Lysander Blackmore

Lysander Blackmore is an exiled Northern Lord from Westeros currently living in Essos as part of the Company of the Flame.

Background
Lysander Blackmore was born on the seventeenth day of the eight moon in 351 AC to Lord Aedan and Lady Eldora Blackmore. The bells of The Black Keep rang for a full twelve hours, one for each hour of labor until the babe was finally born. Lysander's cries filled the halls of the northern castle, much to the joy of his mother. In accordance with the traditions of the Kingdom of the North, he was pulled from his mother by Maester Tyrnan and named in the eyes of the Old Gods.

As the son of a Lord, Lysander would grow up with many expectations thrust upon his shoulders. He would be taught to read and write, educated in the vast histories of Westeros and the Kingdom of the North, the courtesies and traditions of the nobility, and many more academic subjects. He would also learn the ways of the blade and bow, as the Lords of the North had learned long ago that they would always be expected to raise arms to defend their lands and ways of life from those that wished to return them to the yolk of the South. The start of each day began with the Maester, and ended in the training yard.

At the age of eleven, in the final year of The Summer Plague, Lysander fell extremely ill. His symptoms progressed quickly, and not even the Maester or other men or women of medicine would lay a hand on him, proclaiming him doomed. Only his mother sat at his bedside, praying to The Old Gods, The Seven, and even the mysterious Lord of Light whose worship had overtaken much of her homeland, Dorne. Lysander's fever burned through him, accompanied by strange and visceral dreams that he couldn't comprehend. And then, as suddenly as the sickness had set in, the fever disappeared, and he recovered. By the accounts of Maester Tyrnan himself, it was some kind of miracle.

Lysander was seventeen when he and his brother went on a hunting trip together, with a handful of Blackmore soldiers to honor the Princess' name-day. The beast would be brought to the King in the North for a grand feast, where House Blackmore would sit at their place of honor as being forever faithful to House Stark. But it was to be an ill-fated expedition, ending in the tragic death of Aldys Blackmore. His body was discovered with several arrows deep in his flesh, including one in the throat and another through the heart. Good, strong, Northern arrows, fired by the and of a Northmen trained warrior. Arrows that were marked with a single red arrow in the fletching, signifying them as the arrows of the Lords and Ladies of Blackmore. Arrows that were missing from Lysander's quiver, which had been full at the start of the day. None had seen the action, but the scant amount of evidence, being the arrows and Lysander being the one to find his brother slain, spoke to a truth few wanted to accept: Lysander Blackmore had killed his own brother.

Fratricide was enough of a crime, but many whispered among themselves that Lysander was always jealous of his brother, the favor of their father always falling to the eldest son and heir. They believed he slew his own brother in order to take his seat as heir to The Black Keep. Lysander swore before his father, mother, and all the people of House Blackmore's lands that he was innocent of the deed, but was unable to prove to the contrary. Thus, with heavy heart, Lord Blackmore exiled his only surviving son from the Kingdom of the North, by the laws and authority of the Kings and Queens in the North whose name is Stark. A small group of men took him just after the sentence was passed, to White Harbor and a boat to Essos, watching him disappear onto the horizon never to be seen again.

After almost a fortnight upon the seas, Lysander's ship arrived in the Free City of Pentos. A young, Northern-born Westerosi has no place in such a city, and he was let off the boat with the clothes on his back, a bag of provisions, and a small sack of gold. The provisions lasted a week or so, and the gold was stolen by street rats and pickpockets before that first day was done. Lysander was stuck on the streets with nothing to his name any longer, only a week in Pentos until he was filthy and starving like any other beggar. And when his very demeanor (and his stench) itself offended a brightly-painted, satin-clad bravo, he found himself in the thick of a duel in the streets of the city. He wore a simple blade at his side, and so even his poverty and misfortune was not enough to avoid the notice of a brash, big-headed master swordsman to be. The two fought from alley to avenue, Lysander delivering the heavy, ungraceful blows of a knight and a solider while the bravo danced this way and that, dodging and spinning but never striking strongly enough.

The bravo so bold, so confident in his skill, he was not prepared for the patience of a Northman. He thrust his thin little blade for the heart, but Lysander knocked it away. And with another swing of his sword, he struck the head right from the neck of the offended party. The body collapsed into the street, and the desperate exile took from the body his thin little blade and the contents of his purse. The blade sold for a fair penny, enough to feed him for a time longer, and he had learned to be wary of where he kept his coin. But he had not been aware of an audience, watching his fight from afar. Not until he stopped at the local tavern for a room, a drink, and a warm bed on the profits reaped by his victory, was he confronted by the first friendly face he would see. Sevros Ollan took the stool next to his upon the bar, and thus did Lysander end up in the Company of the Flame. Sevros had seem him fight, unskilled and untested by filled with heart and the desperation of a lost and dying man. He offered him some little coin and some small glory, to take up the mantle of a mercenary and a sellsword. Most oddly to Lysander, was when Sevros idly mentioned a being known as The Lord of Light, and how he believed that their meeting was fated by the Red God himself.

