Robb Reyne

GENERAL INFORMATION
Username:/u/ThatLordOfCastamere

Name:Robb Reyne

Age:Not said

Culture/Kingdom:  Westerlander

Ambition:  Glory. Even if he knows it’s all bullshit. He wants to move beyond his bastardy, and so, of course, he chose the violent way of killing men.

Position within House:  The Lord of Castamere)

FAMILY

 * Reynard Reyne; deceased
 * Joy Reyne nee Westerling; deceased


 * Jon Reyne, 56; deceased, killed in the Crowfeeding; was once called the Red Lion


 * Robb Reyne, formerly Hill, 27; current Lord of Castamere; called the Bloody Lion, or, by those who dislike him: the Bloody Bastard
 * Rafford Reyne, 54; alive; called Rafford Hoodless after the death of his Banefort wife, the Laughing Lion before
 * Genna Reyne nee Banefort, 44; deceased


 * Robert Reyne, 22; alive
 * Alyn Reyne, 52; alive
 * Caster Reyne; deceased
 * Rohanne Reyne nee Westerling; deceased


 * Walton Reyne, 50; alive; called White-Eye Walton after he lost an eye during the Crowfeeding
 * Roderick Reyne, 49; alive; called Roddy.

APPEARANCE
Robb prides himself on his appearance, considering it “the only thing battle and bastardy has left pure” of him. He has dark, wavy hair that he often tucks behind his ears to keep his sight clear and facial hair that he keeps shaved to a stubble. His amber eyes are often considered the most expressive part of him, as his lips seem to be stuck in a permanent sneer no matter what happens. The only imperfection is a nasty scar that wraps from the right side of his neck, to the back, and then to the left side, which he hides with the collars of his doublets.

HISTORY
<p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:14px;line-height:1.42857142857143em;color:rgb(34,34,34);font-family:'SegoeUI',Frutiger,'FrutigerLinotype','DejavuSans','HelveticaNeue',Arial,sans-serif;border-radius:0px!important;">It is often said that at his birth, Robb Hill bit his father sharply upon the thumb in an attempt to steal pure blood to replace his own bastard blood. That he was so violent, so monstrous, that he wailed for hours and hours until his father Jon had to shove him in the deepest, darkest, coldest room in Castamere so that he could discuss with his mistress and brothers what to do with the boy without interruption. Of course, these are only rumors, but in the Westerlands, rumors are more valuable than gold, and ambition and malice grow longer than flowers.

<p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:14px;line-height:1.42857142857143em;color:rgb(34,34,34);font-family:'SegoeUI',Frutiger,'FrutigerLinotype','DejavuSans','HelveticaNeue',Arial,sans-serif;border-radius:0px!important;">His uncles, Rafford and Alyn, both had ambitions of their own, and his mother - Jon’s mistress - wanted to crush those ambitions beneath her heel by marrying Jon himself and have Robb inherit his father’s seat. Jon approached this on his own terms. He sent the mistress back to her home in Lannisport for having the audacity to request such a thing, but had his bastard child legitimized to Robb Reyne anyway, much to the outrage of his jealous brothers who’d both opted for having the boy thrown in the Sunset Sea. Jon’s faith in them had been long dead, ever since they’d failed to do anything of worth but complain and argue for their entire stay in Jon’s court, and so the idea of letting them take his castle was far less appetizing than chiseling and carving out his own capable, suitable heir from the only child that held his blood - even if it was half-whore as well.

<p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:14px;line-height:1.42857142857143em;color:rgb(34,34,34);font-family:'SegoeUI',Frutiger,'FrutigerLinotype','DejavuSans','HelveticaNeue',Arial,sans-serif;border-radius:0px!important;">Robb’s stay at Castamere was not hospitable in the least. Though he had protection given to him by his father, most of the Reyne family and court either ignored him or looked down at him for being the “Mongrel Lion”. His father tutored him personally to be a lord, while he was given his cousin White-Eye Walton to squire for. They both abused him, beat him if he did something wrong, threatened to have him killed, whipped, or tortured if he attempted anything “fit for his bastard blood.” But that was very little compared to the abuses of his uncles, and so he kept quiet and took kindness whenever he could get it. The only thing willing to give him any was milk of the poppy for his pains.

<p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:14px;line-height:1.42857142857143em;color:rgb(34,34,34);font-family:'SegoeUI',Frutiger,'FrutigerLinotype','DejavuSans','HelveticaNeue',Arial,sans-serif;border-radius:0px!important;">He proved his martial worth at several tourneys, though a septon refused to knight him due to his bastard blood, claiming the crown of flowers and bequeathing them upon the heads of those he’d cared to bed. Of course, these tourneys witnessed the disapproval of his father as well, as Robb had a dagger-sharp tongue that he used to poke around and insult enemies. One example with a Marbrand went as follows: <p style="margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:1em;line-height:1.42857142857143em;border-radius:0px!important;"><span style="font-weight:600;border-radius:0px!important;">Marbrand:  Have you ever actually used that blade you’re carrying?

<p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0px;font-size:1em;line-height:1.42857142857143em;border-radius:0px!important;"><span style="font-weight:600;border-radius:0px!important;">Robb:  To shave your sister’s hairy cunt before fucking her, I have. <p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:14px;line-height:1.42857142857143em;color:rgb(34,34,34);font-family:'SegoeUI',Frutiger,'FrutigerLinotype','DejavuSans','HelveticaNeue',Arial,sans-serif;border-radius:0px!important;">This resulted in a public tongue-lashing, finishing with Robb’s humiliation and an end to the insults and jabs which he still keeps buried beneath a pleasant facade.

<p style="margin-top:0.357142857142857em;margin-bottom:0.357142857142857em;font-size:14px;line-height:1.42857142857143em;color:rgb(34,34,34);font-family:'SegoeUI',Frutiger,'FrutigerLinotype','DejavuSans','HelveticaNeue',Arial,sans-serif;border-radius:0px!important;">Another thing he learned from his duels and tourneys was his love for fighting and sex. In the halls of Castamere he had been a jaoe, a name whispered either vehemently as he walked by or jokingly behind his back. In combat and bed, however, he was a god. A man to be feared. A name cheered and sung for in glorious songs in inns and taverns all across the Westerlands. There was no place for him in his future halls, perhaps, but in beds and battlefields, he could be dominant and unscorned. He could prove whatever worth he still had the means to clutch to his chest without his former bastardy as a hindrance, and so, when news came of Ironborn flooding the Westerlands in great numbers, he reportedly sneered.