#𝒘𝒄𝒓𝒇𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒔 ˖⁺‧₊˚✦ // ❝ 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 — intro

[wcrfcres]

announcing  the  arrival  of  THEODORE STORM  of  house  BARATHEON,  the  LORD COMANDER OF THE QUEENSGUARD & LEGITIMIZED BASTARD OF LORD PETYR BARATHEON .  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  HEADSTRONG and  PHLEGMATIC in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  SWORDFIGHTING .  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  ❝ a thousand and one blades , plummeting from the sun , aimed at the decadent , luscious sea of grass , seized by a stray , wounded dog , beaten and aimless left with a last chance at redemption , not a whine , not a whimper from the mauled creature , only placid gazes at the warm , ethereal body nestled in the untouched lush // an unclaimed weapon of destruction , swords and shields , spears and daggers , etched with progress , tireless nights of sweat , tears , and pauses , hitched breaths and fathers who can only steal glances , hide proud smiles of acknowledgement with their backs turned and their hopeful sons distraught and forgotten // a self - made man with a record of gold , a prowess unmatched , wrecked by the catastrophe weaved into his name , heart , body and soul offered at the altar of an equally perilous deity of grace and beauty doused with fire and blood . ❞   the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  thoughts  have  lingered  close  to  treasonous  of  late.

BASIC INFORMATION

name : THEODORE STORM BARATHEON . noble title : LORD COMMANDER OF THE QUEENSGUARD . date of birth : FOURTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH . age : FOUR AND THIRTY YEARS . gender : CIS MAN . pronouns : HE / HIM . orientation : PANROMANTIC DEMISEXUAL . moniker : THE WHITE STAG . spoken language : OLD TONGUE, COMMON TONGUE . accent : STORMLANDS

PHYSICAL

face claim : LEWIS TAN . ethnicity : FIRST MEN & ANDAL . hair : BLACK (NEATLY COIFFED) . eyes : BROWN . height : 6"4FT / 1.96M . build : MUSCULAR , MESOMORPH . scent : FRESH , LIGHT CITRUS . dominant hand : AMBIDEXTROUS . scars : MULTIPLE ON HIS ARMS AND HANDS FROM SWORD & DAGGER TRAINING , FAINT ONES ON HIS LEGS AND FEET FROM TIME SPENT IN THE WOODS AS A CHILD . distinguishing features : STRIKING RESEMBLANCE TO THE RULING LORD PETYR BARATHEON . clothing style : QUEENSGUARD ARMOR ; PRACTICAL AND ALMOST SMALLFOLK-ISH, ALLOWS FOR EASY EASY MOVEMENTS WHEN NOT ARMOR-CLAD

PERSONALITY

positive traits : HEADSTRONG, DECISIVE, FORTHRIGHT, CARING . negative traits : PHLEGMATIC, RECLUSIVE, INSENSITIVE, SELFISH . mbti : INTJ . enneagram : 8 (THE PROTECTOR) . element : FIRE . star sign : VIRGO . temperament : MELANCHOLIC . moral alignment : NEUTRAL GOOD . character kin : BRUCE WAYNE (BATMAN), TOMMY SHELBY (PEAKY BLINDERS), AH SAM (WARRIOR, HARWIN STRONG (ASOIAF/HOTD) . deadly sins : ANGER & PRIDE . heavenly virtues : FORTITUDE & TEMPERANCE . godly parent : ARES & HERMES

DRIVES

hobbies : SWORD FIGHTING . disclosed religion : FAITH OF THE SEVEN . true religion : OLD GODS OF FOREST. alliance : HOUSE TARGARYEN OF WESTEROS. personal goals : ENSURE THE SAFETY OF THE QUEEN AND HOUSE TARGARYEN, WHATEVER AND WHOEVER THE COST; STAY TRUE TO HIS OATHS AND VOWS . would they choose family or power ? POWER THE REALM

FAMILIAL TIES

father : LORD PETYR BARATHEON . mother : TALLA OF RAINWOOD (DECEASED 16 YEARS AGO) . siblings : NONE . aunt : LADY FLORIS BARATHEON NEE TARTH . cousins : LADY ILIANA BARATHEON

