shelbs
oswin

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] Site's Most Wanted has been updated! Get em while they're hot!
[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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 THE HALVED HISTORY OF THE HALFMAN, MASS THREADO / OPEN
RHAEGAR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Apr 12 2018, 12:18 PM
Quote
Shelbs is Offline
43 years old
CROWNLANDS [A]
THE IRON THRONE
house targaryen
KING'S LANDING
KING



ooc: JUDGES! Go ahead and post as soon as you can, and it will be in that posting order that we'll follow from there on out. Just have your character's arrival announced in the first post, TAKE YA SEATS AND ENJOY THE RIDE! Feel free to make your own break-off threads between judges/Tyrion during this, too!


So many people. So. Many. Even from deep within Maegor’s Holdfast, behind many of the palace’s walls, the armored drawbridge, the thousands of red bricks placed between them, he could still hear the people in the city. He could feel even the air he breathed had changed, as if with so many new bodies crowding the streets and inns, even the Red Keep itself, the winds were fewer and the oxygen thinner. Tense. Rationed. With a deep breath he filled his lungs, hoping to reassure himself that he still had the ability to do so, as his squires and wards moved to dress him. While the layers of fine crimson and ebony were attached to him, sable and leather, furs and his royal chains of office, he continued to wonder, How was it, that the promise of a noble execution, spilled Lannister blood and a severed dwarf head lured as many people to his city as his own divine ascension? How could these people flock so readily the many leagues to King’s Landing to witness Tyrion Lannister’s downfall, as they had done to see their Silver King’s coronation? Would this be how his reign was defined? Volantis and Tyrosh, Tywin and Tyrion, Lyanna and Lorainna… was this how he was to be recorded for history?

The walk to the throne room felt longer than an entire ride to the Great Sept. His boots felt weighted with chains unseen, not even his wife’s hand within his had given him any modicum of relief. Side by side they journeyed from the Holdfast, attended by all seven of the Kingsguard, palace guards and gaolers. Even Jon was there, as second in command, he was close behind the royal pair with every stride. But it was not the Hand’s shoulders that bore these weights, not Lord Connington that feared for the very hours and days to come. Tyrion Lannister may stand trial for an uncountable amount of crimes, but the dwarf had knowledge of a secret thrice his size and heavy enough to assure not only his downfall, but that of the very woman who walked beside him. Was this what they were, all three of them, kinslayers? The dwarf was accused of poisoning his father the Warden of the West, Rhaegar himself very well signed the death warrant of his own sire the King, however mad, and Lorainna… Lorainna had wielded the blade that struck her patriarch’s heart, stopping the sordid muscle as she did the Archon’s corrupted rule.

And Tyrion knew. As much as Rhaegar felt the bonds to his foreign wife thicken upon her admission, feeling some sense of kindred spirit within her, it was not a strength he could draw from once they entered the throne room. She had told Tyrion of her truths, foolishly and vulnerably, and part of him could only hope should the dwarf try to make light of this during his trial, his claims would only be dismissed by those of a desperate man. A desperate half-man. What proof did he have? His word against the Queen’s? The very one that had warmed the hearts of the people to her, at last? The poor, imprisoned heiress, willing to go to war for the husband she barely knew, willing to risk her own life for him to prove her innocence. How they would sing about her story for ages to come. And, gods be good, they would make no mention of what she’d done, what she had revealed to Tyrion in the bowels of a ship bound for his death.

”His Majesty the King!” Though the Iron Throne loomed ahead, gargantuan, twisted and monstrous, it would not be the jagged metal seat he sat upon today. A royal dais had been elevated at the base of the throne, and with Lorainna in hand, the two ascended the few steps to take their place upon it. At least a hundred nobles had taken their own places upon the stands, the great wooden things having been erected on either side of the large chamber. At the announcement of their royal sovereigns’, they began to quiet, speaking in subdued whispers as they watched the royal pair, no doubt anxiously waiting for the arrival of not only those selected to judge the dwarf’s fate, but the dwarf himself. With keen purple eyes he studied the great, rounded throne room, noting the twin pair of pavilions built just below the royal dais, mentally marking where each appointed peer would sit. Though he and Lorainna would hold no part in Tyrion’s trial, they would oversee every detail, adding another set of eyes that bore down upon the small podium brought in for the even smaller dwarf to stand upon. Between the nineteen gaping dragon skulls and all those that crowded the throne room, nothing Tyrion Lannister could say or do would go unnoticed.
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JON CONNINGTON
 Posted: Apr 12 2018, 05:21 PM
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Laurie is Offline
N/A years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A


The golden-green eyes of the griffin tried to retain their focus. The area around him swarmed, and it surprised him that with every turn of his head he met new face. Of course, the details of that face were to be lost in the crowd that piled into the Red Keep. The number of citizens of Westeros inside King's Landing had surely more than doubled in the last handful of days. All of them gathered to hear the trial and verdict of their higher lord, of a Lannister whom Jon had once thought was clever. He had once enjoyed his wit and quips at court functions, and once thought his father, Tywin, as hand before him, a fine man with a destiny for both of them. Maybe, entwined as powerful houses often found themselves. Griffins, lions, dragons. There were wars their families had fought together, won together, and now they fought against. How wrong he might have been...

