Character: Alector Destine
House: House Antirran
Kingdom: The Reach

I’m the sort of man that enjoys seeing justice served, he could hear his voice echoing in his mind. The naivety of the statement disgusted him. A roguish smirk swam into view. Well then, Petyr Baelish’s voice had drawled, you have come to the right man. The sting of defeat still lingered as Alector brooded, attempting to riddle out how it had all gone wrong. He had been so sure of his victory, so confident that he would lead his crumbling house to greatness. All of that had evaporated when Littlefinger plunged a knife into his back. To make matters worse, Gavin was reaping the rewards that should have been his.

Gavin. The name sent fire coursing through his body, without an outlet to escape. Alector pounded the table in frustration, ignoring the resulting throb of pain. It wasn’t fair, how one could devote their life to the pursuit of criminality, and be rewarded instead of answering for their treachery. This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out. He paced back and forth across the familiar splintery floor, kneading his hands and weighing his options.

He knew riding to the aid of Merlot would mean certain death. His strength was intellectual rather than physical, and he had no illusions about his skill in combat. While the notion was appealing—wiping out the force that had created him—Alector could not justify losing his life to the cause. However, remaining in King’s Landing placed him under Littlefinger’s command, something his pride would be unable to bear. Alector tried imagining the life that awaiting him, demeaning himself day after day, in the employ of a man who could so callously cast aside the righteous and reward the wicked. He sold me out. How could I serve someone like him?

A merry fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth and warding off the unseasonal chill in the air, yet Alector found no comfort in the heat. He crossed the room to his side table, where the servants left his typical nightly flagon of wine. He poured himself a cup, losing himself in the way the deep red color still managed to glisten in the firelight. Swirling it, Alector watched his reflection distort in the eddying liquid. He took a sip, but immediately spat it out, finding that it had turned sour.

His face darkened and he set the cup down, musing. I have always been an agent of justice, he thought to himself, staring into the flames, but where has that gotten me? Jarden may have forgiven me, but it is doubtful that he will ever trust me again as he once did. A corrupt steward has usurped my place as Jarden’s right hand and now conspires with a treacherous snake. And now the bastards of the Stormlands cast their gaze towards Merlot.No matter how Alector tried to spin it, his future looked grim. He twiddled his thumbs and deliberated, watching the smoke rise through the chimney. The heat grew ever more irritating, and eventually he found himself unable to tolerate it. He threw open the shutters and embraced the cool night air. The refreshing breeze cleared his head and he popped his lips as a new path, shadowy and uncertain, presented itself to him.

“I will not have some outsider making designs on my house,” Lord Jarden had thundered, sober for the first time in ages. Alector had cowered meekly, knowing it to be the only way to eventually charm his way back into his lord’s good graces. Yet, what if it Alector no longer required the favor of Jarden Antirran? Visions of smallfolk swearing him fealty danced before him, and the title Lord Destine reverberated through his mind. Let the Antirrans keep their doomed house. There are far greater things destined for me.

Alector allowed the idea to marinate in the back of his head. He would remain in the cesspool that was King’s Landing, and he would swallow his pride while forced to be Littlefinger’s stooge. He would bide his time, gathering allies and resources. Friends come easily if you know how to charm them.He would choose his new allies with more care this time, and he vowed that he would no longer suffer the yoke of Antirran servitude. He could feel fatigue working its way into his body, his limbs getting heavier, his head slowly spinning. He picked up the flagon and brought it to the fireplace, dumping its contents over the flames. They hissed and smoked as they drowned in wine, but eventually, they died.