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Alistair Lannister

"By what right does the wolf judge the lion?"

0 · 1,630 views · located in Tibera

a character in “The Price of Blood”, as played by Bromander Shepard

Description

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"There are no men like me, only me."




The Basics




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Full Name: Alistair Lannister
Nicknames: Occasionally he is referred to as 'The Lion of Casterly Rock' in his kingdom, he is called 'Oath Breaker' outside of it and sometimes even within his borders
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Rank/Title: King of Seabel
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Kingdom/Alliance: Seabel




What's on the Outside




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Hair Color:
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 195 lbs
Tattoos: None
Piercings: None
Scars: Alistair has a few small scars but none that are particularly noticeable or significant in size
Description: Alistair stands just a bit taller than average with a well muscled, warriors build and striking good looks. To say he is handsome would be an understatement. Blonde hair, deep blue eyes, a strong jaw and a charming smile Alistair Lannister is the man most little girls growing up dream of when they imagine a knight riding on a white horse in shining armor come to save them from their dreary lives. His is of one of the richest families in the world and as a result his attire usually represents that. His armor is masterfully crafted of the finest materiel, often bearing depictions of lions on it, the sigil of House Lannister. When out of his armor he only wears the finest most supple leathers and smoothest linens. Those that adore him see his appearance and can only marvel at the Lion of Casterly Rock. Those that don't see only a spoiled knight, turned lord and finally king when his wife had the strength to separate from the rest of Falor.




What's on the Inside




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Personality:
{Arrogant, Ruthless, Fearless, Honorable}
Alistair Lannister is a man whose character faults are well known and few see him in a good light. Rich, entitled and cocky are all things people use to describe him yet few are bold enough to do so in his face. Alistair carries himself with a careless abandon as if he care so little what everyone around him thinks. Consumed with low boiling anger and a bitterness that threatens to engulf him as fire engulfs a funeral pyre. Every time he looks at his wife that calm, casual confidence fades somewhat and is replaced by resentment and anger yet few can read those emotions like his wife. Only his wifes lady in waiting knows a bit of the pains he endures for in her he confides. She is among the only beyond his wife and his brother that know that his coldness is a winter brought on by loss, his anger sparked by frustration and betrayal. To the outside world 'The Lion of Casterly Rock' is a dangerous, bitter man whose quick acidic wit is only rivaled by his skill with a blade. In secret he is hurt and suffering for the loss of the only light his life had ever truly had. Beyond his pains and darkness there is a surprisingly noble side to Alistair that people don't expect and one he doesn't go out of his way to showcase. One of the only people who ever do get to see this side of Alistair is his daughter to whom he is a loving and doting father.
Hobbies:
Sword play, Hunting, drinking
Habits:
Sarcasm, telling gruesome stories form the battlefield for shock value
Oddities:
Allergy to cats
Likes/Loves:(At least 5)(repeat format if more)
  • His wife
  • His daughter
  • His wife's lady in waiting
  • fighting
  • a good death
  • soldiers stories
  • pragmatism
Dislikes/Hates:(At least 5)(repeat format if more)
  • His wife
  • illness
  • being king
  • the noble house of Falor that first dubbed him Oath Breaker
  • piety/religion




What's Done Is Done




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Biography
Place Of Origin: Casterly Rock, Falor
History:
To the people of the Three Kingdoms Alistair Lannister is an arrogant, entitled man who is known for two things. Being the eldest son of one of if not the richest family in the world and being one of the greatest swordsmen alive. These two qualities have created a man who is arrogant, surely but not wrongly so. Any problem he faced his fathers money could get him out of, those that it couldn't he had his sword and in truth Alistair always preferred those that gave him a reason to draw his steel. With a sword in his hand he is a master painter, a painter who only uses red. He loves swordplay, its the one thing he has that wasn't given to him. He is an unfathomably deadly swordsman because he worked at it. Every day as a boy growing up in Casterly Rock from sun up to sun down he trained with the longsword. So good in fact that he earned his knighthood at 15 years of age during his first battle.

As a knight of the realm he earned more honor for his house and name, winning tourney after tourney, snatching glory abound in every battle he fought in for the crown. Songs were sung of the infamous Alistair Lannitser, who fought with the strength and ferocity of the very lion his family flew on their banners. Soon people took to calling him The Lion of Casterly Rock. Now, his family needed little to elevate their status being among the richest houses in all the kingdoms and controlling the famous Lannis Port from their seat of Casterly Rock as well as the gold rich westerlands but Alistairs exploits were welcomed as it was expected of him to do great things and he did great things on and off the battle field. When it came time to talk about wedding him his father Tywin began taking him to court. Alistair hated the trips to the capitol but his father insisted. The women Alistair took to bed would not do for the future Lord of Casterly Rock so his father was intent on finding him a proper marriage that would prove beneficial to the family and it's holdings.