Jon had suffered many times over since the start of this war. The stress on his family, the death of his son, the doubt of his decisions. The last was the most troublesome, his position as Hand compromised by a clenched jaw and watery eyes with every assertion of the King's armies. Jon wondered often if what he was doing was right, and knew he questioned his efforts now that he ever had before. More so even than as a nervous young lad trying to play his place in the first war of his life, the one that brought Rhaegar to the throne. They had lost people then, friends, among countless warriors, but here, he lost his son. Desmond, a young knight that had trained with the promise of tomorrow's glory, had spun off to the Stormlands to fight for his family, blood and unblooded. He was talented, possessing a compassionate heart, and Jon had mourned his valiant son every moment since. He moved his sweet wife and remaining children to the Red Keep as fast as he was able to, knowing his father's spirit was surely rolling in his grave at his desertion of Griffin's Roost. He had hoped for future where his children enjoyed the summer his youth endured to grant, where there would be no war or winter, where had it gone wrong?

'Straight head,' Jon told himself, trying not to allow the masses to overwhelm him. He knew there were citizens from all over the realm present, ones he had numerous dealings with over the years as the King's Hand, and was sure to have more. This would be no place to lose his composure, especially after he had spent so many years crafting it. It was hard to imagine, they were all here, waiting to see what the King, his advisers, and his jurors would declare. He had vowed to see justice dealt, he had sworn it to the Gods, and knew they would deliver.

Jon kept his eyes on the distant circlet around his friend's crown as they made their way to the elevated dais that would seat them during this trial. Each stride felt heavy, long, and he knew the course of this event would be slow and arduous for them all. The only ones that would find it easy would be the fools that lined the halls for the entertainment of it all. The man reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose at the thought, how wild these creatures he grew up beside could be. As Rhaegar and his new wife took their places just below the Iron Throne, it's dark, molten metal a stark background for their ethereal features, Jon found his own place. As always, it was near the King, though it stopped short of him. The Hand was to be a judge in this trial, a weight he had felt wrap around his shoulders as the most challenging duty he had seen in some time, perhaps... in his entire life. His every desire as a man, as a father, was to rip the reason behind his son's death to shreds. He wanted the selfish vengeance of all those with children torn from their sides to meet the Gods earlier than ever thought possible. Children of war.

He would not fall to the earthly wants of a wounded heart, he knew he couldn't or he would fail his King, his realm, and himself. He continued his walk down the center of the room, catching the violet eyes of his Silver Prince once he had seated and dipped his head towards the man. A nod of acknowledgement and a pull of strength from the both of them, Jon made the way to his own placement. His mouth set itself into a line without his control, it had taken much to coax a smile out of the lord of late, and this was certainly not a joyous occasion. His hands laced together in front of himself, waiting for the other peers to appear and taking note of those in the audience.
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LORAINNA TARGARYEN
 Posted: Apr 15 2018, 06:37 AM
Quote
oswin is Offline
21 years old
ESSOS [A]
the people
archon
TYROSH
royal



There was chaos magic lurking in the roots of the city, a faded heartbeat beneath the veneer of civilization… lurking within the very depths and molded into the foundation of the very town that was layered above, silent but there, if they need it. The temptation to see the workings of a man's fate called people to the Crownlands like moths to flames. Drawn to the commotion and blaze, dragging them away from the same monotonous existence they lived in, if only to trivialise another’s. Lorainna hardly approved of the show, and her husband knew as much. But it was not her place or traditions that they had to humour here, and she was a vouyer into their proceedings. As the collection of voices from strangers across the land rose in waves against the very walls she had so scarcely lived in, that she was hoping would become her home the apprehension began to sink further in her gut.

Lora could hardly say that the weight of her confession had been taken off of her shoulders, what the Tyroshi had though would be her condemnation had in the end crafted a small sanctuary in a darkened abyss that Lorainna was sure would swallow her whole. Her trust was now placed in the everbeating heart of Westeros’ Silver King, a place that the woman never thought it would end up. In this life, or her next. While the noise of the great hall was the first to greet her, the excitement that pulsed through the room was almost palpable. The expressionless mask Lorainna so often donned had slipped firmly into place, fearing that by the end of this entire escapade she would not be able to move a muscle at all. For she could show no sides in this argument, or appeared to be swayed by another. The people needed justice and this was what the trial was for, both herself and Rhaegar’s place was to oversee as their sovereigns and nought more.

Refraining from running her hands through her coloured hair that was pulled sharply back from her features, fastened at the nape of her neck in a knot - thanking her past self for ridding the temptation - Lora readied herself silently, bracing for the winds that were to come. Heels clicking on the stones of the dais, the murmurs almost muted in comparison to the noise that had raged before at the announcement of the king, her own foreign title following. At the announcement of her title, Lorainna’s fingers tightened unconsciously about Rhaegars briefly, catching herself as she did and loosening her hold once more. Cobalt gaze steady as they sat upon their platform. Before her skirts had settled another was announced, wary of the hungry eyes that turned from the pair on the platform to the King’s very Hand. Rhaegar had told her he was a good man, not that she had needed his words to tell her that. In the wake of her own inquisition Jon had been the only one to even consider the idea of listening to her. With that, she had to thank him, and knew that his decision on this matter, however grave, would not come lightly.

Tucking her ankles against the other and lining her spine with the wood of the tall backed chair, Lora noted her fingers were still intertwined with her husbands as they rested atop the arms of the temporary thrones. Not wishing to nudge or disturb them, perhaps it was to make sure that she did nothing untoward, or more likely it was a mere oversight. Abandoning that particular stream of conscious, it was then her own gaze drank in the crowd. Listening for the announcement of the other judges, and insuring her gaze revealed nothing of the turbulent seas housed within.