NARRATIVE

( TRIGGER WARNING: INFIDELITY, PARENTAL NEGLECT, PARENTAL DEATH )

— the story begins with a man and a woman .

first is the woman . a fair maiden danced along and within the lush , treacherous groves of rainwood , her brown curls bounced carelessly , muddied feet slid , dabbled , and pranced . her comely face soaked with drops of water and genuine joy , her plump , inviting lips pulled into a smile that stilled the forest itself . she is a rare sight of beauty in lands bombarded with storms and thunders , a sight that brings awe not only to the descendants of the first men but to the children of the forest . they watched from atop trees and boulders , cheeks pressed firm on their hands , sighs latching onto the wind , utterly mesmerized of one lowborn maiden dancing in the rain , without a care of the cruel world beyond the collection of weirwood . she is spring in a white dress , adorned with imperfectly sewn embroidery , soaked cheeks , muddied feet , and a smile men will go to war for . her mother would call her name before sundown , the name echoes between the curved trunks , slithering branches , and patting leaves . ❝ talla , my sweet child , come home . ❞ and to the displeasure of the cold patches of grass , moss , and softened twigs beneath her bare feet , the fair maiden traces her footprints , heeds her mother's call , and rushes home .

then comes the man . a kind lord from a noble house , not the eldest , not even the second son , but the spare to the spare . the youngest of the sons who looks to the world with wonder , insecurity carved on the chest plate of his armor , braided onto the knots of his sword's hand piece . the young lord turns to the unchartered forest for escape , to live a life beyond his name , his position , embody the sigil etched , painted , and splattered across the banners of their war banners . the young stag , every inch of his tall frame , well - built physique , scoured every turn , every slope , and every surface that the woodlands have to offer . drenched in sweat , desperation , and rainwater , he follows the river , upstream and downstream , relentlessly drawing and coloring images amidst the veil of vagueness that came with the horrible storm . determined to lay down a map unlike any other , make himself useful to the house that saw nothing more to him than the blood that runs through his veins , he wills himself deeper into the forest , to a swamp brushed with emerald and copper , and spring dressed in white twirls in her bosom .

words fall to the ground with his tribulations as enchantment takes over , the fair maiden , all beauty , grace , and recklessness , swayed , twirled , and laughed as though the shuddering thunders sang a song of celebration . in that moment , the monsoon remained only a word , shamed by brown curls , scarlet - leaden cheeks , and eyes that soothed the fury that ravaged every inch of his being . the golden stag , accustomed to the world yielding to his will , grazed over the emeralds , intruded spring as she savored her freedom . it was salvation found away from the grim that awaited at his castle , in the stormlands , deep within the forest , he had found spring , and her laugh as melodious as she is beautiful , face drawn by the gods themselves . in his love drunk state , he commits blasphemy under his breath , for he truly believed that not even the maiden matched her loveliness . it was only a matter of time before love arrived . and indeed , he loved her , and soon she loved him too .

— the story goes on with a woman and a babe with fury in his blood .

however , beyond rainwood is a world as cruel as it is unforgiving . it devours even the mightiest of lords , the best of men , and the purest of hearts . the kind lord was a man not an exception to the frailties of his kind . he lives at the mercy of his noble name , and their faith to the new gods . what irony for when he chose what is right , to come home and never leave the side of his highborn wife , he felt a greater sense of betrayal and regret . the golden stag , in the arms of another and the protection of their banners was never seen again ... and yet spring lived on , danced to her broken heart's content , making art of her own misery — and this is the story that was told .

