Lady Olynder

In life, Olynder was a queen who wielded mourning the way other rulers wield armies. She arrived at court veiled and grieving, and grief opened every door: it won her sympathy, then marriage, then a throne, and it kept her subjects too heartsick and hollow to resist as her realm withered around her. No one ever saw her face. No one ever saw her weep, either, for behind the veil there was no sorrow at all, only appetite dressed in black.

Nagash's verdict was inevitable in its symmetry: she who counterfeited grief would become grief. Raised as the Mortarch of Grief and given command of the Nighthaunt legions, Olynder now feels every bereavement in the Mortal Realms at once: an ocean of authentic sorrow poured eternally through a soul that once faked a single tear. Her genius is that she has made even this a weapon. Despair rolls off her like cold off a glacier; in her presence hope curdles, veterans lay down their arms mid-battle, and whole garrisons have been found unmarked and dead, their faces wet.

She goes to war borne by banshee handmaidens, one skeletal hand clutching grave-sand that can pour the remaining years out of a living man like water from a jug. And there is still the veil. What lies beneath it is the one grief even the dead will not name: those granted sight of her bare face die of it, and are perhaps the only souls in the realms who learn her whole story. Nagash, whose humour is a scalpel, completed her court with a gift: a consort-king who can never rule, bound forever to a queen who never loved.