him dead.
Not that any of that matters. Osmund's battle prowess speaks for itself, knighted or not.
His ideals are a twisted variant upon a knight's vows. He claims the title, but his actions speak otherwise, as he does not think twice when ordered to commit atrocities. He takes no relish in violence, but does not balk from it either; his only motives involve lining his own pockets. Perhaps he aspires to leave the life of selling his sword someday, perhaps he acknowledges his likely fate is to die as he's lived: upon the blade.


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osfryd kettleblack

<span>dimitris alexandrou</span>
<span>the cruel one</span>

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<i>'you get conscience as a dark spot'</i>
In canon, Osfryd Kettleblack is one of three brothers hired by Cersei; but whose loyalty was bought by Tyrion. The web spins deeper, however, and all three are actually loyal to Petyr Baelish. Now, obviously, things are different here, save the brothers' loyalty to Littlefinger. Decades before, Petyr befriended the brothers' father, Oswell Kettleblack, and earned his loyalty through coin and favors; this morphed into the brothers following Petyr as well. Or, at least, to the brothers following Petyr's purse.
Osfryd is the middle brother. Unlike Osmund, he claims no lofty titles such as "knight". He does not feel the need to embellish his name with a <i>'ser'</i>. More likely to scowl than to smile, Osfryd is considerably crueler than his brothers. Still, there's a razor's edge of a smile hidden beneath his black beard and humor, and his harsh barks of laughter aren't altogether offputting. Like Osmund, he fought in the Stepstones and Disputed Lands with the mercenary company, the Gallant Men. Like other sellswords over the age of twenty, he is anything but 'gallant'.
An old sellsword is not a brave sellsword.
He's ruthless, violent, and seems to relish pain. Like Osmund and Osney, he tends to find himself popular with women. Unlike his brothers, the women don't typically come back to him. As a child, he was cruel to Osney; Osmund was too old for him to bully, but the youngest was a perfect target. He's always preferred his diversions to be violent, and his private diversions are no different. Osmund is skilled at violence but does not seek it out; and Osfryd is skilled at violence, and does seek it out. His motives are murkier than his brothers; sure, he loves lining his pockets, but his methods aren't the surgical steadiness of his brother's.
He fully intends to die the way he's lived.

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osney kettleblack

<span>burak deniz</span>
<span>the lover boy</span>

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<i>'get your shit together, lover boy, stop looking at the clock'</i>
In canon, Osney Kettleblack is one of three brothers hired by Cersei; but whose loyalty was bought by Tyrion. The web spins deeper, however, and all three are actually loyal to Petyr Baelish. Now, obviously, things are different here, save the brothers' loyalty to Littlefinger. Decades before, Petyr befriended the brothers' father, Oswell Kettleblack, and earned his loyalty through coin and favors; this morphed into the brothers following Petyr as well. Or, at least, to the brothers following Petyr's purse.
One might assume that hopes and dreams had been beaten out of Osney Kettleblack before he reached manhood. Still, the soul is a resilient thing, and Osney is the most starry-eyed of the Kettleblack brothers. Coincidentally, he is also the most liable to betray Petyr, and so he is consistently watched not only by his own brothers, but by other men hired by the Master of Coin. Unlike his brothers, he prefers to remain clean-shaven (at least somewhat) and is the friendliest of the three. His smiles are nearly genuine, the light sometimes reaching his eyes, and his laugh is infectious.
From a young age, Osfryd bullied him, and attempted to beat him into submission. But Osney is a like a weed; despite adversity, he tends to thrive, and springs up, blossoming between cobbles. Like his brothers, he served with the Gallant Men as a sellsword, fighting for Lys and then Tyrosh. He doesn't approach violence with either the cold dispassion of Osmund, nor the relish of Osfryd, but rather as a challenge. He views each stumbling block in his way as a sort of game, and he as a player, determined to win. He's still very naive in many ways, and doesn't see that his way of life is liable to be his death. Somehow, he still believes he will fall in love with a fair maid, marry her, and raise their children in harmony.
Hope is harder to stamp out than a cockroach.


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May 21 2017, 11:38 PM
He kept tabs on the girl. He kept tabs upon lots of people, upon lots of things. It wasn't so unusual, then, that he had his people keeping careful watch upon the Northern girl, wasn't so odd that they reported directly to him, through whispers uttered in passing within crowded halls, though subtle signs strewn about the Keep, through scraps of paper scrawled with indecipherable codes. Petyr Baelish's sharp gray-green eyes missed very little. From the moment he'd set eyes upon her, he'd been inflamed. Her firey red hair, red as the river's clay, those bright blue eyes, clear as the Tumblestone's waters, and the delicate curves of her neck, the dainty way in which she sewed each stitch, pale fingers carefully working the shining needle to and fro in the fine fabric. . .he was transported back to Riverrun. Where he'd been but a bright-eyed lad, head full of songs and dreams of knighthood, ideals of chivalry. He had been Symeon Star-Eyes with a wooden sword, fighting invisible foes with the fury that only a child could muster. He had been Serwyn of the Mirror Shield bearing a shield of cloth and wood, guarding against fictitious dragons.