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TYCEN LANNISTER.
 Posted: Apr 15 2018, 12:34 PM
Quote
Lola is Offline
N/A years old
WESTERLANDS
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A


(Note: Sorry for the shitness of this post -- finding it hard to jump into his head at this point xD)

Rage. For months he’d been incapable of escaping it, of ridding himself of the overwhelming sensation of anger as if he teetered on the edge of sheer oblivion. Of course it would be impossible for those around him to tell, to peer beneath the cold facade which cast a constant shade across his face; dampening his mouth into a thin unapproachable line. It often appeared as if he felt nothing at all, worn beneath a pragmatic veil, controlled and thoughtful, mimicked from Tywin himself. He’d listened to the rumours, heard them slither beneath his door, echo through the walls and ring into the quietest corners. Shouldn’t he be thrilled? The Lion walked the edge of succession, once Tyrion was condemned to death the Rock would fall to him, the rightful and most suitable heir. Far more accomplished than Tybolt, more intelligent than Jaime, a Lannister raised from the same mould as his father, though far removed from gold he’d shone in silence. Despite it all he couldn’t bring himself to grin, to smile at the idea of everything coming together, all he could have dreamt within reach. The feeling of triumph was tainted, ruined under the stain of blood, of those he’d watched perish in the war the imp had constructed, had orchestrated like a puppeteer. Perhaps he hadn’t been at fault for it all, no one man could wield the blame for such a colossal catastrophe. But he held a portion, his grotesque little hands marred with the blood of his father, with the dishonour of their household.

Was it not bad enough he stood mocked beneath a dragon? His sister shamed in the birth of a bastard, the Lannister name fast becoming an unflattering burden to bare. Now it stood the cause of multiple deaths, names of value, banners that might have been useful once upon a time. Arryn. Baratheon. Martell. Just some who’d paid too much for a war tarnishing the West, those who’d pass the blame, who’d remain unsettled with the sour taste of Lannister in their mouth for a generation to come. Of course they’d never been well liked, Tycen was well aware of that. Perhaps Tybolt had showed promise of constructing a new ideal, but the dim light of possibilities had been extinguished in the footfall of his death. Pride had been all that remained, the honour of their house, the fear the name of Lannister could bring now seemed insignificant.

Such thoughts had accompanied him from the Rock, they’d slept upon his shoulder and muttered into his ear. Again and again he formulated the scene, imagined the court, envisioned the outcast brought into the light, like some half-forgotten dream wretched from the past. Once upon a time he’d marvelled at the half-man, considered him human, smirked perhaps at his wit and took note of the lessons he’d preached. He’d stood taller than most in the might of his mind, he could belittle a man in a moment, cut him deeper than a sword with nothing more than the strike of his tongue. In his youth he’d found that worth more than the testosterone fuelled theatrics of swordsmanship, it brought more satisfaction. A more fulfilling feeling he couldn’t quite explain. But now he couldn’t stomach the idea of listening to him speak. He’d had months to contemplate his case, Tycen would bet his life he’d considered this outcome at the beginning, assessed all possible routes, all possible conversations before they’d ever happened. Life was a complicated game, a complex collision of possibilities and outcomes, the dwarf wasn’t a man he considered capable of accepting the end, of melting into defeat without some grand finale. There’d be something, something no one was expecting, just the idea of what it might be demented him into sleepless nights.

If he’d found his half-brother perhaps a trial would have been avoided, a quick dishonourable death more fitting in the moment. Though a morbid curiousness tugged at his subconscious, the longing ‘why’ muttering at the back of his mind.

Why?

Now that was a question worth sitting amongst imbeciles and irrelevant vultures to uncover. What had driven him to disregard all that had been built, all that had been achieved under their banner? Was it his irrelevance? Had some illusion of grandeur been offered? Some illumination of hope dim in the distance tempting him across the sea? A moth chasing some fading flame? Such questions curled around his throat as he tightened the broach of his cloak, the hiss tickling his ear as he smoothed a dark strand from his forehead. Was this what embarrassment felt like? To be ashamed of a name. As his fingers flexed into an unwitting fist he swallowed back the thought, fast becoming accustomed to the incessant throb of his impatient heart. No matter who turned to stare he’d walk with confidence, with all the power of a man who’d fought to bring the imp to justice. What did the opinions of sheep matter? He could rebuild that. Relationships between houses were brittle at best, constructed from wood, what was burnt could be built again. Even iron could be reforged.

At least he could stand himself above those pathetic enough to swarm the capital for a glimpse at the trial, those who didn’t stand a hope of attending. He knew people had come eager for involvement, to stand their name amongst those who’d be remembered in some vain attempt to worm themselves into the fold, to profit from the misfortune of another. It was those he didn’t waste a single glance towards, those who offered their hand but would just as fast offer it to another. Even those who attempted to speak as he approached the courtroom weren’t given as little as a dismissal, his gaze remained steadfast, fixed upon the approaching door. Their voices deafened beneath the sound of his own irritation. With his head held with inherited pride he’d look upon those entitled to a place within the room, his mouth resisting the urge to sneer as his stare washed across the King, a vague reminder of another insult to his name. Another slander he found himself forced to stomach, pushed to the back of his mind under the weight of more urgent matters. As he took his seat he couldn’t help but find himself overcome with intrigue, wasn’t it curious to consider that perhaps his half-brother had expected this outcome far longer than all who waited to bite at his throat; and in considering such would no doubt have something fascinating to tell.