He had his fair share of maidens and had taken many a maidenhood yet it appeared that his only love was combat, until he met her. A proposed marriage by his father, Alistair was betrothed to FC: Katie McGrath the eldest child of the king and only princess in the realm. Alistair had never seen a more beautiful woman. He became enamored with her, intrigued and quickly fell passionately in love. The two shared every waking moment together, theirs was the love people wrote stories about. It seemed like the their happiness would be eternal. That was until the king died. FC: Katie McGrath wanted the throne so he rode out to get it for her. Betraying his king, country and all he'd fought for until that point he was branded as a traitor and an Oath Breaker but didn't care if it meant getting his love the throne she desired. She gained a throne, he lost a wife. He'll never forget as they walked him inot the thone room to be crowned to find his wife already seated on the throne, corwn firmly placed on her head. They placed a crown on his head and a white cloak around his shoulders, never had he felt such disgust. He reviles that crown, that cloak and all it represents in him and her. He no longer recognized her as he once had. The new title changed her in his eyes and she was no longer his great love but the queen of seabel and a woman he hated. The changes effected him as well, he grew bitter and resentful. He took heavily to drinking, whoring and now spends days away from the keep with his friends, brother or merely out hunting. In truth he is a king now but the title is bitter for him to swallow when he knows the whole of the kingdom truly only sees his wife as the ruler and he as merely her husband. There was a time he would have been happy being only her husband, not a lord or a knight but the one who held her heart. Now he feels he is a joke, a lion ruled by a lioness.
Happiest Memory: The day he met his future wife
Saddest Memory: The day she became queen




Nikolaj Coster-Waldau:

So begins...

Alistair Lannister's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Celia Ulfricdottir Character Portrait: Ulfric Bjornson Character Portrait: Corianna Ulfricdottir Character Portrait: Ronan Ulfricson Character Portrait: Alistair Lannister Character Portrait: Genevieve Hansdottir
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Ulfric looked up slowly from the goblet of ale he was nursing. He couldn't remember how many this made, but it didn't matter now. Either way, he knew how to hold his alcohol. These parties tended to upset him, sending him into what could be called a temporary depression. These days, however, this depression tended to drag out. He thought back to his conversation with Alistair. All of these fake kings. Fake nobles. They failed to understand what true leadership took. With experience in combat, how is one supposed to know how to truly lead others? They simply don't.

No, he had never been a benevolent leader, but that's not what Ostwall had needed. Ostwall needed a figure to hold together various clans of nearly-wild men. In that respect, hopefully, he would be viewed as a success.

Thinking of Alistair caused him to wonder where the King of Seabel had gotten to. Years at these gatherings had told him that Alistair would simply be lurking about on the sides, without a want to dance. Ulfric had assumed the younger monarch would have joined him by now, having made him a guest at his own table, but he was nowhere to be seen until he looked toward the throng of dancers again. A sense of betrayal struck him then. Alistair had claimed to be one of Ulfric's "kind", the warriors who had been made into kings. But he danced with an elegance that Ulfric had never known.

At the same time, however, he could remember dancing with Freya back when she had lived. He could remember the smiles and exchanged laughs as he trampled over her feet. Perhaps Alistair was still a warrior. Perhaps he still had some fight left in him. Ulfric certainly hoped so. This realm could not survive on just one warrior monarch.

Another coupled caught his eye this time: Ronan and Genevieve. Whereas she had not so much as smiled when she danced with Ulfric, Genevieve now beamed up at Ronan in a way quite similar to how Freya had beamed up at Ulfric. His jaw tightened. No. He clasped his hands together before him and pressed his lips against the knuckles. It couldn't be. But it only made sense. It explained the long periods of time they had spent in the gardens, the nights she had left him to wander about. But he was not angry at her. He couldn't be when he failed to provide for her what she deserved: a husband her age. No, it was Ronan's fault.

But Celia joined them then, and he was torn from his thoughts as he listened to his daughters talk amongst themselves. Celia's wisdom was something that, even almost twenty years after her birth, continued to shock him. It was something he had never possessed, had never been able to possess, and it gave him hope. Again, he wished he could name her his successor, for Ronan certainly did not possess her skill.