That had been when Littlefinger had thought the dragons gone for good, a figment of histories, and of imaginations. Now, he knew better than to try and trick a dragon with something so simple as a mirror. No, both the human and beastly dragons were far too clever for such a ploy. Instead, Petyr was helpful. Smiling and obsequious, and always there to lend a hand, a word of advice, to brush problems away and out of sight, out of mind. To solve problems with that 'gift' the powerful so valued. In a way, Petyr Baelish was also a breeder of dragons. His brood, however, was gold, and jangled within purses. In many ways, the slight man was eminently practical. He had an understanding of the way the world worked; its vagaries, its cruelties, and its quirks. He knew now that the songs were just pretty collectives of notes.

Chivalry was dead, if it ever lived.

And he would be there to stab at its still-warm corpse. A note slipped beneath his office door caught the slight man's attention, and Littlefinger swiftly stood and crossed the spare room, stooping to collect the scrap of parchment. It took him a scant few minutes to decipher the code scrawled upon it, and just a few moments to burn the parchment to nothing but ash in his candle's flame. Despite the fact that he doubted even Varys had cracked his code, Petyr Baelish was a cautious man. Discretion ensured his survival, and lessons learned from his years were not easily forgot. He affixed his cloak of fine dark wool about his shoulders, pinning it into place with the silver mockingbird he was becoming known for, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him. Since accepting the Master of Coin's chair, he'd relocated the majority of his dealings to his office within the Red Keep, a room he'd previously allowed to grow dusty. But with appointment to the Small Council, he of course had to keep appearances. Fortunately, his appointment also came with the late Lord Grafton's office, a room in which Petyr had found no spy-holes nor trap doors.

Power did confer its benefits.

Quick strides propelled the slight, slender man through the halls, cloak fluttering behind him. He was in no hurry, but Petyr had never been one for languid strides. No. He was always a man who appeared to be going somewhere, and disliked even the appearance of stagnation. It wasn't long before Littlefinger found himself at the entrance to the gardens, and cold sage-toned eyes soon found their mark. There she was, bent over an embroidery hoop, sliver needle jumping through the fabric like a silver fish. She was the mirror image of her mother, a river's child. The chill of the air seemed anathema to Petyr as he paused, simply watching. They'd met before, in passing, at some courtly event or another. He'd largely kept his distance, however. It would not due to draw attention to himself, or to her. She was always in the company of her ladies, the company of her guards, or of her betrothed. Now? Now, she was alone, save for the red-cloaked guard standing at the door. Petyr nodded in his direction, a friendly smile upon his lips, and received a nod in return. He strode over to her, that smile still plastered upon his face. It didn't quite reach his eyes, however. "Lady Sansa," he greeted, giving a courtly bow, before taking a seat opposite her. "Do you not find it cold?" He chuckled lightly, before drawing his cloak around his shoulders, "or has the North rendered you immune to its claws?"


[ooc: lemme know if it's a bit god-moddy, i was just trying to set something up. i'll be happy to edit <3]
May 19 2017, 03:32 PM
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<div class="divinename">varys</div>
<div class="divineinfo">56. crownlands. master of whispers.</div>

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The Spider. Master of Whispers. The Eunuch. Lord Varys. Everyone knows his name, knows his face. Until, of course, they don't. His true motives are enigmatic, and he claims to serve King Rhaegar, and the forces of order, and anyone who seeks order as well. However, he's been known to play both sides, and isn't above dirty tactics in order to achieve his goals, whatever they may be. It is rumored that he stoked the fires of King Aerys' madness, causing the Mad King to see assassins in each shadow, to see traitors in every crowd. To suspect his own son, his own wife, his family, of trying to depose him.
Of course, he was right.
Varys' beginnings were less than auspicious. Born a slave in the free city of Lys, he was sold to a sorcerer who cut off his manhood to serve some dark end in some ritual. From there, he clawed his way up from the streets, theiving, begging, and prostituting. Eventually, he got into the trade of information, utilizing 'little mice', young mute children, to collect papers, whispers, knowledge. King Aerys heard of him from across the Narrow Sea, and brought him to King's Landing. The rest, of course, is history.
Varys still utilizes his little mute children, calling them 'little birds' now. And I think Petyr Baelish knows his little secret; he just hasn't deemed it prudent to reveal it. I believe the two of them balance upon a knife's blade: each of them knows enough to destroy the other, but neither is willing to do so, as it would lead to their own destruction. Mutually assured destruction, if you will. Instead, they spend their time avoiding each other's spies (or trying to), and snarking at each other when forced to interact.
The two men have different goals and different means, but are strikingly similar to each other. So, naturally, they loathe each other. Varys' plots are like a master pianist reciting a concerto; each note is precise, ordered, planned. Petyr's a jazz musician, improvising as he goes along, adding, and subtracting as circumstances require.
As tensions heat between the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms, Varys will have quite a role to play; balancing his history with his present, his old friends and past loyalties, with where he is now. And, of course, Petyr Baelish needs someone to exchange barbed witticisms with at Small Council meetings. FC is Conleth Hill, but can totes be changed. As always, PM me, chat with me, whatevs, if you have questions. I <3 u.