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ARIANNE MARTELL
 Posted: Apr 19 2018, 08:22 PM
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Stormie is Offline
27 years old
DORNE
Martell
Martell
Dorne
Princess of Dorne



After an eventful few days where the courts were gathering, the last of which to be Lord Stark which...was not what her mind could comprehend. To send a grandson instead of yourself? Perhaps the Starks had more backbone than Martells--though she would never admit to such thoughts beside the passing thoughts. No, she remembered the words of her Father. Dorne never bowed, instead they willingly came into the fold. Not as the conquered. Not as slaves. Not as a burnt and wasted land. No. Dorne came as a bride to her groom. Willingly. Softly. With much to give. While her mind replayed the words in Doran's steady and calming voice, her own fire burned. And what had this groom given his bride? Ignored. Forgotten and discarded. The death of her son. No. Not death. Murder. She felt her blood boil with pride and with hatred against the hippocracy she was participating in and the whole ridiculousness of the proceedure. Especially when the king himself was guilty of regicide and patricide. Perhaps Old Man Lannister was becoming a rabid lion and needed to be put down like the Mad King.

She dressed in dark red, darker than the sun her banner displayed, but still distinctly red. Draped across one shoulder was a sash of black, pinned to her chest was the prominant sun and spear of her people. A small necklace of onyx and gold was draped over the high neckline of her dress. It was here that Doran insisted she look like a prim and proper lady. Play nice, his voice echoed in her head. Reign in your temper. She took a deep breath and tried to think of anything other than the charred body of her brother laying in repose. In her hair was a ruby and gold circlet, her hair woven through it by her maids to make it look as if it was a part of her. Truly it was. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. She was a Princess of Dorne and she would look it. With one last glance at her reflection, she slipped on her favorite ruby ring and stood.

As she walked the halls through the keep and towards the main hall, the noise of the courtiers, merchants and wealthy people who had managed to come to the "event of the century" was nearly deafening. Her ladies trailed closely behind her, and she glanced at them for a moment with an eyebrow raised. Were the people of Kings Landing hungry for blood? Didn't they have enough with the losses of their soliders? Arianne had had enough and she had lost her brother. She could not imagine having lost a son, a husband in the war that yielded the Halfman and a new wife for the man who seemed quick to remarry time and time again.

She lined up with the other judges, noting that she was behind the Hand and Tycen Lannister. Part of her was surprised that Cersei Baratheon was not close behind but she ignored it. Instead, she watched as the Hand and Tycen were announced. The crowds had quieted to dull roar and she did not envy the man that had to announce them. Still, she took her place, her hands folded demurely in front of her and her gaze distant. "Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne" She walked slowly but delibrerately. Let them see what a Princess of Dorne looked like. Let them murmur and the rumors fly for her to prove them all wrong. Her dark eyes found the Kings for a moment, but the rage that swelled within her breast was too strong and she instead broke off the gaze to look towards the seats where she would add her judgements to the others. She found her seat and took it willingly. If this was a test of loyalty, Dorne was playing the part rather convincingly.

Her gaze now roamed the crowds for a moment, wondering if she would see the knight from the sparring grounds but she did not look hard for him. He was a passing distraction. She glanced at Tycen Lannister. She could see the stress lines in the hard clenched jaw. The wound of a murdered father must of still been fresh. She glanced at Jon Connington, and he looked rather uncomfortable in the judges seat. Interesting. The panel could prove more interesting that Arianne had dared to hope and it was not nearly as biased and she had previously thought. Or at least for now it didn't. Finally her eyes watched the new Queen. She appeared slightly nervous, though it was quickly erased from her features and she noted the hands still intertwined between the thrones. Perhaps another love match for the King? How easily he seems to find himself in love. Arianne's stomach twisted with rage but she swallowed hard and tilted her chin up just slightly, returning her gaze to the crowds and the other judges.
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THOROS SWANN
 Posted: May 7 2018, 11:40 AM
Quote
Lola is Offline
19 years old
STORMLANDS
Baratheon
Swann
Stormlands
N/A






Pleasant screams had lulled the Lord from his malevolent dreams, the faint reminiscence of a woman’s howl fading with quaint elegance into the back of his mind. She’d sounded so delicate, the pain fresh; warm as it poured from her soul oozing out into the night upon the whimsical chime of a harp-string. It irritated him profoundly to realise his antics had been nothing more than a concoction of his sleeping mind, broken without permission in the wake of the rising sun. He could have dwelled there another hour, floated back and fourth atop the deafening squark of shackled women, swam in the lagoon of coming blood, bathed in the fresh iron-tang of life’s peculiar essence. Instead he stood with mundane acceptance as two young men scurried about the room collecting his attire and placing it with caution against his skin; sheltering the scars beneath from sight. He’d opted for black accompanied with flattering opposition from slates of chalk white running in quaint patterns along his undershirt. The colour of his sigil, black and white, worn with all the grace one might expect from a Lord despite the rot infecting what sat beneath a rather polished surface.

