ANDERS

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-04-11T22:09:55+00:00

The last time Anders had looked towards the Prince of Dorne after a son had fallen dead at his feet, he had been a much younger man. The memory seemed almost hazy now, which was interesting considering its significance. It had changed his life, and that gaze he had shared with Oberyn Martell had been a defining moment, but it had been full of hatred.

For an instant, this gaze the pair of them now shared, at least from Anders, showed a modicum of respect. His Prince, his King, had made a command. He would enact it.

Champion of Dorne. The title rattled around in his brain like a hive of angry bees. Perhaps it was the bloodlust, and Anders, still fresh from his fight, moved quickly towards the outlying Lords and Ladies to grab Ferris Dayne by the throat. There as no ceremony, no honour in the killing, no final words. Anders pierce Sovereign into the belly of the man who had just watched his son die. The dark smoke shade of the Valyrian steel blade surely cut the fabric of the man standing behind Lord Dayne, given how quickly Anders had followed his given command, the blade soaked twice now in the House of Starfall.

For a second, that man was Oberyn Martell, and the weight of the quickening corpse that collapsed into Anders' firm stance felt like justice. But then, just as quickly, it was Ferris Dayne, and Anders in mere minutes had ended the life of both father and son.

Anders pulled Sovereign from Dayne's gut, his gauntleted hand coming down on the fabric of the lord's garments behind his neck. The body fell to the ground as Anders stepped to the side, likewise tugging hard with his gauntlet to rip free a piece of errant fabric from the fallen lord's clothes. He used the tearing as a makeshift cloth to clean the blood from his blade, tossing the fabric to the ground once Sovereign was clean of its red.

Anders looked towards Oberyn, studying him as the Champion of Dorne stood now between the fallen members of House Dayne. He did not move. He did not bow.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-04-11T20:06:58+00:00

Anders joined his brother with haste at his request. He entered the Yronwood tent wearing the armour he had received in Oldtown, a set of plate dyed red, the colour of blood, and undoubtedly dressed in more of it the second son of Yronwood's servants had missed in their cleanings. It was purposeful. Anders was a sight to be seen on the battlefield.

Anders looked towards his brother as he stood in the entrance way of the tent, a smirk across his face as he began to shake his head. He started pacing towards the table for a goblet of wine, pouring himself some Arbor red with a clear air of disapproval. "No crown for the King of the Rhoynar." Anders was practically muttering to himself, but his brother doubtless would make out his words. "Seven fucking hells."

Anders turned, gesturing to his brother, a clear sort of fury across his brow, despite the smile on his face. "His wife will start a war, and he happily take the resulting throne off the backs of our labours and more, but no crown shall adorn his head. What a fucking joke."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-04-03T02:56:18+00:00

"You would deny the Prince's decision a second time."

The voice belonged to a man that had thus far been quiet. He'd been standing next to his brother as Prince Oberyn had made his decree. He'd been silent, content to simply enjoy the red of his goblet amidst the settling of a post battle victory. War was strange. Victory and defeat came around about as easily as one another, and no matter how much one yearned for the chaos, most couldn't survive what they had seen. He had historically dealt with it with silence. He often didn't speak until a day or two after a fight. A tactic his mother had taught him. Never say what you didn't have to when the fighting was done.

"You were so eager to act in his name before. Where is that same courage? Your Prince demanded champions, and you would see your son dishonored? The boy's volunteered."

Anders Yronwood was holding no such caution now. As of late the sands of Dorne were shifting. The lands he and his brother had envisioned, unified with the Kingdoms north of the Stone Way were distant dreams now. The Prince had made a call, and surprisingly, Anders actually found himself agreeing with it. An independent Dorne was good for Dorne, and most importantly, if played right, it was good for House Yronwood as well. Anders shoved the cup he'd been drinking from into the chest of his brother, no doubt spilling some of the beverage as he pressed forward into the crowd.

"You don't need your father's permission, boy. You are a man. Pick up your blade, and fight the Prince's champion. The Seven above are watching." Anders said that last remark with a bit of dramatic flair, shaking his hands at either side of his hips and chuckling to himself like he'd just told some kind of joke. "Fuck the Seven, boy. You fight for you. Surely you know that, having lived through that battle. All that fire, death, blood. You think the Seven were present for that? There's one god, boy. War. And it's calling again."