Sevros supplied him with cheap armor and weapons, not knowing if his investment would pay off or if Lysander would be dead before too long. Their next job was to ride out to the borders of the Qohor. The City of Sorcerers had long been protected by the Unsullied out of Astapor, before the days when Daenerys Stormborn took them as her army. After The Summer Plague struck them hard, the guard had grown weak, the city had fallen into dire straights, and the Dothraki khalasars could not be pleased with whatever they were offered. They saw the city as weak, and surrounding settlements easy for the taking. For a princely sum, the Company would drive back the Dothraki from the walls of Qohor and to their mud huts beneath their sacred mountain.

Smoke was on the horizon, and a small village was consumed by fire. Dothraki road through the streets, pillaging and raping and taking whatever they liked, The Company of the Flame descended upon the horsemen, putting an entire khalasar to the sword. Lysander himself claimed a pair of kills, and one of their arakhs as a trophy. In the midst of the battle, his eyes fell upon a burning building. His focus was drawn to the flames, watching them dancing, pulling him into a trance. He remembered the fever dreams he had when stricken by the plague, all those years ago. The same vision played before him, just as unintelligible, except for the end: all his vision, consumed with whiteness and nothingness. Lysander had learned of the Lord of Light from Sevros' many prayers, teachings, and sermons. For the first time, however, he finally began to believe in this strange, Essosi god of fire and light.

Seven years passed during his exile, fighting alongside his brothers and sisters of the Company of the Flame. He traveled between the Free Cities, fought against rival companies and opportunistic scoundrels. The good was good, the fights were tough, and the companionship was memorable. To see the wonders of Essos was a rare thing for a lordling of Westeros, and each sight was more awe inspiring than the last. Along the road, he learned the ways of the Red Priests of R’hllor under Sevros’ tutelage. At the age of twenty-three, Lysander spent an entire year at the temple in Volantis, and was properly steeped in the traditions of the Lord of Light for the duration of his stay. This was the final step in becoming a true (but somewhat cynical) believer. He still has much to learn of this new faith, of the land he has called home for almost a decade, and the strange truths that the fire wishes to tell.

Personality
Despite his years in exile, Lysander has never successfully sloughed off the teachings of Maester Tyrnan from his youth. He still carries himself as a Lord of the North, attempting to remain honorable and stoic in a land where the scoundrels and liars are only set apart from the noble and powerful by the amount of coin in their vaults. He has been tempered by his time in Essos, however, learning the equally valuable lesson that sometimes there was no room for honor and such. Lysander's adherence to courtesy and decorum has, however proved useful in negotiations with clientele of a higher standing, where the presence of a little lordling is an interesting spectacle to behold.

Sevros has called him a reckless boy, whose fangs are far too sharp for such a young pup. After his first experience in Pentos, Lysander is wary of being threatened, robbed, or insulted. Such things carry a greater meaning in the lands of the Free Cities, where offending the wrong person can carry a price, sometimes being your life. Possibly in hopes to prove his worth, Lysander often trusts himself into danger. Much of the time, the danger is unnecessary, and fueled by bravado. In combat, his style is uneven, taking parts from his upbringing and incorporation a wilder, less learned style of attack that lives very little room for defending himself. Whether it be entirely some need to be seen as worthy, a wish for an early death, or some combination of reasons, he is hard to predict in any moment, especially at the receiving end of a blade.

One thing that can hardly be questioned is Lysander's loyalty. He learned not to be trusting of those around him, a lesson that took many mistakes to learn. But once that trust has been attained, you have earned a friend and ally from this day until your last day. He would pledge his blade for your causes, his life in the defense of yours, or his last coin if your need was truly greater than his. There are those that have taken advantage of this loyalty, friendship, and compassion. Lysander carries these betrayals as wounds upon his person, finding it harder and harder to trust after each.

The worship of the Lord of Light is a new aspect in his life, and it would be accurate to say he is not completely dedicated to its tenets. He says the words when appropriate, performs the rites when needed, and carries tokens of the Lord's favor upon his person. And yet, he is still a man of cynicism when it comes to the whims and ways of this new world god. In the North, to question the Old Gods was simply the nature of belief. Few understood the ways of those mysterious entities, and even fewer purported to know the answers. The Red Priests, on the other hand, ascribe meaning to every omen and spark they can. They seek to have an answer for every question, even if that answer is simply to call something 'the will of the Lord of Light'. Blind dedication all around him, Lysander struggles with the almost unquestioning belief his faith requires.

He is also a man of much learning but little certainty. He can speak the histories of the Great Houses of Westeros, name many legendary heroes and rulers, but has no idea of what his place is in it all. He feels as if he is wandering a dark road, shadows all around him, obscuring his view of where the path leads, or where else he could possibly go. He hungers for a greater destiny, but doesn't know what he would wish from it, or if he could even dedicate himself to it if the opportunity came. In short, Lysander is a man out is element, and seeking some purpose or meaning for his life moving forward.