may you sit in the iron throne

What Your ASoIaF/GoT Problematic Fave Says About You

Tywin Lannister: You put a lot of stock into someone’s reputation. You’re interested in cults of personality. You wish you could be a bad ass take no nonsense say what you mean sort, but you are probably female, or otherwise too afraid of societal pushback. You either read celebrity gossip mags or a lot of historical accounts of people like Napoleon or Alexander the Great.

Randyll Tarly: You are probably a man, or just interested in views on gender and you appreciate the look into the mind of a person who adheres to strict gender roles. You appreciate rigidity and structure. You probably do not have children. You like anti-heroes. You have headcanons that aren’t accepted by the majority of your fandom but you will defend to the death anyway. You like realism, maybe a bit too much.

Stannis Baratheon: You pay more attention to what someone says than what they do. You enjoy listening to great orators. You like to read about great women in history and people ‘ahead of their time’. You write long tumblr discourse posts. You might get taken in by politicians. You like settings with old-timey aesthetics but social justice mores set either in the future or an alternate past. You are a feminist.

Joffrey Baratheon: You had a crush on Draco Malfoy as a teenager. You either are or are close to someone who has experienced abuse. You hate abusive parents and you have a lot of thoughts and advice on how to raise a child properly. You have a vested interest in stopping family violence, you might make tumblr posts about this. You are an adult now. You are probably one of those people who looks back at Harry Potter and thinks “they were only children!”

Robert Baratheon: You are or were a frat boy at some point. You unironically enjoy ‘bro-mances’. You probably think Rhaegar is a rapist. You don’t want anyone to sit the iron throne at the end of the series. You want to break the wheel. You probably don’t have strong political opinions, but if you do you are some degree of anarchist, or at least laissez-faire. You like bears.

Viserys Targaryen: You like woobie villains. You like a tragic backstory on your boys and pretty soulful eyes. You like AUs and alternate canon fic. You probably write fanfic, but probably not for game of thrones. You may be a teenager. If you are a teenager you are probably very open, but if you are not you are probably very reserved. You are a Targaryen stan.

Aerys Targaryen: You are probably mentally ill. You probably make tumblr posts about mental illness and the stigma of it. You yell at the television whenever a crime is blamed on mental illness. You watch Criminal Minds, but you probably do so critically. Either that or you are a psych major who likes to diagnose fictional characters with disorders neither you or anyone you know have.

Ramsay Bolton: You have read Fifty Shades of Grey one too many times or you are a total edgelord there is no in-between. You probably ship Thramsay. If you are a book reader you probably complain about the show’s portrayal of the Ramsay storyline and them making him too pretty. You like him the way he is. You find over the top villainy refreshingly honest. You don’t like to beat around the bush. 

Cersei Lannister: You are a feminist. You got tired of everyone bashing Cersei while giving all the above characters a pass. You roll your eyes whenever anyone tries to blame this on anything other than Cersei being a woman. You probably also like Sansa and Catelyn. You will come to the defense of anyone unjustly attacked even in real life. You believe in equality and fairness. You defend the ACLU and probably know a fair bit about the law.

Theon Greyjoy: You love redemption arcs. Just love them. You probably watch cartoons as an adult. You still go on TV tropes. Don’t worry, I won’t link you.

Roose Bolton: I don’t even know. You are a mystery. No one knows you. Maybe you don’t even know yourself.

Walder Frey: You have a million kids

anonymous asked:

So you're saying that the throne is not for dany to rule or her family when they basically created the whole thing. The targaryen made the throne and westerns as we now so yes she has every right to claim the throne who belonged to her family for centuries

I’ll give you that they created the Iron Throne, but let me ask you this, what good has the Iron Throne done for Westeros? It’s gone from mad Targ ruler to mad Targ ruler, intermittent with temporary moments of peace, only to be given to a negligent Robert, then to the Lannisters. The Iron Throne in this narrative is representative of the same absolute power that the Ring possesses in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. It’s an allegory for how power can corrupt. At least just looking at the current timeline of events since Aerys the Mad King, no one on the Iron Throne has deserved to sit there.

And the Targaryens may have united the Seven Kingdoms but they did so against the will of the Seven Kingdoms. The only reason most of the kingdoms bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror was for fear of their people being burnt alive. The North, for instance, under King Torrhen was perfectly content to be an independent nation. They didn’t want to be ruled by a foreign king who has no understanding of their culture and way of life. They’re different from the other nations. They have a different way of life, different religion, etcetc. For Aegon to come and try to unite these separate kingdoms wasn’t an act of benevolent peace, it was an act of conquering, of taking what doesn’t belong to him and claiming it as his own, simply because he can. 

The Targs were foreign violent invaders. And although they may have made a home of Westeros, Dani has never been apart of that home. She grew up overseas, which is through no fault of her own, but it doesn’t negate the fact that she is now a foreign violent invader as well. She arrived in Westeros with 3 dragons just like Aegon the Conqueror did, trying to take what does not belong to her. 

Because here’s the thing, even if overthrowing a previous regime is enough to stake someone’s claim on Westeros then Dani has absolutely zero right to the Iron Throne. The Targs were overthrown by Robert Baratheon during his rebellion. He took the Iron Throne from their family and claimed it for his. The Targs, therefore, no longer have any rightful claim on the throne. 

Dani can’t say she is the rightful ruler simply because her family were ‘unjustly’ overthrown when her ancestors literally did the very same thing to the Seven Kingdoms to create an Iron Throne in the first place. And it wasn’t as if her family were innocent leading up to the Rebellion either. Aerys went mad trying to burn everyone he can and Rhaegar ‘kidnapped’ Lyanna Stark. It doesn’t matter if he didn’t actually kidnap her; the fact is they ran off without telling a single soul, an insult on House Baratheon and House Stark. Dani can’t ask forgiveness for her ancestors’ mistakes by distancing herself from House Targaryen while still trying to assert their power and dominance over the Seven Kingdoms.

It’d be like… Britain suddenly going to India and being like ‘I’m so sorry for what we did to your people by colonising you. Please forgive us while also accepting our rule over you once more since we did it before and therefore it’s our right.’ It doesn’t work that way. Westeros never belonged to the Targaryens and they took it back from them. You can’t say that it belonged to the Targs for centuries so it’s, therefore, their right either because the British colonised India for over 300 years and the Targs colonised Westeros for nearly 300 years. And we can all say with twenty-first-century clarity that the British occupation of India was fucked up and inherently wrong. 

So long story short: no. Dani has no right to the throne. 

fanfic; jon/daenerys (game of thrones)

Title: War of hearts.
Summary: She finds her heart on a boat. Ficlet post episode 6 (spoilers)
Notes: I cannot believe I’m in this deep. 

Nobody revised this. 

(also writing Dany is so hard).

Read on ao3 or below:

His scars are etched behind her eyelids.

She sleeps in strange intervals, in between thoughts of the rude marks on his ivory chest and the pain swallowing what is left of her heart. The emptiness spreading inside her presses against her ribcage, screeching to get out. She dreams of red; blood and death.

Keep reading

  • Them: Daenerys is not strong. She is a bitch. How dare she speak to Jon Snow like that? She doesn't deserve the throne. She is boring af and insignifant.

While everyone is cheering for Daenerys or weeping for the Lannisters, I would just like to say that winter as arrived in Westeros. The summer has been a little over 10 years long. The Reach has been growing that food to sell to the rest of Westeros. Cersei seized that 10 years worth of harvest. Dany was worried about not being able to feed her people because of that, so she attacked the Lannister/Tarly army. 


Now she may have believed it was the gold or weapons, what have you. It may not have been malicious, it may have been. She may have burnt that food on purpose, she may not have. I don’t know. Regardless, the food is gone, no one is eating it. That was 10 years worth of wheat, barley, grain. The food meant to feed Westeros. 