“What do you make of this trial?” Without turning his head to acknowledge the sound, Thoros considered the question, well aware what mouth it had arisen from. When word had crossed the Stormlands of a trial several smaller houses had scrambled with sudden desperation to be amongst those present for the anticipated execution of the Lannister dwarf; for all men believed that to be the just and coming conclusion. Victor had been one of them. Although the Black Swan didn’t quite consider himself to be capable of friendship, it was advantageous to have a gaggle of willing men who thought themselves close to a higher Lord. Pawns upon the chess board. Drawing the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth he’d trail the indents, contemplating the sensation of engraving them upon the skin of another. The slight resistance, the faint taste of salt, the almost sponge like mass melting beneath. “It’s a spectacle, a grand monumental event to tarnish the Lannister name.. Or to salvage it.” Turning his head he’d consider himself in the mirror, bringing a single hand upwards to push a single loose thread back against his scalp. “Not that it matters. If by some miraculous turn of events the dwarf escapes his fate… which I do doubt. The Lannister heir will have him killed, or perhaps Cersei.. Public or a secret affair, it matters little — there’ll be an execution and we’re nothing more than a willing audience.”


Turning his head he’d take a moment to inspect the faint red traces protruding from his cheek, the skin prickled but not quite torn; raised but not grotesque. An affectionate token left to brand his flesh with her indelicate signature, just the sight of it threatened to harden what slept between his thighs, the fading ache a dull reminder bringing far more pleasure than pain. If he’d been able to steal perhaps a little more time before his engagement he’d have located her, the insatiable desire seemed to plague him far more often than not as of late. Perhaps it was the lack of other activities, after all it would be uncouth to slink into another man’s dungeon. “Lord Swann what happ—“ Before he could complete his sentence the lad seemed to retract the sound falling from his tongue, willing it to disappear as he’d clear the air with a cough. “You should leave now Victor — remember what you’re to do for me.” Without once looking upon the man, the dark clothed Lord would amend the buttoning of his cuff before stepping towards the door, “Keep watch of Thyella..” As the response chased the echo of his heel he’d find his mouth twisting in satisfaction, “Yes. She’ll know of course. But do it nonetheless.” With the foreign edge of his tone enveloped in the gruff undertow of his voice he’d twist his head to alleviate the stress of his neck with a dull unsettling crack before making his exit.

Despite the short distance to the courtroom an unsettling amount of nauseating acknowledgements were forced from his person. Some he knew, others knew him, or perhaps of him, or a persona of him. The Lord was never quite certain. Dabbling in trade had brought an abundance of new acquaintance to his house — some of which he bent his neck towards in silent greeting, others he embraced with an unwilling touch or hesitant pat. Others he’d offer a quiet smile, the kind which mimicked all the warmth of something real but held no light, a well sculpted facade with nothing of substance within. In time he found himself approaching his seat, the blinding gold of his stare rolling from face to face, the dark-lemon shade searching for nothing in-particular before settling with indifference upon the stand, retreating instead to the fond recollection of his earlier dream.

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PETYR BAELISH
 Posted: May 21 2018, 12:20 AM
Quote
Nica is Offline
35 years old
VALE
Arryn
Baelish
King's Landing
Lord


Years of work culminated today. Threads twined together over time and distance, small pebbles that led to a landslide, the last snowflake to trigger an avalanche. Winter is no longer coming, the slight man acknowledged as he shifted a sage-green gaze from his mirror where he adjusted his collar to the window that revealed a world all of grays and whites, where a few fat snowflakes lazily twirled outside, it's already here.. With a slight purse of already-thin lips, the Master of Coin returned his empty gaze to his own reflection, whereupon he pinned a small, delicate pin depicting a mockingbird just above his breast and just below his shoulder; the silver just tarnished enough to not glint garishly. Wetting a hand in his washbasin, he ran narrow fingers through his prematurely graying thatch, smoothing the strands down; the tarnished silver atop his head matching that of his mockingbird.

It was strange. There was a near-elation deep within Petyr's chest, a lightness there that he was unused to. Indeed, he was unused to most feelings; he'd sliced away any semblance of humanity with the precision of a Maester's scalpel long before. Well, that is, unused to most feelings aside from rage. Jealousy. Love. All warmed his chest with the muted intensity of banked coals; forgotten about until a breath of air sparked their light. But today was not the moment for such emotion; instead, what crawled through his lungs as he inhaled each breath was something more akin to triumph. He was getting away with it. The slight man had done unspeakable things to get himself to where he now stood. Men had died; women too. Found floating in the Blackwater, tumbling down steep stone stairs, hearts stopped by sweet poisons, mouths left open in wordless screams.

But all of that was simply a means to an end. Petyr drew no satisfaction from the dead, far preferring to wash his own hands clean of the act. His ambition, his drive to better his prospects, to improve his situation, was, if not a smokescreen, just another means to an end. The simplest way to dismantle a system was from within; as a spanner in the works. And Petyr was nearing the heart of the machine; his fingers rested upon its pulse as if they measured the beats of a great beast's heart. Today's theatrics were simply another elaborate way of tying up loose ends. Tyrion Lannister was a man who could raise uncomfortable questions regarding his late father and regarding Petyr's own meteoric rise into prominence. There was no need to keep a man such as him alive. It was convenient, then, that Petyr had been selected as a judge in his trial. Such coincidences were commonplace for the man; for an uninformed observer, one would simply view the man's life as a series of happy accidents. But, of course, there was no such thing as a coincidence if it occurred in the presence of Petyr Baelish. Everything was carefully scripted, strings pulled in just the right manner as to leave the resulting embroidery of events flawless to an outside observer.