"Aye," he said softly, entering their conversation without being asked to. "But at these gatherings, people often replace those masks they wear everyday with ones that are more truthful."
He was surprised at this remark, but perhaps it did contain some truth, for people often believed the presence of a physical mask provided them protection from their actions, however despicable they were.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Alistair Lannister Character Portrait: Lorelle de Croismare
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The night was indenieably busy for Lorelle and her trainees. She was in the kitchen nearly shouting out for people to attend to there stations, "Madame Gillan, come, serve these here cocktails to the guests. Siward, I need more wine. Angus, is thou mad? Fly thee! Shoo, they're waiting for our attendance." With one small brush at her white apron and adjusting the cap that sat upon her head, she grabbed for the wine platter, then stepped out into the grand hall where music came blaring in sharp chords that brought her heart thumping wildly. The other servants came to join her, all platters and smiles as they came to accompany their guests. Lorelle smiled to herself. Everything was working smoothly. The guests were enjoying themselves, the servants made sure that there platters were empty, and Lorelle was staring before them making note to the guests satisfaction. Her eyes scanned through bodies swaying in unison until her eyes landed onto a man who grabbed the shirt of one of the servants and lifted him at least three feet in the air- ready to pounce on him. She rushed over, and from what she could see the servant had spilled red wine on the man's suit."Oh, my," she gasped. "Come, let me get that cleaned up." she urged for the man to let go of her trainee, but he just shrugged her off.

"I'm not going any where until this here peasant learns his lesson." He spat out as he brough his fist midst the air, preparing to hurt the young boy. What she was about to witness made her stomach lurch, almost brought her to her knees. The boy couldn't at least have been thirteen years of age, and seeing him about to become beaten by a man twice that age was provoking. "Stop, I say!" Lorelle yelled. Everyone within a three-standing radius turned to look at her, even the man. She continued, "I am sure that this young boy didn't mean to do it. He is just a child, and we all know children are quite the clumsy ones."

The man seemed to ponder at that; gazing back and forth to Lorelle and the young boy nearly petrified in his grip. "I suppose," he released his grip, and the young boy hurried over behind Lorelle gown. "But keep that...thing away from me. Understood?"

"His name is Seyton."

The man only huffed, then stalked away. Lorelle turned toward Seyton and ran her fingers through his hair. "You are done for today. Why not rest for the morrow?"

He nodded. "Thank you, Madame Croismare." At that, he handed her his plater and hurried away. Lorelle watched as he disappered into the crowd before she headed for the kitchen to return Seyton's platter until she seen King Alistair fummbling around for something as half the staff stared after him, frightened. "What in God's name-" A nearby cook cut her off.

"Oh, Madame Croismare tis' a surprise. I do know what has happened. The king just came barging in looking for wine I suppose. He looks rather upset."He whispered as his eyes lingered onto the King's body. And Lorelle knew that the cook was right. The King did seem a bit shaken, if not angry

"Alright, everyone back to you stations." she ordered, and no body failed to follow. Then, she moved quickly toward the King. She cleared her throat. "Is everything alright, my lord? Why aren't you with my Miss? Perhaps you'd like a French Bordeux?" she said, offering the drink.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Alistair Lannister Character Portrait: Lorelle de Croismare
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The lion was hungry. He stalked the kitchens, his jaws ready for the meal to come, his icy blue eyes spotting his quarry. The gazelle and the zebra and the warthogs all scurried out of his path, wisely choosing not to risk catching his gaze. The lion sniffed the air and found his watering hole. Bottles upon bottles of Arbor reds, Dornish golds, imported Northern Mead and everything in between. The lion thirsted something fierce for the meeting with his lioness had left an uncomfortable feeling in the heart of the great king of beasts. The great lion sniffed the air and smelled the sweet scent of a nomadic female, looking to gain entry into his pride.

"Is everything alright, my lord?"

Lorelle spoke, her voice soft as silk and twice as comforting. Alistair turned, his eyes hungry as ever as he wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her close.

"I'm not your damned lord."

He said, his voice a husky whisper heavy with desire. He almost kissed her right then and there. He wanted her, he burned for the warmth of her touch and the peace of her unaccusing eyes. She only ever looked at him with affection. Never fear or distrust or hate but love always and for that Lorelle Persephone de Croismare was the only respite he had in his world so dark and full of terrors. He nearly pressed his lips to hers, in full view of the rest of the staff when she spoke again, her hand on his chest halting him.

"Why aren't you with my Miss? Perhaps you'd like a French Bordeux?"

