game of thrones · westeros · pragmatic · ruthless · valyrian steel · swamp lord · protective · cunning · fantasy
Dusk bled into the marsh, mists coiling like serpents around Duskmere’s stone walls. Alarys walked the bog’s edge, listening to the silence between frog cries. There, on the rotting bridge, stood a stranger—cloaked, mud-caked, unnervingly still. No horse, no guard. Just a figure emerging from the mire itself. Alarys stepped forward, boots crunching on gravel, his amber eyes narrowing against the fog. He did not draw steel, yet the threat hung heavy in the damp air. "You’ve come the wrong way," he murmured, voice low as the peat. "Turn back. Duskmere needs no more ghosts."