Sage-green eyes blinked once again in the mirror as Petyr drew himself back into the present; noting the hollows that lay just below the empty gaze that spoke of years of little sleep, the blood-red veins that latticed the whites speaking of too long bent over writings in low light. The lines that were just beginning to become permanent at the corners where once was smooth skin. Petyr was getting no younger, and he (and perhaps only he) recalled when that gaze contained a youthful mischief, and the lines were carved of laughter. Now, the face told a different story. With determination, Littlefinger turned on a heel from the looking glass and strode from his chambers, locking the heavy door behind him as if it would stop any able thief or spy worth their salt. At first, the halls of the keep appeared empty, but progressively they grew thicker with people, until the crowds approaching the Throne Room were nigh unbearable. Petyr slipped through the throngs of dignitaries, gossips, and the bloodthirsty public with the ease of a practiced pickpocket; sliding through bodies like a fish jumping upstream. "Lord Petyr Baelish," a crier announced as Petyr entered the Throne Room at last. His neck and back were straight as he strode across the hall, but his eyes scanned the crowd like a bird of prey searching for its next kill. He found his seat and sank into the uncomfortable chair, leaving his left foot upon the floor and resting his right ankle behind his left, leaving his heel clear of the ground. His mask was impassive, but there was a slight quirk of amusement upon his thin lips as he examined the gathered crowd. There was something to be said for bloodsport and mummers' shows.
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ROBB STARK
 Posted: May 26 2018, 06:33 AM
Quote
oswin is Offline
19 years old
NORTH [A]
house stark
stark
winterfell
noble


Frost lined the windows, distorting the small dots of people scurrying away from the weather. While the chill that lined the atmosphere was nothing compared to the artic air of home, Southerners still scampered as though it were the Others on their heels. Vargo laid silently by the flames of his rooms hearth, Adara close by nudging him with her nose. The red eyed wolf eyed her patiently, only sighing as his monolith sister crawled towards him and dug further into his side. The brush of air that rushed past Robb’s own teeth with a tired note was a reminder to talk with his cousin about controlling her wolf, his rooms feeling increasingly cramped and now he was unable to escape the smell of wet dog, no matter how many windows he opened.

The halls were flooded, leaking from its very pores with strangers who inserted themselves into the trial of a noble that they did not know but for the tales that had been whispered on the wind or drafted from their own minds eyes was enough to make him exhausted, and he had yet to step foot in the confines of the swarmed halls. The heels of his boots silent against opulent pollution of noise, curls that had grown much too unruly from their long trek here fell in spirals about the crown of his skull. Tasseled from too many thoughtless hands through it, and heavy enough to curl in on the other one the restless motion had played its course. Preemptively sighing as the towering Northman approached the dais, an announcement bayed across the chattering crowd. “Robb Stark.” No titles followed his name, much to his amusement - although his cool grey eyes revealing nought as he took his place beside the princess Arianne.

The crimes of Tyrion Lannister had been read to him, though it was not the first time, and read with obvious bias that hardly did the Lannister Lord credit. Robb had kept his silence, as he believed he would throughout this entire ordeal. This was none of his business, and old gods be good they had bigger problems to worry over than this. No wonder his grandfather had reacted as he did to the letter. And while he did not wish to be here, there was nought he could do not but listen and observe. The judges that surrounded him all had their reasons for being chosen, and while he was not the intended, it was he who filled the seat deemed for the Warden of the North. And while the motives of some judges remained unknown, what did linger was the consequences of their thoughts and preconceived notions.

The lengths of his legs were cramped in the confined space, finding that they pressed against the wooden backrest and bit into his knees. Drawing a hand across the shadow of hair that was beginning to trace his jawline with an unseen sigh. The excitement that flitted about the confined space was almost palpable, never had he seen a people so thirsty to drink in the sight of another’s crimes and to watch a spectacle as grand as this unfold. Then again, he had not seen a lot past the North so he could hardly describe this from an experienced eye. Sparing the other judges a glance, few he had met in passing, others were merely names on a parchment that had been handed to him. In the coming trial they would become more than just that, names to be associated with faces. And Robb was not entirely sure how thrilled he was at the prospect, perhaps he wanted this trial done more than the Lannisters did.
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CERSEI BARATHEON
 Posted: May 26 2018, 08:01 PM
Quote
Ash is Offline
37 years old
STORMLANDS
House Baratheon
House Lannister
Storm's End
Lady


'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.'

The monster who had killed her mother was never supposed to live. Days turned into weeks, weeks to months. She’s sulked throughout his entire first birthday - there had been no celebration. Instead she’d worn black for an entire week, mourning the first anniversary of her mother’s death. Why had her murderer continued to survive? It wasn’t until the little beast turned five that she’d finally been able to escape him, leaving Casterly Rock for the court in King’s Landing. Jaime had already been away squiring for Lord Crakehall for nearly a year by that point, and in his absence she’d been all the more cruel to their little brother. Tormenting the small child endlessly without Jaime there to stop her.