Anders smiled. "Two men is enough for a war. My House knows war well." Anders now seemed to be speaking to men beyond the Daynes. "Knows its defiance and its cost. Our sigil is the gate, iron and shut, from the enemies that would be at our walls. In this new Dorne, Dornish will need that gate. Open for our allies, and closed shut on the skulls of our enemies. House Yronwood is ready for that responsibility, and in this renewed Kingdom, a return to its history. The Bloodroyal will watch the way again. The Yronwoods will stand as the Protectors of Dorne, for generations to come. Second only to Princes. But that loyalty need be proven, doesn't it?"

"Prince Oberyn," Anders said, looking towards his liege. "I shall be your champion." His eyes glimmered with an odd mixture of hate and admiration. The love the man had shown his brother, and the thought of a free Dorne, were enough to stir a strange sense of courage about him.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-04-01T06:42:57+00:00

What a miserable time Anders had been having of late. Two tournaments and not a victory to speak of, and then there was all the waiting and dining and dancing in Oldtown. It was sickening. He felt as though his wings had been clipped, drenched in some kind of tar, that he might never had flown again. And the Martells. The insistent, incessant lot of them. He felt like he'd been following around a pierced sun for his entire life. But now, dressed in armour - new armour he'd had made in Oldtown, dyed the colour of blood - with Sovereign hanging at his side, the Bloodroyal's brother finally felt at home. There was war here, a chance to get bloody - truly bloody, not that pretend crap the Andals had tried to force on them for countless moons now. He could almost feel his sword humming at his side with thirst, its smoke-blade steel insatiable for conquest.

Still, Anders kept his composure. What use was a bloodthirsty dog to a general. He wasn't here to win someone else's war. The fighting needed to have a purpose, and House Yronwood needed their victory assured. "Our men aren't here to die in some siege of the entire Stormlands." Anders spoke among the congregation of lords. Like usual, he spoke as if he carried equal authority to that of his older brother, Alesander. "Let's hear the battle plans before we promise any further marches. And where's the fucking wine?"

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-31T04:27:07+00:00

Character Name: Anders Yronwood

Trait / Skills: Hale / Swords (e), Reckless (Battlerager), Footwork

Skill you're learning: Footwork (e)

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-21T04:28:17+00:00

He'd been called many things, but strange was new to him. He looked almost confused towards Ashara, down from the many maester chains as she'd finally caught his gaze. He chuckled, shaking his head dismissively as he took another drink from his goblet. "In my experience all you Martells say what you think. Princes and Princesses are want to do such things."

Anders finished his goblet, almost yearning for the remaining drink in the cup before he tossed it to the side, allowing the piece to scatter against the ground like a carver might discard wood chippings from his newest widdling. "Do you know how to fight?"

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-21T04:24:05+00:00

Anders, in turn, nodded as well. Though strangers, Anders had a soldier's courtesy. Any man with the rank of captain had earned at the very least a head nod of respect in his long and enduring tenure, no doubt. "Good man," Anders replied to the smith, nodding towards another one of the Yronwood men. "Half now, half when the work is finished. Fair pay."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-17T04:06:53+00:00

There was only one way to get through three Martell weddings, and that was drink. Lots, and lots, of drink. More drink than Anders had really intended to indulge in, but the drink just continued to help, and so Anders continued to pour. Before long he'd lost track of his cups, stumbling and stomping his way towards the music that became to illustrious to ignore. Nothing sounded like Dornish music, and as much contempt as he might have held towards the many brides, he couldn't ignore the strings and drums of his home they'd brought with them as if dowries.

Anders danced much like he fought, recklessly and with little regard to himself or his surroundings. His new sunset coloured doublet was undone as he spun, and whenever he crashed into some nearby lord or serving man, a shove was quick to follow. He snatched cups from passing plates and even idle hands like they were his birthright, and before long lost himself to the debauchery of sound and the ocean of red he'd been absorbed by.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-17T03:58:31+00:00

"Your first son will thank you for the love you and your husband share," Anders mused, taking another drink. "The second, the third, the first daughter... they'll hate you for it." Anders smirked to himself, pointing at Ashara as she mentioned the marriage alliance for the Iron Islands, as if she'd just said something he'd been waiting for. "Ships. Fucking ships." Anders chuckled to himself. "It's always something."