Winter is there, they don’t have the time and now the men or resources to regrow ten years worth of food. In the end, it looks like this. It doesn’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne. It doesn’t even matter if they beat the Night King. Without food, hundreds of thousands if not millions are going to starve during the course of winter. In the end, the words of Varys ring truer than ever: 

“Why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones?“ 

Daenerys, Cersei, Tyrion, Randyll, Jaime. They have made war, they play their game of thrones, and now the poor, and the innocent will have to suffer because of it. 

Recovered Jonsa Fic #18: I’ve Only Ever Loved...

Next on my fic repost project!…

Anonymous asked: Littlefinger sneaks into Jon’s room to find incriminating evidence to use against him, but has to hide in a closet when Jon returns early to bed an unknown woman. He is horrified when he finally recognizes the woman.

HELLO HELLO do you remember when petyr killed lyssa, he told her “i only love one woman.. your sister” can you do one where karma is a bitch and sansa told him she only loves jon and then push him through the moon door? :D

Decided to kill two prompts with one fic. Kind of.

Normally, Petyr would not get his hands dirty.

Things are desperate.

But Sansa has forgiven and continued to love the bastard, despite his ascension at her expense. She is by his side every day, supporting his kingship, facilitating his reign. She drafts his letters and edicts, she holds court with him, she monitors and moderates the accounts. She bloody commissioned and designed his bloody crown, and crowned him herself before all the vassals of the North and the Knights of the Vale out in the bloody godswood.

Since the news of the Frey Massacre, she has been reaching out to every lord in the Riverlands to help her recover her uncle, reinstall him in Riverrun, and secure their loyalties to the new King in the North. Her brother Robb had been named King of the Trident as well. She seeks the same title for the Bastard, despite the lack of a single drop of Tully blood in his veins.

Sansa is not stupid, though, she knows that getting the Riverlands to swear fealty to the product of Ned Stark dis honoring Catelyn Tully is a long shot, so she proposes to make Edmure a king as well.

A similar proposition is put to her cousin in the Vale. With the Knights of the Vale having cried out King in the North as well, with so many of them still in the North, including Bronze Yohn Royce, she has an easier go of it. She entertains them, trying to get these men to write to their young lord and convince him to swear allegiance to Jon of House Stark, First of His Name, King in the North.

She’s legitimized him formally. The bastard, despite his title, has proclaimed Sansa the Head of the House Stark proper, claiming to be of a “branch house” himself. He has proclaimed her Lady of Winterfell, Lady of the Dreadfort, his Hand, his designated regent, and his heir. So, he may be King, but “Princess” Sansa rules the Royal seat, holds more land than any lord of the North while the king is a branch Stark who holds no land of his own (the spoils of the conquered traitors of Umber and Karstark given to the “Free Folk” and House Mormont as rewards for their loyalty). The chains of command are scrambled, and Sansa is queen in all but name. And the King has gone out of his way to leave no doubt about that in the minds of the North.

So she is by his side, ruling with him, helping him avoid or fix his idiot mistakes, securing his throne, building his war. She even has a throne crafted for him, styled like the Lord of Winterfell’s chair which she herself sits: a seat of bronze and steel, with cushions of silver and ivory brocade. She places it beside her seat. The only difference between the two is that the image of the direwolf’s head that rises up atop the back of the chair wears a crown like the one she also had made for him. He sits a throne now, with her by his side.

Petyr wishes to scream and gnash his teeth. He goes to her in the godswood once more, finding her sitting upon her preferred low branch perch, embroidery hoop in her lap.  He tells her that the Bastard has stolen her birthright, that he’s using her, that she should not trust her half-brother, that he has taken the power and position that should rightfully be hers and that she should not follow him.

She laughs in his face at this. “You may have brought me the men I needed, Petyr, but in return I have kept your secrets. And every one of your ambitions for me, every one of your plots, have involved carting me off somewhere to be someone’s prisoner. First it was my aunt in the Vale, then married off to Ramsay. Your ‘dream’ for me is you sitting on the Iron Throne with me by your side. I presume as your queen? Yes, such power, security, influence, and happiness you offer me, leaving the home that is everything I have yearned, suffered, and fought for since my father was arrested standing beside you in the same place where my father was killed and Joffrey had me stripped and beaten in public for his amusement, to be queen to you. Just as Naerys was queen to Aegon the Unworthy, as Rhaelle was queen to Aerys the Mad, just as Daena the Defiant and her sisters were to Baelor the Blessed, just as Ceryse Hightower, Tyanna of Pentos, and Arys Harroway were to Maegor the Cruel, just as I was ‘Wardeness’ to Ramsay. You promise me everything I am too wise to ever want again.”

“You would be the Alysanne to my Jaehaerys the Wise!” He insists. She laughs again.

“Yes, because you have proven yourself an honorable, honest man, especially where I and my role in your machinations go. You claimed to take me home, you take me to the Vale. You say you’ll take me to the Fingers to be safe, you take me elsewhere. You speak of a marriage proposal, and wait until we are all the way to Moat Cailin to tell me you’re going to marry me off to the son of my brother’s killer. You tell me that the plan is for me to no longer be on the sidelines, act, and take revenge, but give me no means to do it, and leave me there without protection, your only plans being ‘wait until Stannis wins and if he does not, make Ramsay mine and end up continuing and legitimizing the Boltons and their hold on Winterfell just as they want.’ You leave me to be locked away, tortured and raped in a dark room, taking no measures to make sure that the family that betrayed and murdered mine, that literally had the flayed man as their sigil, would not mistreat me. You promised to make me Lady of Winterfell and Wardenness of the North, taking back my family home. But instead you almost made me into my mortal enemie’s plaything and brood mare.”

“The North is rightfully yours!”

“You didn’t feel like speaking up and saying so that day in the Great Hall when they proclaimed Jon king, so clearly you’re not all that committed to it. Now Jon, on the other hand… He could have used that opportunity to marry me off, as you did. He’d bind the loyalty of a House to him, he’d have me out of the way to secure a hold on Winterfell and do away with my claim. But he didn’t. In fact, he did the things you promised. He had it set in stone that not only Winterfell and the prime authority of House Stark was mine, but also took the marriage I suffered thanks to you, and used it to give me yet more power, wealth, and security by giving their lands to me and making me the largest landowner and most powerful vassal in the North. He named me Hand so that I’d carry all of the authority of the crown, and named me his designated regent so my rule would continue even when he is not around to reinforce it. He’s named me his heir, so that a crown may end up being mine regardless. He puts actual power, actual affairs, in my hands. He tells me everything, everything he is planning, and plans with me. He has granted me information and powers no one else has. He is only at Winterfell because I urged him to. And while I am by the side of a king, it is in a seat of authority of my own, with full independence of my own. Thanks to Jon and what he’s done, no one arrange for me to wed but myself, no one can tell me where to go or what to do but myself, no one can dismiss me again, or shut me out of power. I hold authority in my own right, something no one has ever, ever offered me, let alone given.”

He shakes his head. “He’s using you. After a few years of your unwavering support, he won’t need to keep you happy anymore. And then… I thought you’d be smart enough to realize that he could easily strip you of it all the moment it becomes convenient to him.”

“It already can and would be. He didn’t even have to give me the Dreadfort. He could have used it to draw the loyalty of some other vassal. No one would have batted an eye. I certainly wouldn’t have. I actually advised him to do exactly that. But he gave it to me for no other reasons than that he loves me, wants me to have something for all I suffered, and cares about my rights and well-being above his ambitions. He marched an army of two thousand against an army of six thousand for me.”

“It was the forces I brought that won that battle.” He hisses furiously.