<div class="divinequote"><div class="divinequote1">❝</div>

Make no mistake I don't do anything for free
I keep my enemies closer than my mirror ever gets to me
And if you think that there is shelter in this attitude
Wait til you feel the warmth of my gratitude

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<div class="reexoxo"><a href="">nevermore.</a></div>
Apr 27 2017, 02:32 AM
He was being summoned. Lord Petyr Baelish fought with the smirk that threatened to overtake his sharp features, carefully schooling his face into impassivity. What an irony. Years of planning, of waiting patiently, like a coiled serpent, and here he was, poised to just be handed what he'd been clawing at for the past decade. He'd made deals with devils far more unsavory than he, had lied, stolen, cheated, and killed. The Gods were fickle, holding that coveted seat just beyond Petyr's clawed hands for their own twisted amusement, only to tie a bow about it and present it to him when they grew tired of the game. Petyr almost had to laugh. All his scheming, all the meetings in dark, smokey rooms with unsavory people, the exchanges of coins, favors, whispers, it had amounted to nothing. Wasted effort. Still, Petyr was no fool. He didn't look this gift horse in the mouth, at least not where he could be seen doing so.

No. The ledgers, he'd pore over later. He'd already familiarized himself with the majority of their contents, Lord Grafton had entrusted more and more to the slight man over the years as Littlefinger had proven himself invaluable time and time again. Powerful men needed men like Littlefinger. Rich men needed men like Littlefinger. He had a gift for breeding dragons, not unlike the Targaryens themselves. He could simply rub two of them together, and spawn a third. Or so it appeared. Really, it was an elaborate game of sleight-of-hand, of moving coin from one investment to the next, borrowing from one House, from the Iron Bank, purchasing goods, holding onto those goods until he'd amassed nigh-monopolies, selling when the prices were high. Petyr was both clever, and unburdened with excess scruples, and was not above playing games with the lives of smallfolk for his own personal gain. Currently, he'd been stockpiling grain. Soon...very soon, that grain would be worth its weight in gold. More than. At which point, Petyr would begin to sell.

And not a moment before. The Starks were always right, come enough time. Winter was coming, and it came for them all, its grasp sharp and cold, turning their breath to puffs of smoke. They were all of them dragons in the winter. Clack, clack, clack. The heels of Petyr's boots echoed against the stone halls of the Red Keep smartly, announcing the slight man's presence far before the Kingsguard or any heralds could. It wasn't every day that Petyr had an audience with the king; however, assuming all went well with his meeting today, the frequency of said meetings would increase. His garments were both plain and rich; the fabrics richly dyed, finely woven, yet unadorned. At his collar, the silver mockingbird pin glinted in the light streaming through the tall windows of the hall leading to the solar in which he was to meet His Majesty. Petyr suppressed the curl of his lip at that thought. He was a loyal servant. Soon enough, he reached the doors, nodding coolly at the knights standing outside, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Barristan Selmy. "I am here to see His Majesty," Petyr said, probably unnecessarily, as they were undoubtedly aware of the King's schedule. With a nod, they stepped aside, and pushed the door open before him, announcing his name.

Petyr stepped through the threshold, and bowed upon sighting the king. "Good morning, your Majesty," Petyr greeted, a smile playing upon his lips. The way the light played upon his face made it seem as if the smile even reached his eyes. "I am aggrieved at the news of Lord Grafton's, ah...demise. He was a good man; we worked hand-in-hand for years. I like to think I knew him better than most." Ah, politics: insincere platitudes peddled by insincere men. Petyr was lying through his teeth. Grafton was boring; a man who preferred the company of numbers and figures to other men. He was sharp, sure, but not quite clever enough to sight the inconsistencies in Petyr's own numbers and figures. Just the sort of person Petyr like to surround himself with. Men just smart enough to hold their own; but not quite bright enough to justify their suspicions of him.

"I cannot imagine that you called me here to discuss old friends, however."
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