#› thoros of myr ╱ a lighthouse on the coast ( replies )

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   « EVER HEARD OF HUMOR, Clegane? »   against all better judgment and good sense Thoros doesn’t put any more distance between them, not so easily scared away by the Hound’s threats, as harsh as they may sound. He is not a man to take too lightly, but if he really wanted him dead? His little stunts with the flaming sword would have been reason enough to make him end up with a cracked skull, there would be no need to find an excuse such as this one. Thoros is a little surprised he was allowed to get away with that trick not only once, but three times  ——  all is fair in tournaments, huh?       « Aye, aye, here’s your chicken  ——  more interested in the wine, anyway. »    quality is what it is —  which means not very good  —  however, it will have to do  ——  R’hllor knows taverns are hard to come by, after all. Taste stopped having any relevance a while ago, who does he think he’s fooling? Chicken forgotten and dismissed, he reaches for the flask, even if he already knows he will find the content too bitter for his tastes, and doesn’t so much as wince after taking a few gulps of the thing. All in all? He’s had worse. ╱ ╱ CONT ; @fallesto  (  sandor c.  )  

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  IF ONLY FORGETTING COULD BE SO EASY. No amount of alcohol, hower strong, could make him forget she’s there, a silent figure, but no less dangerous for it. Ironic, isn’t it? That the things he wishes most to forget are the ones permanently stuck in his mind  ——  the horrible mess that Kings Landing had been, for one, and now this. Oh he acts fine, has to, or he fears what little is left of the brotherhood would scatter into the wind, now that Beric is gone, but it’s now, when the sun is down and a boy voices though questions, that the facade begins to crumble, cracking at the edges. Ale turns to ash in his mouth, as he is faced with what he has been desperately trying to avoid these past few days; still, Thoros gulps it down and then settles the cup  —  not quite empty yet  —  on the floor, not far from his feet. Has Gendry noticed? He is avoiding the flames, or rather avoiding looking at them for too long. A subtle change, but one nonetheless.      « Aye, wouldn’t that be something? »   his chuckle is short lived and bitter, no real amusement behind it. He is only borrowing time. Gendry wants answers, has every right to demand them  ——  too bad he doesn’t have them. Nothing new here, really.    « Doing the right thing, lad, simple as that  ——  you think he wanted this to happen? »   he couldn’t have known, neither of them could have. Thoros didn’t even believe it to be possible until Catelyn Stark came back  ——  wrong, sure, a shadow of her past self, but back anyway.   « Do me a favor kid, don’t even think about doing anything stupid. »  ╱ ╱  CONT ; @tymptir  (  gendry w.  )  

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CONT // & @thesellsword  (  bronn  )

   IT’S UNCLEAR WHAT IS GOING TO PULL HIM TO HIS FEET, between the promise of food and Bronn speaking about having more to drink  (  they had plenty already, sure, but Thoros doesn’t find it in him to care  ).    « Give me a moment, will you? I don’t think my legs work yet. »   groan turns into a messy, hoarse laugh as he lets his head rest against the wall at his back  ——  impact a little harder than intended. If he keeps at it he doubts he will ever stop feeling hungover, though it’s better this way, better than having that god awful smell of burned flesh stuck to his nostrils, so it’s no surprise, really, when he ends up rising to his feet too fast and almost loses his balance, despite holding on to the other man’s hand. He has to grab onto his shoulder too, to keep from falling to the ground like the drunken fool he is.    « Y’ want me to try and make you a believer? »

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   EVERY TAVERN LOOKS THE SAME, after one has had enough to drink. King’s Landing, Myr, a half forgotten and dirty wine serving hole in Essos, the difference stops having any relevance at some point and Thoros is well past that when he crosses the door to the——  what? Third one of the night? Even that doesn’t seem to matter, not anymore. He doesn’t feel anxious about going back to the king’s court anytime soon, for he’s had enough of lords, ladies and knights for one day : no amount of red robes can hide the fact he comes from myrish slums, from a family so poor they had to send him off to the red temple or have him starve to death.

   Thoros is not so far gone yet not to recognize the man who has just tumbled to the ground near his feet  (  takes him a few seconds though  ), partly because he has a good memory with names and faces but also because the man has an interesting story, all but common. Starts laughing as soon as he realises Davos hasn’t stabbed himself with his own dagger in the fall, easy and loud and really, the knight must be drunker than he is, if he’s carelessly throwing such a challenge his way. What Thoros believes to be one, at least.

  « Oh, ‘m I? A better drinker than you for sure. »   no venom in his words, just a hazy and slightly unsteady amusement. Waking up with a splitting headache is a certainty at this point   ——   not that he dwells on it, far from it. As if to prove this point, there’s already a mug of ale in his hand.   « — is this all you got, ser Davos? »   ╱ ╱ CONT ; @seasworth ​  (  davos s.  )

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new muses page is still a massive wip, but i am weak and i love mostly neglected, minor characters, so i guess this is a tag drop for thoros of myr !

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CONT ; & @killthebxy (  jon s.  )

   THIS ONE IS INDEED A BATTLE JON CANNOT WIN, yet Thoros finds it endlessly endearing, the way some foolish people end up trying to outdrink him sometimes. Anguy tried it once and then vowed to never do it again the very next morning, dealing with the worst headache of his life  ——  Jon isn’t even trying, exactly, clever boy. Still, he is well on his way to being quite soundly drunk, while Thoros  —  though certainly not fully sober  —  would be able to keep his balance if he were to stand up, and there really is no magic behind it, he simply is used to drinking more than the boy and, he is ready to bet on it, more frequently.    Jon Snow does no such thing as toppling to the ground, but judging by Thoros’ reaction to his words he might as well have done just that since the man starts laughing so hard his lips curl into a wince, reminding him he has a very bandaged up chest he ought to be more mindful of.    « Lord? You might be drunker than I thought, lad. I’m hardly fit to be the voice of reason, but you’re going t’ really hate yourself in the morning if you keep at it. »   

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@thevictors​  (  melisandre  )  ♡’d for a starter

   MIND NUMB AND SIGHT FAILING HIM, Thoros knows only one thing : there is nothing poetic about snow  (  or the north, for that matter  ), not a single thing. He barely notices when the world tilts sideways and he falls from his horse, right into the white, wet and unbearably cold ground  ——  Thoros would laugh, he would really love to, but a sharp stab of pain makes him wheeze as his body helplessly shakes. It’s been like this for days, maybe weeks  ——  he has been feeling weaker and weaker, and he barely manages to hold something in his stomach before throwing up. Well, this is it, the end of the road. He is alone and freezing and it seems his last hours will be nothing but a haze of agony as his body finally makes him pay for all the shit he put it through. Should have seen this coming, really, yet out of the half useless things R’hllor ever showed him there has never been any sign of this. But then again, Thoros is not really thinking about the Lord of Light right now.     We’re almost there.   He can clearly imagine it, or maybe he is just hallucinating : Beric’s voice, as gentle as ever, a warm breeze. It wraps around him as he closes his eyes, ready to let go, to fall asleep and never come back from his slumber. A voice is actually trying to get to him  ——  Thoros, however, is already lost to the world and to what happens around him. Good, he doesn’t fight it. With Beric gone there’s hardly anything left to look forward to.