“We both know you have every reason to give me what I need that has nothing to do with love. I could have secured those forces from you by threatening to tell Yohn Royce or my cousin or any number of Vale Lords the truth about you.” Her eyes narrow. “I have kept these secrets for you, Littlefinger. Even though you do not deserve it. Yet you have the nerve to try and turn me against Jon and call him untrustworthy.”

Petyr sneers. “You think him a hero. But no one is, Sansa. You should know that by now. If you don’t realize it soon, it will be too late.”

But she dismisses him with a wave of her hand.

There has to be some proof. There has to be. Sansa is naive to think the Bastard is an open book with her, but everyone has secrets. He needs to find the Bastard’s.

Unfortunately, setting up a suitable network in Winterfell is harder than he anticipated. Most of his personal men are of the Vale, and they already don’t trust him. The Northerners are absurdly loyal. It was the Starks who saved them from the cruelty of the Boltons, and they have been well-treated since. They will not risk that.

So it has to be him.

An opportunity comes, of course, when the king announces a week long trip to patrol and survey the Wolfswood. Bloody Bastard still acts more as a ranger of the Night’s Watch than a king. Sansa falls ill two days after he departs, leaving the regency of Winterfell to Ser Davos Seaworth and the court out of sorts enough for one’s actions to easily go unnoticed.

Actions like acquiring a key to the king’s chambers and sneaking in there to find or plant whatever he needs to make Sansa realize the truth. It takes a few days to get the key, but it is worth it.

When he enters the man’s apartments, he cannot help but scoff. His own guest quarters, though smaller, are more luxurious. The Bastard gave Sansa the Lord of Winterfell’s chambers, and took the rooms that belonged to the late Robb Stark instead. There is a solar crammed full of weapons and armor, with worn out drapes and rugs, marked maps lining the walls in place of tapestries or art, and meager wooden chairs by the fireplace. As unkingly a set of rooms as could exist.

He looks around a bit to find no papers, no real useful personal effects, and ventures into the bedchamber. The bastard’s bed is clearly one he inherited from his half-brother too: though it is not a child’s bed, it’s not especially large. Clearly built for an unmarried adolescent. The drapings, at least, look new. But they’re not overly grand. Grey embroidery on white wool. Even the desk, piled high with papers, is far too small.

The trappings of power had their use. Too bad the bastard was too proud of his own supposed humility to see that.

Petyr heads right for the desk and begins shuffling through them, scanning everything at top speed. The desk is such a mess it makes it quick and easy: there’s no way the bastard will notice that anything’s been disturbed.

Half an hour later, and Petyr has found nothing that serves his purposes yet. Letter drafts that say all manner of things that are of no use to him. Edicts. Accounts with no discrepencies. Nearly all of it had at least a few notes in Sansa’s elegant script. He scowls and eyes a desk drawer. It’s locked, but he can pick it. He justs needs a little—

A thudding sound startles him, as do footsteps. Petyr freezes. He cannot be found. He eyes the bastard’s wardrobe and hurries in, burying himself behind doublets and tunics. It’ll serve for however long this servant will take. He leaves the wardrobe open just a crack and looks out. There are voices as whoever it is opens the door. He hears the voice when the door opens. No… It can’t be…

“…Desperate for this…”
It’s hard to see much, but there he is: the Bastard. The supposed King in the North. The dutiful white wolf, not on his scheduled patrol, but backing into his bedchamber with swollen lips as he yanks off his doublet. There are smacking sounds. Petyr wishes to get a better look, but moving too much is too great a risk.

But still, this is interesting. This, potentially, is leverage. Sansa would be very interested to hear that her honorable, honest, dutiful brother was shirking his duties to bed some whore.

Petyr moves as much as he can to follow the small sliver of the couple he can see across the room. He watches as the woman backs her kings toward the bed. For all her kirtle is ugly, common brown wool, she has a lovely curtain of crimson hair. Petyr had heard about the wildling woman. Apparently the man still had a preference for redheads. It seemed they had one thing in common. He watches as the bastard loses his tunic and kicks off his boots, as the whore quickly unlaces the front of her kirtle and lets it pool at her feet, revealing long, shapely legs, a glorious arse, and a disquieting array of scars marring the porcelain skin of her back.

Their mouths are glued to one another until the whore brings the Bastard to the foot of the bed and pushes him down on it, forcing him on his back. The Bastard grins as the whore moves away from his lips to pull his breeches down of his legs. She takes the smallclothes he wears too, and a Petyr gets a quick glimpse of the Bastard’s cock. It’s bigger than his.

The whore climbs up onto the bed and kneels beside him, squealing. “Finally!”

The Bastard chuckles. “Eager, are we?”

“No more than you are, My King.”

Petyr’s blood runs cold. No… It can’t be…

“True.” The Bastard gazes up at the whore in downright reverence and reaches for her hips, drawing her over him and upwards, towards his mouth. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve longed to—”

“To what? Jon, what are you—– OH! OHHHHH!”

She’s straddling not his hips, but his head. She cries out his name. She shouts. She writhes. Petyr keeps telling himself that it’s not her. It can’t be her.

But then she throws her head back. For a few seconds, there’s her face, and Petyr can deny it no longer. It’s her. It’s truly her.

He’s lost another Tully girl. And this time, she prefers her brother to him, in literally every sense.

It’s worse than Brandon. Catelyn chose Brandon to marry, as per her father’s wishes. Sansa… Sansa has chosen Jon based on nothing. He is her brother. It is a risk, not a duty. Still, she rejects Petyr in favor of being bedded out of wedlock by her brother.

No wonder he has such a hold on her.

Petyr stares, mouth agape, as Sansa throws her head back once more, hands between her legs, and cries out even louder than before. There is a look on her face of something within her snapping in the most delicious way.

That should be a face she makes for him, and him alone. He sees the Bastard’s hands on her hips, slowing urging her down his body as she quivers. When her hips come close to his, she kisses him. “I love you,” she says to her brother, “And I need you inside me. I’ve waited too long.”

How long has he dreamed, ached, yearned to hear her say those exact words? And to hear it like this, said to him.

The Bastard’s hands stay planted on her hips as she eases herself down. She moans, grabs his hands, plants them on her breasts, and begins to ride him like a stallion.

Petyr can look no longer. He shuts his eyes and covers his ears, trying to muffle the sound of their cries, willing for himself to wake from this nightmare. But it keeps going and going. The sounds get ever louder, ever more passionate. Surely this is one of the Seven Hells.

Their cries reach a certain pitch and end. It’s over, yes, but Petyr still feels bile rush to his mouth. It is over because the Bastard has finished. Even now, his seed was being released within Sansa, filling her, possibly to succeed where Ramsay’s failed and find purchase within her. And then what?

He almost hopes it happens. So that Sansa can see what this man has truly done for her. So she can come crawling to him, probably to get him to marry her so she can pass her bastard off as his. She’ll have to be married off after all.

Petyr opens his eyes and uncovers his ears, waiting and watching for when they finally get up, get dressed, and leave. Perhaps… Perhaps he can use this. Expose them. Or threaten them, anyways.

Sansa remains sitting atop her brother. The Bastard reaches up and plays with her hair.

“Gods…” He gasps, “Look at you, brave as you are beautiful. My Queen. My wife.”

Petyr almost collapses at that. No. Not possible.
Sansa giggles and moves to lie down next to him, curling up to her brother. She wags a dainty finger at him. “Not quite yet, King Jon. We still must wait a bit.”

Petyr feels his mouth fall open. What can they possibly mean? Surely, they didn’t dare. They were Starks, not Targaryens. There was no way in the Seven Hells the Northerners would accept this.