Word of the wine was lost in her mention of his wife. Alistair pushed himself away from her with a snarl, anger sparking in his heart and his mind. He stepped away from her and clenched his jaw, his eyes seeing Rosalie in the gold of the Dornish wine before him.

"Your lady..."

He growled as he picked up the wine and looked into the golden liquid before he hurled the bottled, shattering it against the wall. One of the nearby kitchen servants gasped in shock and Alistair wheeled on the lot of them.

"Get out or I'll take all your heads and replace you within the hour."

He snarled viciously. The kitchen was empty within seconds leaving Lorelle and Alistair alone. He turned back and found her watching him. She didn't fear him like the others, she knew him better than that. Despite his reputation, despite the beast he was supposed to be she knew he'd never hurt her or any other woman for that matter. Alistair had never so much as struck a woman before let alone take their heads as he would threaten. Yet she stared at him all the same, knowing how his emotions ruled him and made him act out.

"What? Don't look at me like that."

He asked, somewhat apologetically as he went back to grab some red wine from the cupboard and filled himself a goblet.

"I'm tired Lorelle. I'm so very tired."

He began before he took a long, much needed drink.

"Tired of the throne. Tired of that crown, all those damned courtiers, the false friends, the liars, thieves, whores, all of it. It's funny almost. The way we all look down at the denizens of poorer districts and see them as so far beneath us. We nobility are supposed to be better but here we are. Cheating and scheming and lying and fighting and fucking just like all the rest of them. The only difference between us and the common people is our names and the power we think they hold."

Alistair downed his drink and poured himself another before turning to look at Lorelle in the firelight of the kitchens hearth. She was beautiful and alluring. Her hair had the kiss of red in her copper curls, worn long around her face the way he liked it. Rosalie so often wore her hair up and he hated that. Lorelle liked it down and Alistair loved running his fingers through her long copper locks as he stole a kiss. Her skin, smooth and pristine as porcelain and her eyes blue and green. She would make a fine Lannister Alistair often thought during their private time together. Alistair approached her slowly, his eyes softened but just as passionate as ever.

"Let's leave this place Lorelle. You and me, tonight. Damn them all. Let them have their game of thrones, we can leave the board and let them all rot together."

He asked, despite the ridiculousness of his words he meant it. His head giving way to his heart for once he just wanted to get away and find love with this woman who understood him so. He pulled her in and eyed her lips, hungry for a kiss and for her answer.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Alistair Lannister Character Portrait: Lorelle de Croismare
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"Your lady..."
Lorelle overheard a grisly snarling sound that seemed to be coming deep in Alistair's chest. He snatched up the wine glass with one hand, balanced it in that hand for a moment, and threw it with blinding speed, shattering it against the wall, which collided and shattered into tiny bits of crystal.

And he was in front of her again, standing two feet away, still as a stone. He waited, but she still couldn't speak. She stood without moving, amused at his beastly temptation to scare off others. However, she'd never seen him so competely freed of that carefully cultivated facade. He'd never been less human...or more beautiful. Face stern, eyes wide, she stood like a bird locked in the eyes of a snake.

His lovely eyes seemed to glow with rash excitement. Then, as the seconds passed, they dimmed. His expression slowly folded into a mask of sadness. "What? Don't look at me like that." She watched his jaw set as he said that, and his eyes darted to her face and away so quickly that she wasn't sure if she only imagined it. Then, as if nothing had happened, he began moving around the kitchen with deliberately unhurried movements; opening and closing cupboards as he went until he found a goblet and poured himself red wine. "I'm tired Lorelle," he said formally, his back turned toward her. "I'm so very tired."

He waited, but she still couldn't speak. So, he continued. "Tired of the throne. Tired of that crown, all those damned courtiers, the false friends, the liars, thieves, whores, all of it. It's funny almost. The way we all look down at the denizens of poorer districts and see them as so far beneath us. We nobility are supposed to be better but here we are. Cheating and scheming and lying and fighting and fucking just like all the rest of them. The only difference between us and the common people is our names and the power we think they hold." He looked back at her and smiled, but his face was ashamed. At that, they stood silently, looking into each other's eyes-trying to read each other's thoughts.

He broke the silence first.

"Let's leave this place Lorelle. You and me, tonight. Damn them all. Let them have their game of thrones, we can leave the board and let them all rot together." he urged on with ever word, he took a step closer, his eyes never left her lips, until he stood in front of her, their noses partically touching. He reached a hand out, and brushed at her cheek; the other pulling her close against his chest with every staggering breath. He lifted her eyes; his expression was wistfu, pleading.