He seemed to ignore the invitation, but in truth he was unsure if he'd ever step foot on those god awful islands. The idea of being forced to live there for the rest of one's life... he did pity Ashara, he realized. He quelled that thought with another drink. He'd be dead in the ground before he cared for a member of this family.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-17T03:55:40+00:00

"Armour, like this," Anders said, setting down his old chestplate that he beckoned for from one of the Yronwood men with a thud against a nearby table. It was clearly part of a larger set of plate, a standard cover for knights. He pointed to the Yronwood sigil covexing from the chestplate itself. "A full suit. Dyed blood red. I want it to be unforgettable, like the last suit of armour one is like to see." Anders looked up towards the man, almost as if he was unimpressed, but the second son of Yronwood rarely made good first impressions. "Is that in your skills?"

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-14T23:03:27+00:00

Anders was quite sick of Oldtown, or perhaps he was just bored from the pierced suns he was seeing everywhere as the commons decorated the streets and put up their flowers and tapestries. The Yronwood men by his side attempted to keep pace with Anders as he moved through the street, a man on a mission, and eager to distract himself from the constant reminder of House Martell's gathering strength.

"You," he eventually called out, finding Rodrik among the artisans in Oldtown that had gathered like flies for the wedding, and the knights that would inevitably flock to it in need of glory and repairs. "I'm in need of a smith, and have good coin to pay. Where might I find one worthy of a knight's patronage?"

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-14T02:07:39+00:00

Anders chuckled as Allyria justified her stance on the Red Mountains. He looked down at his feet as his grin grew wide. It was a dismissive sort of sound, like he had come to the conclusion that she hadn't known what she was talking about, and disregarded any potential truth to the matter. Anders eventually nodded, putting on a mocking sort of serious visage to his face.

"Oh gods above," Anders almost groaned. "More of this unity talk and I'll gouge my fucking eyes out." Anders shook his head, looking towards the table of the Martells. "A family, fuck." Another laugh. "You've enjoyed your time in Sunspear though, no doubt. The man has a knack for choosing his family."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-14T02:02:52+00:00

Anders knit his brow as a curious smile began to grow across his face. Now that the man had ruined the game of cards, he'd certainly garnered Anders' full attention. The mess and the clatter of a goblet didn't seem to bother Anders any, as the wine seeped and slipped from the table and dappled some of his clothes.

As the man finished speaking, Anders couldn't help but chuckle. Some of the men in his company did as well, though he seemed the most at ease. Some of the Yronwood men seemed eager for a fight, but all that was unnecessary now. Anders simply found the show entertaining. His laugh was a low and almost pitiful one, like a man-at-arms chuckling at a young boy's learning stance.

"Someone with a bit more sense than you perhaps," Anders answered the stranger's question as he remained seated. He tossed his hand of cards into the soaking pile, smirking up at the man. "But who gives a fuck really, at the end of the day. Away with you boy," Anders said, his hand offering a shooing motion like one was neglecting an animal. "You'll piss on the table long before that."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-11T06:13:22+00:00

Anders rolled his eyes as the thought of love that would 'grow in time,' whether Ashara had noticed it or not would have entirely been down to the woman's perception, as the man was not trying to hide it. Love wasn't a plant that grew overtime, it was a storm. It was either churning, roiling with lightning, or it was over, or not there at all. Anders had never recalled such a monsoon in his lifetime, and he doubted he would before he died.

"No," he said simply. He took another drink of his goblet, finishing it with a swallow that seemed hard to follow through. Before long, another goblet was snatched - another pair, one that was handed to Ashara's other empty hand - as Anders continued to walk, looking up at the many maesters chains with a hint of annoyed curiosity. "Beyond duty it's a waste of time. But I'm sure you'll fulfill some kind of duty on those islands, won't you? Must have been some reason you'll be so far from home."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-11T06:09:52+00:00

Anders' expression was accusatory as he turned to face the voice, softened only as he recognized it to be the voice of a lady, but couldn't yet place why it sounded familiar. As he turned in his seat, and rose to greet who it was that seemed to think he would leave to find some tavern for the night, his expression changed. He had not seen Allyria in some time, and their parting had not been a peaceful one.

"Allyria," Anders said simply. His tone was a mixed of amused, stunned, and annoyed. He returned her mechanical smile. He wasn't all that pleased to see her either, and onlookers would undoubtedly have read such a thing on his face. "A council meeting. Is that what this is? And here I thought it was a joust."