The Bastard grunts in indignation, looking into her eyes and stroking her hair. “For Lord Reed and the announcement and Bran and the lords to all assemble before the stupid bloody Heart Tree so that we might say a few words that somehow make our love more legitimate somehow. But sod them all. I’ve made my choice, so have you. How are you not my wife already? If I wish to call you such when we’re alone, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. You’re in my arms already, in my bed….” He trails off, then cups her cheek. “…My brave girl. I almost didn’t… After what happened to you… You know you didn’t have to, right? I’d wait a hundred years for you to—”

“You did as I asked, My Love. You stayed beneath me, kept your eyes on mine, spoke my name. I am not going to let Ramsay take this away from me. He doesn’t get to be a barrier to my happiness anymore. With you, he can’t be. You’re you. And I… I wanted this. I wanted to feel good. I wanted to prove to myself that what he did couldn’t keep me from loving the way I wish to.” She grins and squirms. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing this with you.”

Petyr’s mind races. He tries to piece their words together. Lord Reed? Howland Reed, obviously. Old friend of Ned Stark’s. And.. Did the Bastard say ‘Bran’? If he meant their brother Bran, the one the Lannisters crippled, then… But Bran was missing, likely dead, was he not?

“Mmmmm.” The Bastard grins. “I’m so happy he accepted it. You don’t think he saw it, do you? And that’s why he understands?”

“It’s possible.” She shudders. “I’m so afraid for him, Jon. I hate that we have to do this. But… Gods, what could possibly have been done to him? Things like this… They don’t come without a price.”

Petyr’s eyes narrow. What could they possibly be talking about?

“I know,” replies the Bastard, sighing, “I sometimes wonder if the only reason I’m alive is because the Red Woman burned Shireen. She thought she was doing it for Stannis’s victory, but what if really it was meant to give her the power to bring me back?”

“You mustn’t blame yourself for that, Jon, please don’t. You have no control over it.”

“But if so, what’s Bran’s price? He’s lost his legs, his wolf, his home, his parents, his brothers, what more could possibly be taken from him?”

“Perhaps he’s already paid his price.”

The Bastard shudders. “The gods are cruel, either way. But… The best thing we can do for him is to keep this a secret for as long as we can. At least until he figures out what it all means.”

“Right. Which is why we must wait. Lord Reed arrives in Winterfell with his daughter, tells everyone the truth about you, then Bran can come home with no shocking, inexplicable revelations that would make people think he’s anything but a normal boy who has simply been through horrible things. Bran arrives a fortnight after everyone knows the truth, we can make our announcement in a timely manner, and all the lords of the North can see our decision validated by our little brother’s approval. And then…” She strokes his chest, “We’ll be wed before the eyes of gods and men.”

He takes her hand and kisses it. “Mine. Forever. No one else’s. I’ll be able to take care of you for the rest of your life.”

Her smile falters slightly. “I hope. If you come back to me.”

“Sansa, you know I must…”

“I know. And I won’t let it ruin this right now. We have so little time.” She pauses. “But… I hope you’ve seeded me. I hope I’m with child as soon as possible. If I am, maybe I’ll be able to have it in time before you leave, and so, at the very least, you can go into battle having met your child. You deserve that.”

Petyr wants to die. She truly loves the Bastard. Loves him madly. How?

The Bastard pulls her closer. “You know, before the battle with Ramsay, I told Melisandre not to bring me back. If we lost, there was nothing to come back for. Not if I’d failed you. And I thought it was wrong for me to return. Unnatural. But… I swear to you. I am never making such a request again. I’ll march off to war with a dozen Red Priests, come back a thousand times if it means coming back to you. I swear it.”

“You had better keep that vow, Jon Snow. You can break vows to anyone or anything you like, but not to me.”

The Bastard smiles. “You were who my vows were meant for. Not the Watch, not the bloody winter crown. You. You and the life we’ll create together.”

Petyr still wants to vomit. But he also still wants to know what is happening. What secrets have they been keeping? Bran returning? Magic? Marriage? What was happening? What was this truth they were speaking of?

He has to know. He has to know. He has to—-

He doesn’t even realize he’s moved. Not until he falls. Falls, crashing out of the wardrobe onto the floor.

In seconds, he’s on his back and there is a crushing weight bearing down on his throat. Sansa screams. The Bastard is on top of him, glaring at him, his forearm crushing Petyr’s windpipe.

There’s a long, semi-silent moment, where the two men glare at one another. It is broken by Sansa calling for Jon to let him up. “I must speak to him.”

He gasps for air as the Bastard gets up and pulls him to his feet to face her.

She sits up in the bed, magnificent. Her knees are close to her chest, and from the chest down she is covered by furs and linens. Her red hair is loose and gloriously mussed, her lips swollen, her eyes bright and so very, very blue, her porcelain skin ever so slightly flushed. How many times has he dreamt of seeing her in exactly this state?

But she looks upon him coldly. “This is an issue, isn’t it, Littlefinger? You heard every word. Now, what is to be done with you?”

A chill runs down his spine. He realizes, at this moment, that there is no hope. That there hasn’t been any hope since the day he wrote Roose Bolton. Not only is there no chance in all of the world that Sansa Stark will ever love him, but that she loathes him. She’s likely loathed him ever since Ramsay first laid his hands on her. Perhaps even longer.

He realizes, now, that she has no reason not to kill him. That she would, gladly. Perhaps she’s simply been waiting for the right moment.

Perhaps that moment has arrived.

“Sansa…” He says, “You don’t understand… Can’t you see? How is he any different? He wants you just as I want you. He sees you just as I see you. He’s your brother, and he’s seduced you! He’s reduced you to being your own brother’s whore!”

His nose breaks under the force of the Bastard’s fist. He doubles over and clutches it, trying to stem the flow of blood. And she laughs.

She laughs.

“It seems with each passing year, Lord Baelish, you grow more of a fool and more of a hypocrite. One would think a brothel keeper would know what a whore is. A person whose body is sold to someone for money or services, usually sold by some sort of pimp. You put me in Ramsay Bolton’s bed in exchange for an alliance with the Boltons. You’re the most prolific pimp in Westeros. You did more to make me your whore than Jon ever could. You just were so sloppy in your efforts that you gained nothing from it. I was with Ramsay because of a pimp. I am with Jon because I want to be. Not for any goods or services, not for the profit of someone like you. Because I yearned for his touch. He made me his lover, not his whore. And soon, he’ll make me his wife as well.”

Petyr straightens up and spits some blood. “If you think for a second that’s true, then you truly are a stupid girl who never learns. You both know that if you two tried to wed, the Northern Lords would rip you apart for incest. Unless they’re Targaryens, not even a king can get away with wedding his sister.”

The two lovers exchange glances, then burst into laughter. It hurts as much as the punch. Fury grips him.


Sansa smirks. “That ‘truth’ we were discussing earlier? The one Lord Reed is supposed to reveal? It’s about Jon. He’s not my brother after all.”

Petyr freezes. “What?! Of course he is! He’s Ned Stark come again! Look at him!”

“Aye, I look very much like my uncle. I got my mother’s Stark looks,” says the Bastard, his lip curling.


“Remember my Aunt Lyanna? Remember what happened to her?”

And it all comes together. Petyr stares at the Bastard, scanning every inch of him. Trying to recall everything he can from that day at Harrenhal all of those years ago.

And when he looks this closely, he sees it. It’s not obvious, but it’s there. The shape of the eyebrows, the cheekbones, the jawline, the lips, the way the hair curls… Even the way he’s seen the Bastard move is Rhaegar Targaryen come alive again, now that he thinks of it.

He steps back, gaping. So that’s it. Sansa grins. “You always prided yourself on knowing secrets. But I’m afraid that’s the last one you can be permitted. We’ve been tolerating you long enough, Baelish. I’ve let you live after what you did to me. But now you may endanger my loved ones as well. I can’t permit that.”