spring gives birth to a babe as beautiful as she . and she gives him her eyes , as clear and pure as the waters flowing down the rivers of her beloved paradise , her spirit , relentless , reckless , and persevering , and did not forget to give him her entire heart , every shattered piece that was left by the golden stag who disappeared as swift as he arrived . over the years , it became apparent that the man had given gifts , though unnecessary , the golden stag gives the boy his face and his fury , but not his name . never his name . instead , he recklessly bestows the privilege of his blood to others . but it is the cruel world that gives the boy shame , abhorrence , and brands him a storm as soon as it became clear whose face it was on him and the blood and fury coursing through his veins . though most of the world was never kind , theodore storm was raised by a loving mother and a found family that truly cared about his blood and not who birthed him . when doubts come to plague him , they were dispelled by his mother's loving words ❝ my sweet child , you are made out of love . your father loves you as much as i do , as much as he said he loved me . if he did not , he would not have given you his face . ❞ his noble lord's absence was filled with all his mother is able , the role swept under the rug was played by a woman as great a mother as she is a father . not a thing in the world hurt her son , not an ill - word left to roll on its own , not a disgusted look left to be taken to heart .

— then the story is neglected by a man .

theodore knew early on that he is a bastard , and he grew up believing that he is as much as a baratheon as the rest of house is . and how wrong he was , spending years of his life believing so . he believed himself a stag , like his father , he carried his fury and excelled in every thing as noble lord's son should . he grew up handsome , well - built , and towering - he had the makings of house baratheon , their blood ran strong in his veins and it manifested itself beyond doubt . he fought well , skilled hands carrying a sword like it were an extension of himself , swung , slashed , and stabbed better than any fine knight the stormlands has ever seen . a boy doused with shame possessed exceptional skills and an undeniable resemblance to his lord father ( or so the rumors say ) who spoke not a single word to confirm the suspicions . his silence brought questionable comfort and reassurance , but comfort and reassurance nonetheless . there were only few who truly knew , but none of them spoke , not a nod , not a swing of the head to deny the alleged son , in fear of their ruling lady's wrath . or perhaps the humiliation , that a mere bastard , a lowborn's son carried with him greater potential than any heir in the stormlands .

the young man was knighted , an honor well deserved and expected of his abilities . an honor claimed not as a favor to his lord father , not because of his name , or garnered support or connection with other noble families . it was an honor earned all on his own merit , and it was enough to send the prying and harsh realities to surface . and still theodore storm remained as steadfast as he had been for most of his life , loyal to house baratheon , loyal to his family . and then his mother dies while he was trying to earn his father's elusive and impossible approval . he fought battles to be worthy of his time , his kind words , and his praise . he brought home victories and the placated plots against their mighty house only to given absolutely nothing . and now spring is gone . all the love , color , and light in the world died with her . goodbyes were spoken over graves , a small crowd , and an empty home . he mourned by himself with his blade , his armor , and the thunders of storm's end . he grieved while doors shut in his face , and lord petyr baratheon staring at him without care , mercy , or concern . the world swallows him whole , every word , every look , and every instance his father left him to be mangled and mauled by the mob who thinks bastards have no place , even in their father's hearts ... he was left to be consumed by them .

still the old gods' smile upon him from deep within the forest , they must have favored his mother for when he needed an escape , the opportunity opens a grand door . a knight from the capital summons him , offers him a place more fitting for him as a knight, as one of the finest swordsmen in westeros . he need not be sent another raven , before another calamity struck , he rode for king's landing and left the love , loyalty , and concern for house baratheon to be swept to the bottom of the seas . he is no longer the foolish son who believed in the story that was told . he is theodore storm , son of talla of rainwood , a knight of the queensguard .

— and so , the story is rewritten by a son with storm in his name .

a long , forgotten dream had been set upon his hands after years of service . what his so - called father cannot give him , was given by the queen once again : a name in the form of legitimacy and acknowledgement by appointment as the lord commander of the queensguard . the entirety of his being shifted, dedicated to maintain the sanctity of the house of the dragon and the crown he swore to before the seven. more than a decade of his life surrendered to duty and service. the knight held his sword and shield, reputation and ability on the line to serve his queen, no matter what... until his last breath — he intended to. until the oaths and vows themselves began to whisper and wince from the shackles of dragonfire. slowly and then all at once, the whispers and winces grew into screams and violent jerking, and not even the most righteous in westeros can temper the chaos brewing from within the very walls of the keeps. caged by gratitude, held down by loyalty, his eyes are now wide open to the merciless and heartbreaking realities from which the armor and white cloak are built upon.