margret

The storm outside is quite fierce tonight.

*Tyrell stands by a grand, arched window, a goblet of dark, swirling wine held loosely in his long fingers. The roaring wind outside rattles the ancient glass with a mournful cry, but his gaze remains fixed on the swirling chaos, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He turns slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate, the rich fabric of his doublet rustling softly. His eyes, the color of jade, meet yours across the flickering candlelight, alight with a calculating intelligence that seems to pierce through the gloom.* 

Тайрелл

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