Petyr tries, tries so hard to get to the door. But the Bastard is faster, stronger than he is. He’s yanked by the collar, he’s flying towards a bedpost, and then…
He wakes, freezing, lying in the snow. He opens his eyes to find himself lying atop the ramparts of Winterfell, Sansa and the Bastard standing over him. The Bastard yanks him to his feet and pushes him to the rail, holding him over the edge.

“I am about to kill you, Petyr Baelish,” The Bastard informs him, “I’m going to throw you off the wall and you are going to fall to your death. And we’ll say it was an accident. And while it will look suspicious, no one will care. You know why? Because there isn’t a single person in the North that doesn’t distrust or outright detest you. There’s not a person in the world that will care that you’re dead. And they will care even less when Sansa here, finally no longer having to be afraid of you, admits what you did to the world. What you did to Joffrey, to Lysa Arryn, to her. And then everyone will celebrate your death, then forget all about you. And Sansa and I will marry, because there’s nothing in this world either of us want more than each other. We’ll win this war and fill Winterfell with our red-headed children. We will rule the North and be remembered for centuries to come. The only thing sung of more than our heroism in destroying the White Walkers will be of our love. And no one, no one, will ever speak the name ‘Petyr Baelish’ again. All you did to win, all you did to harm others, it brings you to losing everything you ever wanted, and dying on Stark soil. Brandon Stark’s nephew finishing the job he should have all those years ago. Only this time, the Tully girl you’ve lost to him can’t wait to see your corpse.”

Sansa walks over, smiling. “I’m sorry, Littlefinger, but whatever you may have wanted to believe, the truth is, I’ll only ever love one man. My brother, Jon.”

And with that, he flies.


Robb and Arianne for @simke01 ! My first time writing this pairing! Sorry it took so long lol 

I really need to reread the Arianne chapters again-she’s such an interesting character and it’s really a pity that they didn’t put her in the show. 

Dorne bakes in the early morning heat. It’s a living thing, seeping through the back of Robb’s armor and making his skin stick to his back with sweat. But he continues walking, knowing they’ll reach Sunspear before midday-the promise of water draws him forward. Of course, there are many reasons why he shouldn’t be here; many reasons why he shouldn’t be allying with the Dornish. But the Lannisters are growing stronger every day, and since what happened to Elia Martell there’s been no love between the two families. 

He wishes that Jon was with him, just to pass the time. But his half brother, his second in command, is somewhere in Essos-trying to guarantee an alliance with a dragon instead of a viper.

Robb feels he took the more dangerous creature. A dragon can burn you alive, sure, but a viper can poison your insides before you realize that anything’s wrong. A quick death compared to a long and slow poison. 

Sunspear rises up in front of him like a mirage in the desert, gleaming brightly in the sun. It’s impressive, and strikingly golden against a bowl of blue-white sky; he has to blink through the sand that rises from his horse’s hooves to look at it. 

“A pity that Doran Martell died,” Smalljon Umber says, riding next to him and reaching up every couple of minutes to wipe at the sweat that beads his forehead. “I hear he was a good man and a fair ruler.”

“Doran Martell didn’t want war. His daughter, Arianne…she may be open to the idea.” It’s barely anything, but it’s what they have to go on. After what happened at the Red Wedding…the rage sings in his veins. They need all of the allies they can get.

Two young girls clothed in the simple garb of the Dornish rush to open the doors for their horses, looking up at them with curious eyes. The sigil of the Martells is emblazoned over their shoulders and he suspects they must be the younger of Oberyn Martell’s daughters. He nods to each of them and they nod back, faces expressionless. 

The inner courtyard is ringed with guards, dressed in the Dornish armor. And there, in the center of the courtyard, stand five women and one man in loose and flowing Dornish dress. He assumes the woman in the center must be Princess Arianne; her long dark hair tangles in the wind and hangs down her back in an unruly plait, her golden dress leaves one shoulder bared, and a silver circlet adorns her forehead. She smiles when she sees him, politely, the smile of one ruler to another. “Robb Stark. I am grateful you’re here.”

He inclines his head, just slightly. “Princess Arianne. We meet at last.”

She gestures to the women beside her; one is older than the other three, perhaps in her thirties or forties, while the others are Arianne’s age or younger. “My cousins, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene-and their mother, Lady Ellaria Sand.” The Sand Snakes, as he’s often heard them called, do not bow to him but they eye him curiously, as if unsure what to make of a northerner. He wonders if they’ve ever seen any northerners, apart from the few merchants who come from White Harbor to trade. “And my brother, Trystane.” Trystane’s eyes are hard as flint. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies.” He introduces his bannermen one by one; they all look uncomfortable and out of place in their heavy armor. Few of them made the journey; the others are holding down Winterfell until he can return, keeping the Lannister forces at bay with everything they’ve got. 

Arianne’s smile is polite, but certain-she has the advantage, the familiar territory, and she knows it. “Come inside, please. It’s a very long journey south. And then we can discuss your proposal.”

The meal is tense; it’s almost too hot to eat. The Dornish food is hot and spicy; the Dornish eat it easily, but Robb can’t take more than a few bites without reaching for his water glass. They barely talk; the silence hangs fraught with tension around them. The younger girls watch from a distance; one of them is playing with a snake and Robb watches as she lets it wind around her arm calmly. She can’t be older than eight or nine, barely older than Bran-but she has no fear of the snake. 

Eventually, when the Northeners have eaten all that they can stomach, Arianne stands. “My guards will escort you to your rooms; you may draw yourself a bath and rest after your days of travel. I will speak with the King in the North myself.” Dacey Mormont opens her mouth, as if to protest, but the Princess continues. “We will speak in my study, alone, as a show of good faith.” 

Dacey shoots him a look and Robb shrugs. What can he do? It wouldn’t do to upset their potential allies now, when they’ve barely met. 

He follows Arianne to her study-a room lined with books and a couple of hardbacked wooden chairs looking out at the swirling sand. “I appreciate you allowing me to meet with you, my Princess.”

She smiles at him. It’s a lovely smile but there’s an edge to it-like a snake. He’s reminded of the old stories of Nymeria and her 10,000 ships, how she sailed down the Rhoynar with her people and eventually settled in what is now Dorne. Perhaps the blood of Nymeria even now runs in her veins. “The Crown will find no allies in Dorne. Not after what she did to my aunt and uncle.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Oberyn Martell-”

She waves a hand dismissively, although the look in her eyes is downcast. “My uncle was always impulsive, always taking stupid risks. We all loved him, when we were children-my siblings and cousins; we all clamored to be his favorites. He would come home from faraway lands with stories and treasures galore…but he always missed Elia and always blamed himself for her death. I pray he is at peace now.” 

“Your father, Doran…he never wanted war?”

She nods. “In truth…I don’t either. But I feel that we may not have a choice. Your war isn’t going well in the North, is it?”

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “It could be worse. We’re still recovering from the Red Wedding…” The wedding that claimed the lives of his mother, his wife, his wolf, his unborn son…and some of the best fighters the North had to offer. 

There is genuine sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry. To take advantage of a guest right is no light crime. From the reports I heard, you’re lucky to still be alive.”

“I am…and what the Lannisters did cannot stand. But we’ll lose the war if you don’t have allies.”

“So you come to the Dornish. What do you fight for?”

“Independence. A world where we are not ruled by the Iron Throne but are seven kingdoms separately-like the days before Aegon’s Conquest. An independent North…and an independent Dorne. A kingdom where you could be called Queen Arianne instead of Princess, if you so desired.”

“At the cost of what? Hundreds of thousands of innocents?” She shakes her head. “You may think my father weak…but he wanted to keep his people safe. I don’t know of any ruler who can begrudge their people safety.”