She thought for a moment, unsure what to think. She opened her mouth to say something and shut it almost instantly. Did he mean for the two of us to run away-together? And leave the country and, and... "And what about..?" She asked to break the silence.

They both knew who she was referring to, and it was wrong to even question it. She looked away, he waited, but she wasn't going to finish.


Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Celia Ulfricdottir Character Portrait: Corianna Ulfricdottir Character Portrait: Loras Edwards Character Portrait: Rosalie Lannister Character Portrait: Ronan Ulfricson Character Portrait: Priscilla Augusta Edwards
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The King's hand brushed lightly against the scar that still graced his left cheek -- a bitter-sweet reminder of how he had come to stand here beside Genevieve. His coronation, given the lack of spiritual leaders in the widely-diverse Ostwall, was headed by one of the eldest chieftains within the kingdom's borders, a man of a staggering seventy-seven years. Ronan's hair and beard had grown out to appear more like his people, from whom he required approval. The thick fur of a bear, draped about his shoulders, only helped further that image and reflect the symbol of his father. The pelts seemed to weigh him down greatly. They most certainly were the reason beads of sweat had begun to form on his brow. Or perhaps they came from the worry that, somehow, they'd trace the murder back to him.

The death of Ostwall's monarch had brought the festivities to a screeching halt. Ulfric's burial had been a ceremonious one, and the kingdom had grieved for months, meaning the current coronation had been unable to occur until now, two months later. In the mean time, Ronan suddenly found himself in the shoes of a man he had only, until then, dreamed of becoming. He played the part well, and Genevieve had as well. It was only when they were behind closed doors that she lost her air of nearly-constant mourning. Even then, he had not permitted her to be joyful in public until far after he had announced his plans to wed her.

Ronan moved his hand to brush at his brow then, and as he looked up at the chieftain before him, he noticed Celia just a bit off, holding Volundr. His son. He could never acknowledge the boy as his own, for the kingdom believed he had been the child of Ulfric and Genevieve, but Ronan told himself that the young prince should rightfully bear the surname of Ronanson. It pained him that it should be otherwise.

The chieftain stumbled over his words, causing Ronan to look back at him. Ostwall, unlike the other two kingdoms, had never truly adopted the more traditional concept of coronation until Ronan had insisted upon modernizing the nation. The chieftain had little idea as to what he was doing, and the words on the page made little sense given the fact that he was just barely literate. His stammering ended soon, thankfully, and he moved on to the crowning of the royals. The crown that was placed upon his head was nothing more than a thick band of iron with ornate patterns carved into it. The real beauty and power laid in the heavy chain that was placed about his neck, further weighing him down.

It was a relic dating back to times before even Falor had been unified when the clans of the North would give the chain to the strongest chieftain in the land. Over time, the simple chain had been added to in terms of links and precious stones until it hung heavy enough that it was only used for ceremonies. This, of course, was one of them.

As Genevieve went through a similar ceremony, receiving a less burdensome crown and chain that he had had created, for up until this point, the consort of the king of Ostwall had no political say. Though he had most certainly received the approval of the others in his kingdom, he knew they hardly approved of this action. Nevertheless, he turned around to great his people, hand reaching for Genevieve's as he did so. The chieftain cleared his voice once more before speaking in his thickly accented voice.

"I present to you King Ronan Bjorn Ulfricson, first of his name, and his queen, Genevieve Hansdottir of Falor, first of her name."




The proceeding festivities were a welcome change for all in Ostwall, having been in a period of nearly perpetual mourning for two months. A mixture of traditional and foreign instruments played, inspiring many to leave the banquet table in order to dance. Ronan, a bit too drunk by then to gracefully find his footing, resolved to stay at the table where he held the one month old Volundr in his arms. The King brushed a finger along the boy's cheek, laughing as the young prince gripped it and inspected the calloused finger with fascination.

"It's wonderful, is it not?" he remarked, looking out on the crowd of nobles, local and foreign, who occupied the hall. "It's ours now." Ronan continued to look about, meeting the gaze of a few nobles who watched the pair closely, with judgement visible in their eyes even from at the royals' place at the table. He knew they spoke about him and Genevieve quite often. It was most certainly scandalous for anyone to marry their widowed stepmother, let alone just months after her husband's death, but there were no laws regarding marriage in Ostwall.

Propping the small child up in his lap, Ronan gripped his tankard of ale and sipped from it for a moment, positioning it afterwards so that it attempted to block out the gossiping nobles. It hardly helped, however, and he simply turned back to Genevieve with his arm once more around Volundr.