Thirty years had passed now, and yet Tyrion still lived. Not much longer, she told herself, a small, victorious smile curling the corner of her mouth. A lady in waiting finished lacing up her red and white brocade gown and moved to start on her hair, but Cersei waved her away. The ridiculous updos fashionable in the capital were not worth exposing the nape of her neck to the winter chill. Besides, Jaime had always preferred it lose, and his eyes would be on her today, along with all the others who had gathered in King’s Landing for the trial. Moreover, she hadn’t the patience to sit while her ladies fumbled over her long golden locks today, far too eager to get to the throne room where the trial was to be held. As if that would make the trial go any faster. This would likely take days, for the other judges needed time to make up their minds regarding her brother’s guilt.

But Cersei’s mind was set, as it always had been.

Whatever hint of pleasure she felt at the imp’s impending doom was instantly wiped from her face as Cersei exited her chambers. Whispers followed her in the corridors, people from every kingdom gathered for the trial, despite the fact that most would never actually be allowed entrance to the throne room. More likely they were excited for the execution that was sure to follow - ever the source of entertainment for the mindless masses. She waited for neither her husband nor her tender-hearted children, wishing to be neither held up nor made privy to any additional pleas that she have mercy on their uncle. At least if she had taken her place with the other judges before they arrived there would be no opportunity today for them to do so.

Arriving immediately following her youngest brother, Cersei met Tycen’s gaze as she was announced. His expression was as impassive as her own, yet the lioness knew well enough what thoughts lay hidden beneath. They had conversed once since her arrival in King’s Landing, a meeting in which she had struggled to remain even-tempered. This man who shared her blood was responsible for sending her daughter to savages, though he knew not the strength of her connection to Myrcella. But her frustration with Tycen did not surpass her desire to see Tyrion dead at last. Thus, any discussions of Myrcella’s fate would have to wait. In this moment Tycen was her ally - her strongest ally - and thus he would be spared from her wrath for at least a little while longer, until she had time enough to discern how best to make her displeasure known without exposing the truth of Myrcella’s birth.

Taking her seat in the very center of those assigned for the judges, Cersei watched and waited for the remaining judges to enter, her stony gaze making it impossible to see the malicious thoughts within. Impatient, she clasped her hands in her lap, knuckles turning near white from her grip. It seemed as if they were taking forever to begin, and all she desired was for this to be over, Tyrion’s head on a pike. Finally the remaining judges had arrived, Martell, Swann, Baelish, Stark each announced in turn. Any second they would be dragging the imp through the doors of the throne room, finally beginning the trial that was to seal his fate at long last.


Whoops, I'm late but I made note that Cersei was not. Also here's her GOWN.
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TYRION LANNISTER
 Posted: Jun 16 2018, 10:36 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
30 years old
WESTERLANDS
Lannister
Lannister
Casterly Rock
The Imp


The chains weren't so heavy.

Perhaps it was that Tyrion had grown accustomed to their weight; the heft of iron fetters about his wrists and his ankles becoming so familiar as to be almost comforting, like a child's favorite blanket. He'd come to Tyrosh in chains; paraded before the Archon like a creature from a fantastical menagerie. Perhaps it was merely fitting that they'd do the same to him here, in King's Landing. The iron rattle was his personal herald; making his presence known long before he could be seen. It might have been a figment of the Imp's imagination, but the path from the Black Cells to the Throne Room seemed longer than he remembered. Maybe it was the weight of the day's import that pressed upon him, making his every step heavy, lengthening each corridor, extending each staircase. The world seemed composed of tunnels; darkness rimmed his vision, there was a rushing in his ears, and he stared forward with a singular purpose. The Spider's words crept into his mind, echoing there, 'One shadow may look just the same as another, but the source is altogether different.' Cryptic words for a man close to his crypt.

Tyrion knew not what the man meant, but his suspicions bubbled over like a pot of water left unattended. However, his hands were, quite literally, tied. Perhaps that was the worst of it; a mind held captive more so than a body. Tyrion's body had betrayed him from the moment of his birth; he'd never cared for it, but his mind was a work of careful machinery. More than any other indignity, it chafed the Halfman to be kept from devising his own defense, to rely upon a spymaster of questionable loyalty. To rely upon the dubious assistance of others, and the vacillating loyalties of King's Landing. It wasn't wild fancy that caught Tyrion when he mused upon leaving his fate to the Gods above; a trial by combat. No. It was pure practicality. He knew that fate's chance, like a coin flip, was much more in his favor than the mercy of the Judges; it was as simple as weighing the odds between flipping a coin and a loaded die. But the Spider's words stilled Tyrion, calmed the rushing waters of his heart to a still pool, undisturbed save a few ripples.

It was that still pool that Tyrion kept to mind as he strode forward with all the dignity he could muster. They'd allowed him proper garments for his day in court; black embellished with threads of red and gold. His head, crowned with flaxen curls, was held high, and odd-colored eyes stared forward. He paid no heed to the jeers and hisses of the crowd. It was beneath his dignity to give them the satisfaction of getting beneath his skin. He was a Lannister, god damn it, and it would do them no good to forget that fact. Soon enough, he passed through the doors of the Throne Room, and a hush fell upon the crowd as he strode forward. For what seemed like a small eternity, his gaoler locked his manacles to the stand in the center of the court, the rattling of the chains the only noise in the uncannily still room. His task complete, the gaoler backed away as the Court crier began to speak.

"Here stands Tyrion Lannister! He is accused of the crimes of high treason, murder, kinslaying, attempted murder, assault, sedition, espionage, theft, and vagrancy!"