“And we’re safe now? In a world where the crown can take our money, our ships, our armies? You’ve heard the tales of King Joffrey just as I have. He has my sisters. He killed my father. As long as he sits the Iron Throne, none of us are safe. We’ll never be safe.”

“I assume you need armies?”

“As many as you can send.” 

She crosses her arms and shifts in her seat, as if trying to get a better look at him to take his measure. “Many of my men have never left this kingdom, much less made a journey so far north. It might be hard to convince them. We’re used to the sun.”

“When winter comes…it comes for us all.” He doesn’t tell her what Jon told him, news from the Wall-about dead men walking. He isn’t sure that he believes it himself, and he’s not willing to jeopardize an alliance over it. “You could get vengeance, for your family.”

Her eyes narrow. “Vengeance won’t bring back my uncle, or my aunt. It only destroys lives. If you want me to fight for your cause, you’ll need a better claim than vengeance.” 

He tries to think; he’s not sure what he’d expected from the Dornish princess, but Arianne is different. You remind me of my sister, Arya. She was-is-strong willed too. “No vengeance then. But you know as well as I do that war is coming, and you can only afford neutrality for so long. If the Crown crushes the North it only makes them more powerful. And when the time comes when they come for you…they may be too strong. Even if you surrender…you know how the Lannisters are. They’ll crush you.” 

She’s silent for a long moment, thinking. Finally she stands up, letting her fingers trail along the spines of old books with gold lettering as she opens the door to the study. “Very well. I’ll think about it and talk it over with my advisors. You are free to clean up as you see fit.” 

It’s an abrupt dismissal, though he supposes he should have expected nothing less. This is a last minute meeting after all. “You’re very kind, Princess.”

She turns to look at him-her dark eyes are like wells; if he’s not careful he thinks he could fall inside of them. The late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window glances off the silver of her circlet, making her hair shine. “I am sorry about what happened to your family. I know how it is to lose the people you love.” 

He shrugs. “All we can do is move forward, however we can-and make the world better than the one they died in.”

Robb spends the rest of the afternoon in the bath and then writing a letter to Jon. A raven arrives from Essos just before the evening meal; Jon landed in Pentos safely and will be making the rest of the journey to Meereen overland, as planned. 

There’s a knock on his door and he opens it to see a Dornish guard waiting outside for him. “The Princess requests you escort her to dinner.” 

She can’t have come to a decision already, can she? If they don’t secure an alliance in Dorne…even the Dragon Queen and all her forces might not be enough to save them. They might not be able to hold out long enough for help to arrive. 

Arianne is waiting for him in the entryway. Her hair is loose and flowing and she’s changed her jewelry; there are clips in her hair, sparkling like stars. He realizes, almost detachedly, that she is very beautiful. He knew it before of course, but he hasn’t been able to think about it in the stress of trying to decide how he can present his case to her without begging. “Have you made your decision?”

She waits for him to present his arm to her; her fingertips are cool on his skin as they lightly grasped his forearm. He felt strangely exposed; when was the last time he wore such a light shirt? “I have not. But…I would be open to more negotiations.”

He has to hide his sigh of relief. It’s a first step, at the very least. 

Her hair smells like white jasmine and the open desert on a starry night as he escorts her to dinner. Even though he can’t see her face, he can almost sense she’s smiling at him. 

I hope this was worth the wait. It’s always interesting to write about Dorne and the Dornish-it’s something I’d love to more of in the future, once my prompt requests calm down a little bit. 

Robb Stark Imagine

can you write a robb stark imagine in where the reader is a targaryen and falls in love with him and she shows him her dragons in sign of the low she has for him and they both take care of the reader’s dragons and also robb’s direwolf and hekgjkskf sorry lol have a great day/night!

The war in Westeros had taken a turn, that’s why Robb Stark, the King of the North was about to dock and meet with your sister, Queen Daenerys Targaryen. “Y/N,” your sister asked as you ate breakfast with her, “I have a last minute meeting with my council, they just called for it, is there anyway you could welcome the King and his people off the boat? Bring them into the banquet room and I shall meet you there. Please,” she grinned.

“No need to ask me My Queen, it would be my pleasure.” After you two finished eating you and five of the Unsullied guards walked down the the bay and watched as the Northern King’s large ship got closer and closer to the dock. You tried to settle your long silver hair but the consistent ocean breeze made that impossible.

Finally, the ship docked and the procession of people filtered from the King’s ship. You knew who he was without introduction. His auburn hair and piercing eyes were entrancing to you, and when you saw his gaze locked on you you tried to hold your composure. His men waited for him to step off the boat and followed right behind him as he walked towards you. “King of the North, Lord Robb Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Princess Y/N Targaryen.”

“Princess Y/N, very nice to meet you. I didn’t expect to be seeing you.”

“My sister sends her apologies. Her council called a last minute meeting before you got here so she sent me in her place to welcome you. You must be Lady Catelyn, it’s an honor,” you curtsied.

“You are far too kind, Princess,” she gave you a little bow.

“I’m sure you and your crew are hungry. The cooks have prepared a feast for you all,” you spoke to Robb.

“Then please, Princess, lead the way,” he gave you a charming smiled. You led the party up into the castle and into the banquet hall. You smiled upon seeing your sister at the head of the table. She stood up as you entered.

“My Queen, this is King Robb Stark, King of the North and Lord of Winterfell, and his mother Lady Catelyn Stark. This is my sister, Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, The Unburnt Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and of the First Men; Queen of Meereen; Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea’ Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you King and Lady Stark. I understand the long journey you and your men have had, please, sit.” Your sister sat first. Food was brought out and laid out on the huge table. The men’s eyes looked hungrily at it. “Please, help yourself,” Daenerys spoke. You saw the men’s cautious glances and made the first move, adding food to your plate.” The meal was relatively silent until your sister spoke back up, “So, King of the North, you’ve come here seeking my aid, as I understand it. Why should I make an alliance with you as you claim my throne?”

You saw Lady Stark’s eyes grow with concern at how her son might answer and how your sister might react to his proposition, understandable with knowledge of your Father’s history. “My Queen, I have no true interest in ruling the Iron Throne, just in seeing those who sit on it now and rule over the people excused from it. The Lannisters are ruining the place you and I call home. When they killed my father and took my sisters my men swore to follow me into battle and labeled me their King, a title that I have taken seriously and used as purpose to take of the Lions that hunt the innocent people of Westeros. I have men that may come in handy when it comes to taking back the Throne, men that can attack from the North and attack that way as you attack from the other side.”

“I have many men. The Unsullied, more who have pledged to my cause, and Dothraki that will do whatever I say; why would I need you and your Northmen?” You saw him hesitate at your sisters challenge.

“Sister, may I,” you interrupted.

“Please, Y/N, what do you have to add?”

“The North, as you know, is the biggest piece of land in Westeros. The men there are known for their loyalty and bravery. King Robb Stark is the heir to that land, one that his family has established and protected since before Bran the Builder. Having him as your alley will provide you the people of the North, people that would be hard to hold without him. And, as he says, he has no interest in the throne, just in restoring his family and his home. You get the throne in the south and leave him as your right hand in the north. His plan of attack is solid as are his troops. The way I see it you have nothing to lose in agreeing to this alliance, only things to lose.” Robb smiled at your words and your sister sat with a straight face. Everyone waited with their breath held for your sister to speak.

“I believe you are right, sister. King Robb, Lady Catelyn, I’d like you to stay here and work with my generals and I on plans of attack and how to work together in the North and South. Y/N, I want you to attend meetings as well; I think we all need your fresh ideas.”

“Queen Daenerys,” Robb said, “I have one final question for you before we depart from dinner,” she raised an eyebrow at him, “Would you permit me to bring my direwolf into the castle. He is harmless unless I tell him otherwise.”