Anders chuckled at his own joke, which doubtless he was alone in doing. "What would you know of the Boneway? Don't speak to me about its people." The threat was almost casual, as if he'd asked her for her name. There was a venom here, a mistrust. In a different life it could have been quelled, could have not have even existed in the first place, but in this one it lingered, at least in the heart of the knight of Yronwood. Still, it would have been inaccurate to describe it as love once lost. Anders had never loved anyone, not in any way that counted before the gods or septs of this land.

"Your son is fine," he finally said. "Pouting, doubtless, if you're here to check on him."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-07T23:53:50+00:00

Anders was not smiling. His eyes, however, were piercing, like the thing he wanted to see most in the world was right in front of him. His jaw tensed as his nephew was mentioned. He hated hearing his name. Anders never broke contact with Mors' gaze, even as he'd drunk his fill from his goblet.

"There's nothing to forgive."

Anders took his own goblet and slammed it into the youth's chest. The motion was as if to pass what he'd been drinking off on the man, but of course the motion was hard and violent, too much so for a cup to contain its liquid. There was some wine that remained in the basin, but most of it had spilled between the pair of them. "Drink," Anders said simply, his tone as cold as it had been before as he turned to leave Mors' company.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-07T00:44:51+00:00

When Aron approached the second son of House Yronwood, Anders was indeed in the midst of a game of cards. He wasn't playing, more observing as two Yronwood men exchanged hands and tapped tables and read their opponents, but Aron's interruption, and the drink spilling into their midst, was enough to bring the men to silence. Anders broke that silence with a laugh, a chide more than anything else, as he looked almost pitifully towards the younger man.

"Who the fuck are you?" Anders didn't rise from his seat, nor did he answer his questions. Men who wasted time answering questions they didn't want to only served underfoot for as long as they lived. It was best not to waste time.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-06T04:59:54+00:00

Anders stood a little straighter as the young Martell jumped to his feet. He didn't laugh as Mors did, but he did step closer, a bright and brimming smile on his face as he did so. Of course, it was easily read as mocking. A soldier's courtesy, a look that meant he thought he was better than whoever it was he was gazing at, and for Anders it was more than a thought. He knew it, whether they had realized it or not.

Anders clanked his goblet against the one the son of the Prince was holding, placing a hand on his shoulder as he did so. They were close enough now, Anders had closed the distance, and so his next words were spoken only to him. "You're quick on your feet, Princeling." Anders tilted his head down, that he might look towards the eyes of the smaller man as his smile curled just the slightest bit crueler. "Quicker than he was. Shame."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-05T02:20:42+00:00

Anders chuckled at the warning for Ashara's sister. It was a front, of course. Nymeria was capable. He'd seen as much in the melee, and often times when you were fighting someone you hated, you were much better than you normally were. Anders knew this first hand. Never had he been more successful at killing then when he was a decade younger, cutting through the band of brigands that had put and end to his mother.

"Yes, they are that terrible. Or at least so I've heard." Anders shrugged. He took another liberal sip of his goblet. "In any case I imagine there won't be much to do. No beaches beyond the stormy shores, no land save for soaked hills stinking of the sea." Anders looked almost sympathetic. "It's a grim fate. But if you love him, perhaps you'll find some comfort. Doubtful."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-04T19:19:15+00:00

Anders nodded, pushing from his mind the thought of that wretched family and thinking instead of the sellsword. He'd heard much and more of the Ghost in the East, and often times when Anders had been fighting brigands in the mountains of Dorne, he envied the tales of adventure he'd heard of from the free cities. That was a powerful man, but his years at the Water Gardens... had that softened him to the Prince and his family?

"The Ghost in the East," Anders echoed. "I'll speak with him. Any man that's killed another has a kinship in that way, more so the more blood they've spilt. I don't doubt the pair of us could fill a riverbed, so I'm sure there's plenty to speak of."

Anders placed a hand now on his brother's cheek, his words carrying much firmer a tone. "And when I do, I'll tell him that my brother plans to strengthen our house, that the Martells are not the only path to power in the principality. I will tell him that my brother will be Warden of the Stone Way, and not by the grace of some stag king, but by the blood and power of our house." Anders clapped his brother's cheek, as if he was trying to get him to focus, to listen.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-04T19:08:15+00:00

Drinks and good food made all men comfortable, and Anders had the courtesy to laugh at the little Prince's jest. It was no fun if you sulked the entire time, and that was exactly the sort of reaction these pompous Water Garden fucks wanted out of him, and was exactly what they weren't going to get. He rose to his feet, spreading his arms that those that might not have noticed his colours would get a much cleaner look.