The dwarf kept a stony expression throughout the list, until the very end, when his lips barely cracked in ghastly amusement. Vagrancy? That was just petty. His face growing stoic once more, Tyrion glanced around the room, making eye contact with each judge, not paying his own kin any more mind than the rest of the room. Nothing infuriated Cersei more than being ignored, being treated like one of the rest. What little satisfaction there was to be derived from that fact, Tyrion savored. It was unlikely that the feeling would last.

Still. The air did not taste of death.

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RHAEGAR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Jul 2 2018, 11:16 AM
Quote
Shelbs is Offline
43 years old
CROWNLANDS [A]
THE IRON THRONE
house targaryen
KING'S LANDING
KING


One by one, one after the other, the noblemen and women appointed to head this trial strode into the throne room. With silent interest he watched their arrivals, listening to the herald’s voice echo across the stained windows any time the oaken doors opened, revealing one of the seven arbiters. His Hand was seated first, of course, having journeyed with the royal entourage himself, and for that Rhaegar remained wholly thankful. Not for the first time he questioned where he or his reign would be, had he not Jon Connington by his side over the many years. His fingers still looped within his Queen’s, his purple gaze watched the entrances of Tycen and Cersei Lannister, even himself feeling the change of airs in the throne room upon their gilded arrival. Some may have questioned or even doubted his choice to place them as examiners over their brother’s trial, but the King remained confident in his decision, convinced there was no other alternative. Tyrion deserved to face those he had affronted most, while his Lords Connington, Baelish, Swann, Stark... Even the Princess Arianne had little personal motive to see the dwarf hang. He’d vowed to see a fair trial formed, and as he sat there upon his elevated dais, he felt at least mildly accomplished with what he saw. He wondered if the court artist already sketching away in the corner felt the same.

Robb’s announcement, as minimal as it was, offered some modicum of relief to the stoic king who sat beneath the Iron Throne. Though the boy was hardly his grandfather, and certainly not the Warden originally summoned, he could trust the lad would exercise the same cool, steady judgement befit his wintry blood, matching against those acrimonious fires of some of his legal counterparts. Studying the panel and all those presiding, the King could feel a familiar ache in his spine, one he was thankful would not be exacerbated by the usual seat of his jagged throne. Still, its looming shadow remained ever present, as did the many dragon skulls that lined the room, some of their maws gaping wide and others sealed shut for eternity. Like the unmoving bones themselves, he hardly flexed a single muscle as he sat there beside his foreign consort, the hair beneath her circlet a fresh, rosy pink that oddly reminded him of the spring fields surrounding Highgarden. It was a warm thought in such cold and uncertain times. “We may be here for quite some while,” he spoke softly, somewhat of a caution to Lorainna beside him. Though they as royal sovereigns would play no legal role in Tyrion’s trial, still, they would need to remain present through every moment and detail, no matter the weary. “I am glad you are at my side.”

It was the last thing he could share with her before the doors opened once more, the court herald announcing the appearance of the very accused himself. Even Rhaegar found some slight amusement in the sight of him in iron shackles; a dwarfed, physically harmless criminal chained like a wild beast. Alas, they all knew otherwise. While Tyrion Lannister may not be able to pose much of a threat with freed hands and legs, it hardly made him any less dangerous. Watching him journey down the long carpeted aisle of the throne room, the King was almost loathe to think that this, this small little man, could be the cause of such widespread chaos throughout his realm. His mind raced. Tywin, Valarr, Elyse, Ashara… Aegon. Lorainna. Tyrosh. The bloody Stepstones. Gritting his jaw, Rhaegar’s deep indigo eyes did not leave him as he neared the wooden podium, having yet to look upon him since the tourney at Lannisport all those years ago. When he raised a glass for my son’s union to his own sister. A foul part of him wondered what could be worse: Tyrion’s intention to murder Alea, his own blood, or a royal prince of the realm? If he could kill Tywin, what would stop his stout hand from turning to another family member, much less a royal one? As the Imp’s list of charges were called out to the court, Rhaegar supposed the executioner’s blade was all the same, in the end. It would be the Seven’s duty to see how horribly he burned for his many crimes.

In one smooth, seamless and wordless motion, the King stood from his decorated chair upon the dais. A wave of silence befell the onlookers, seated upon the stands erected for them, their eyes drawn to their silver sovereign at the head of the throne room. He ached to address the dwarf directly, to look him into his mismatched stare and confront whatever darkness lurked inside of him, to diminish the twisted blackness with the bright flame of Targaryen fire. Yet he could not. Would not. Instead he paid the pinched Lannister face a passing glance, before motioning a strong arm to the seven judges positioned beneath him. “My lords,” he intoned, iron voice carrying easily across the room, folding against the far doors only to echo back once more. “My ladies.” He nodded towards those elected to deem Tyrion’s fate. “You have all been called upon to at last deliver us the much needed justice our realm has been deprived of,” another brief glance to the dwarf, accompanied by a few agreeable murmurs from the many onlookers, “we trust that you will fulfill this charge with an open hand of fairness,” he paused for a split moment, “as well as an iron fist of truth, as the law will permit. My Lord Hand,” Rhaegar motioned a familiar gesture for Lord Jon to continue in the King’s stead, “the panel is yours. And Tyrion Lannister,” at last he addressed the Halfman directly, solid purple eyes landing upon him with a silent though no less weighted force. “May the gods have mercy upon you.”
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