She looked at you and smiled, “I think your pet should be fine here. Please, bring him in.” With that your sister got up and left for her chambers for the night. You stood up to find something to do, as you were not ready for bed, when Robb’s voice stopped you.

“Princess, thank you for what you said. It helped sway your sister.”

“She would have been a fool not to accept this alliance, I just helped her see that.”

“Have you ever seen a direwolf?”

“Only pictures. Why?”

“Would you like to see one?” You and Robb walked back to his boat and you watched as two of his men raised the steps to the boat. You waited for the wolf to come over them but nothing, until Robb called out. “Grey Wind, here boy.” You heard heavy stomping on the boat, which was surprising since the waves usually cancelled out everything. Then, a large shadow moved to the top of the stairs. Slowly, it walked down the steps and stood in front of you and Robb on the pier.

The direwolf, Grey Wind, looked you over, sizing you up. What Robb noticed was that you did the same thing. Then, smiling, you did something no one did, you knelt down at a face to face level with the wolf and beckoned it closer with an outstretched hand. Robb could have sworn he almost saw a smiled appear on the wolf’s face.

Grey Wind walked over to you and nuzzled your hand. “He liked you,” Robb grinned. “Not something I see everyday. Or, ever, I suppose. Most people are scared of him.”

“He does not scare me. In my days I have seen many frightful things, but, animals have never made me cringe like men have.” You finished petting the large beast and stood up. “Have you ever seen a dragon?”

Robb scoffed, “Sure, drawings my Nan and Maesters had in their books.”

“You’ve heard the rumors, have you not?” He nodded. “Do you trust me?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He followed you into the city with a few of each one of your’s guards and Grey Wind. You stopped outside a large marble building with two guards in front of it. Upon seeing you they moved the door opened. “You might want to leave Grey Wind out here,” you told him, “they’ve never seen a wolf before.”

You grabbed a torch and handed it to Robb and lead him down the stairs. As you two reached the floor Robb looked confused into the darkness. “Wake up, little ones,” you called out into the darkness. Loud creaks of metal and hissing made a look of fear cross Robb’s face. You put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” you reassured him. You grabbed the torch and touched it against the long row against the wall. A wall of flame scaled the side of the room lighting up the floor.

“By the seven,” Robb swore and took a step back, “I…I never thought they could be real. Just things from stories.”

“Beautiful aren’t they.” Your sisters three dragons acknowledged your presence with a scream and some fire but stayed near the back but your two came straight to you. “On my sister’s wedding day she was given three eggs and I was given two. The man who gave them said he thought I should have two as well, they were very small compared to my sister’s, but I loved them all the same. And my brother,” you laughed at the thought, “was furious. He was so mad he hadn’t received one. But the man had said it was a future wedding present for me, for whenever the time would come, and that they belong with a woman who could act as their mother. When Drogo died, and my sister walked into those flames, I lit my own fire for her. And in it I placed my eggs, not knowing what would happen.

“She emerged with her three boys and I, with my two girls.” You reached a hand out and stroked the purple and white scales of your children. “Would you like to pet them?” He looked nervous. Without his answering you picked up his hand and guided it to your girl closest to him. They closed their eyes and relaxed under his touch. “They are like Grey Wind, they won’t harm you unless I say.”

That seemed to relax him. “What are their names?”

“This one,” you pointed to the purple one, “is Rhea, named after my mother. And this one,” you storked the white one, “is Storm.”


“My sister is Stormborn, I was made in the midst of a great Storm, and a Storm is what my sister and I, and you, shall bring to those who falsely rule over our home.”

“Rhea and Storm. I like it,” he smiled. “It’s getting late, we should probably be getting back to the castle.” You placed a kiss onto your two children and left with Robb.

“This is my room,” you said and stopped outside your door. Robb had insisted on walking you to your room. “Thank you for seeing me back.”

“My pleasure. Goodnight, Princess.”

“Y/N, please. Goodnight, Robb.” As you closed your door Robb placed a foot and stopped it from closing.

“Y/N, would you like to join my mother and I to breakfast tomorrow?”

“It would be my honor.”

He smiled, “I look forward to it. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Robb.”

QUEEN OF SCOTS, a mix for mary stuart, the doomed queen of scotland who didn’t only wind up losing her crown, but also her head. this mix has been sitting in my 8tracks drafts for over a year now (i made it after the s1 finale) and i’m only posting it now because salma (francisvaloising​) is making me. i’ve made minor edits (like the inclusion of a more recent song, as you’ll see below). it loosely follows mary’s actual life, but still includes some tracks that fit with the reign storyline as well. enjoy!

1. linlithgow palace by paul leonard-morgan [instrumental]
2. scotland by the lumineers (you could never feel my story / it’s all you know)
3. birthright by sleeping at last ft. jon foreman (they made her their queen on the day she was born / placed on her a crown she wasn’t ready for)
4. rabbit heart (raise it up) by florence + the machine (i must become a lion-hearted girl / ready for the fight)
5. queen of scots by amazing blondel [instrumental]
6. below my feet by mumford & sons (and now i sleep / sleep the hours that i can’t weep)
7. dark paradise by lana del rey (loving you forever can’t be wrong / even though you’re not here, i won’t move on)
8. scotland by paul leonard-morgan [instrumental]
9. castle by halsey (and there’s an old man sitting on the throne that’s sayin’ / i should probably keep my pretty mouth shut)
10. woman king by iron & wine (someday we may see / a woman king, bloodshot eyes / thumb down and starting to weep)
11. fragile by delta goodrem (sometimes i feel so frail, so small / sometimes i feel vulnerable)
12. landscape by florence + the machine (’cause she’s just like the weather / can’t hold her together)
13. to france by nolwenn leroy (over you shoulder, stories unfold / you’re searching for sanctuary)
14. fotheringay by fairport convention (tomorrow, at this hour, she will be far away / much further than these islands / for the lonely fotheringay) [note: if you’re a big fan of mary, especially of rl!mary, i urge you to listen to this particular song — it is so hauntingly beautiful and sad, a reflection of her very last days on earth)
15. mary, queen of scots by paul leonard-morgan [instrumental]

listen here

robb stark: the lion & the wolf

ANON REQUEST: Imagine where reader is joffreys twin but he wants to have sex wit her (like jamie and cersei). But she stops him and runs away to robb’s warcamp, where they fall in love and marry

◇◇◇ yes it’ll be a lil longer!!!! this was v interesting to write ok!! ◇◇◇ shoutout to @gotxreader for helping u tha best

A hand on your shoulder awaken you from your sleep, and you saw your handmaiden standing with a Kingsguard at the corner of your bed. You looked at the window, “What is it?”

“My Lady,” your servant started. “King Joffrey asks for you.”

You stood up and faced the guard. “Why does my brother need me?”

The Kingsguard stood still, and you knocked on his helmet. “Can’t you hear me? I asked you a question.”

“The King waits for you.” said the Kingsguard who waited outside your door, once he closed it.

Your servant washed and brushed your hair as you put on a dress your twin brother asked you to. You made no remark about his choice of your dress but it did surprise you. Your servant went outside as you did, and the guard led the way to your brother’s.

“Joffrey,” you asked, as you approach him by the window. He was holding a clear goblet, and sweet wine left a mark on his mouth. “What do you need me for?”

Joffrey stood up, and circled around you while drinking his wine. He stopped in front of you and placed his drink on the table. “Sweet sister, you look beautiful as ever.”

“What do you need me for?” You asked, looking up at Joffrey. You both shared the same hair and eyes. It was like staring at yourself.

“You need patience,” Joffrey moved closer to you and you move back. He forwarded to you and stopped once he got you against the wall. “Sweet as ever.”