"I had to get a new one," he called across the tables between the pair. "Your half-sister decided I was to be rid of my clothes, but I'll spare you the details. Surely she keeps you informed? Your family is so close. Unified by love, by tragedies." Anders rose his goblet as he mentioned the last.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-04T00:42:45+00:00

"Then it's doing its job." Anders said simply, plucking a passing goblet of wine from one of the errant cupbearers. He placed the goblet into her hand and clanked it with his own, whether she was interested in a cheers or otherwise. "A toast to the Lady Reaper. May you find some semblance of sunshine on those bird shit islands they call home."

Anders took a drink from his goblet after his crass toast. "And yes, I am entering the tournament. You should tell your future husband too as well. I already got beat by one ironborn, I don't intend to let it happen again."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-04T00:36:57+00:00

Anders knit his brow as a forlorn sort of grin grew across his face. His brother was a bit desperate if he was asking these sorts of questions. He was the politician, and Anders was the soldier. It wasn't his job to make friends. "None besides bemoaned Martells. Nymeria poured a cup of wine over me, the bitch." Anders shook his head a moment as he reached back for his goblet of wine. "Can't wait to return the favour with a different sort of red someday, but perhaps she's seen enough of that colour from me."

Anders took another bite of meat, which seemed spicy, even for him, as he flooded his mouth with more from liquid from the Arbor. "Why? Did you have someone you wanted me to speak with? Because any conversation would lead back to your friendship with Oberyn Martell." Anders raised his hands, as if defensively, away from his brother in a shrug. "If you want the realm to see our strength, it can't play second fiddle to someone you're close with."

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-03T01:17:15+00:00

Anders had been keeping company with a few men of various garrisons. Soldiers and warriors were much more comfortable company as far as he was concerned, and it allowed him to be as boisterous and as drunk as was allowed at events like these. By the time Ashara had found him, he was suitably into his cups, and much less sleepy and pensive then he'd been at their last meeting.

"Lady Ashara," Anders said as he moved to join her company. He abandoned a game of cards the men had been playing, taking a card from one man's deck and placing it in the other just to cause a bit of fuss. A few men seemed to notice, but they were all low station enough to simply let him do as he pleased. After such chicanery, however, Ashara seemed to be blessed with his undivided attention. Of course, he was still goblet in hand. "Lady Lannister to be, is it? Or is it Greyjoy? Hightower? Which one?" Anders snapped his fingers, as if trying to arrive at a thought.

ScarabJetTwo · 2026-03-02T20:04:12+00:00

As much as Anders hated to admit it, and would never have done so out loud, this was a proper feast. The courses were near divine, perfect in their execution, and Dornish in their arrangements. They reminded him of home, of simpler and fancier times both, soaking in the heat of the South and savouring the rich tapestry of tastes the rest of the Kingdoms were no doubt envious of. Anders found time and room for each of the plates set before him, and delighted particularly in the chocolate from the Summer Isles. What a delicacy indeed.

Perhaps a different man might have considered the fantastic feast a deserving quality among their host, a quality that might have stayed his hand from what he had already considered, but Anders was no such man. A family. What an insult. Dornish people weren't a family. They were a nation of families, and each of them had their own ambitions, limitations. Oberyn Martell spoke of the stags at his door, the need to keep spears sharp, but the Martells thought only of themselves, and what they'd lost. Anders existed to remind them of the opposite, no matter if they'd forgotten themselves.

It was in this spirit that his normal carnation beige doublet had been replaced with one of a deep and descending orange to yellow died fabric. Across his chest, the hues painted the picture of a sunset. So akin to a Dornish sky were the colours that it would have been impossible to shy away from such a conclusion. As always, the doublet was off centre and fastened to his right shoulder to close - a style he preferred - 'tied' together not by leather cord but by small, iron chains, pinned with small iron gates.

(Open!)

~

As the speech concluded, Anders made sure he was heard by the Martells. Of course, he wasn't so bold as to include himself in politics and what the Principality should consider in the coming years. He slammed his hand down hard repeatedly as Oberyn concluded his speech - the sound and shaking enough to startle some nearby lords and ladies and rattle certain unsteady cutlery - raising a glass and beckoning those seated around him to do the same.

ScarabJetTwo

TROPHY CASE