He moved swiftly as he put his arm on your neck, effectively blocking your airway and you felt his other hand move inside your dress, clutching your chest and it moved from there to down as he felt your sex. “I hope you’re as sweet as I think you are.”

Your hands reached for whatever was near, and you grabbed the glass with the wine in it, and banged it against Joffrey’s face. The glass pierced his face and the pieces were stuck on his face. You saw his ear bleeding and his lips sliced in the middle. He fell down with a bang and his face bloody.

“You,” you breathe out holding the cracked glass at his face. “You ever touch me again, and I will kill you.”

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anonymous asked:

Do you have a personal fanon of Daemon Blackrye I ?

Daemon is a weird character to speculate about because we’re never going to know him, but we kind of already know him?

“If either of you can be said to have a right to the Iron Throne, it must be Lord Stannis.”

Renly shrugged. “Tell me, what right did my brother Robert ever have to the Iron Throne?…..Robert won the throne with his warhammer.” he swept a hand across the campfires that burned from horizon to horizon. “Well, there is my claim, as good as Robert’s ever was.” (ACOK)

“Treason … is only a word. When two princes fight for a chair where only one may sit, great lords and common men alike must choose. And when the battle’s done, the victors will be hailed as loyal men and true, whilst those who were defeated will be known forevermore as traitors and rebels.” (TSS)


“It would seem that you are the one who has forgotten Stannis,” Catelyn said, more sharply than she’d intended.

“His claim, you mean?” Renly laughed. “Let us be blunt, my lady. Stannis would be an appalling king.” (ACOK, Catelyn II)

Why, lad? You ask me why? Because Daemon was the better man.” (TSS)


Small wonder the lords gather around him with such fervor, she thought, he is Robert come again. Renly was handsome as Robert had been handsome; long of limb and broad of shoulder, with the same coal-black hair, fine and straight, the same deep blue eyes, the same easy smile. (ACOK, Catelyn II)

“Daeron was spindly and round of shoulder, with a little belly that wobbled when he walked. Daemon stood straight and proud, and his stomach was flat and hard as an oaken shield.” (TSS)

And once you draw that comparison, it’s actually remarkable, how well we know this song:

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“I Know He’s the King.”

Thinking about what the revelation of Jon Snow’s true parentage will mean for him…

Many believe he’ll then consider himself the heir to the Iron Throne. In my opinion, this overlooks a major aspect of Jon’s character as established in A Dance with Dragons. Namely, he already has a king.

“Our oaths are sworn to the realm, and the realm now stands in dire peril.
Stannis Baratheon aids us against our foes from beyond the Wall,
though we are not his men …”

“Well,” said Sam, squirming, “we’re not. Are we?”

“In times as confused as these, even men of honor must wonder where their duty lies. Your Grace is not the only king in the realm demanding homage.”

Lady Melisandre stirred. “Tell me, Lord Snow … where were these other kings when the wild people stormed your Wall?”

“A thousand leagues away and deaf to our need,” Jon replied. “I have not forgotten that, my lady. Nor will I.”

King Stannis said, “Lord Snow, tell me of Mors Umber.”

The Night’s Watch takes no part, Jon thought, but another voice
within him said, Words are not swords.

“Sire, this is a bold stroke, but the risk—” The Night’s Watch takes no part.
Baratheon or Bolton should be the same to me.

Jon realized that his words were wasted. Stannis would take the Dreadfort or die in the attempt. The Night’s Watch takes no part, a voice said, but another replied, Stannis fights for the realm, the ironmen for thralls and plunder. “Your Grace, I know where you might find more men. Give me the wildlings, and I will gladly tell you where and how.”

I find it very telling that Jon never thinks of Sansa (or Arya, after he learns she’s alive) as the rightful Queen of the North, Robb’s heir given that he thinks Bran and Rickon are dead. (He does stand up for Sansa as the heir to Winterfell itself, but nothing more.) This is in spite of the fact that he furiously denies the Boltons’ legitimacy and openly despises the Lannisters for what they’ve done to his family:

“It’s death and destruction I want to bring down upon House Lannister, not scorn.”

His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush
Ramsay Bolton’s throat as easily.

You’d think Jon would be the most devoted of Stark restorationists, even more so than Wyman Manderly or the Umber brothers. Instead, he becomes one of the “king’s men,” so much so that Stannis uses him as a counterweight against the queen’s men:

He had made it a point to learn all he could of the men around the king. Queen’s men, all. It struck Jon as odd that there were no king’s men about the king, but that seemed to be the way of it. The king’s men had incurred Stannis’s ire on Dragonstone, if the talk Jon heard was true.

Jon Snow does not recognize Stannis as King simply to keep their alliance running smoothly, nor out of consideration for the true Baratheon succession. Jon commits himself to Stannis’ cause fully and fervently, repeatedly ignoring the inner voice (and also Sam and Bowen Marsh) telling him he’s crossing the line. Again, this is in part because Jon utterly refuses to accept Bolton rule of the North, emotionally unable to recognize that the logic he applies to making peace with the wildlings (all humanity must stand together against the Others) must also at some point be extended to even Roose and Ramsay. 

But there’s more to it than that. Jon is not only grateful that Stannis saved the Watch from Mance’s army; he is deeply impressed that alone among southerners, Stannis realized his duty to the realm required him to come North, all but abandoning his struggle for the Iron Throne itself. I know this is a Sam quote, but it perfectly captures Jon’s feelings about Stannis:

Few of the birds that Aemon had sent off had returned as yet. One reached Stannis, though. One found Dragonstone, and a king who still cared.

Stannis meets Jon soon after Davos provides him an epiphany offscreen: that rather than devote himself to establishing his kingdom, he must demonstrate what kind of king he would be.

“I was trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when I should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne.”

This creed could’ve been designed to appeal to Jon (and I believe GRRM had that in mind), because that’s exactly how he feels about Winterfell. Jon wants to be Lord of Winterfell, I think that’s beyond question, but he feels guilty about it because his ascension would necessarily come at the expense of the trueborn cousins siblings he loves…and would validate Catelyn’s dislike of his presence. So Jon joins the Night’s Watch in part to throw Catelyn’s fears about him back in her face: see, I’m abandoning any claim to land, any chance at children who might threaten yours. Instead, I’m going to protect your kids’ inheritance from marauders and worse. Perversely enough, Jon sets out to prove himself worthy of ruling Winterfell by giving up any chance of doing so, just as Stannis proves himself worthy of the crown by recognizing there’s a battle more important than the game of thrones.

But there’s still more to it. For all their gruff stoicism, both Jon and Stannis are (within their context) radical progressives, working toward an end to the millennia-long war between the wildlings and the Watch and the beginning of a more inclusive realm:

“Your brothers will not like it, no more than your father’s lords, but I mean to allow the wildlings through the Wall … I will settle them on the Gift, once I have wrested it away from your new Lord Commander. When the cold winds rise, we shall live or die together. It is time we made alliance against our common foe.” He looked at Jon. “Would you agree?”

“My father dreamed of resettling the Gift,” Jon admitted. “He and my uncle Benjen used to talk of it.” He never thought of settling it with wildlings, though… but he never rode with wildlings, either. He did not fool himself; the free folk would make for unruly subjects and dangerous neighbors. Yet when he weighed Ygritte’s red hair against the cold blue eyes of the wights, the choice was easy. “I agree.”

“Good,” King Stannis said, “for the surest way to seal a new alliance is with a marriage. I mean to wed my Lord of Winterfell to this wildling princess.

“A northern maid and a wildling warrior, bound together by the Lord of Light.” Ser Axell Florent slipped into Lady Alys’s vacant seat. “Her Grace approves. I am close to her, my lord, so I know her mind. King Stannis will approve as well.”

“I know what I swore.” Jon said the words. “I am the sword in the
darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns
against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes
the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.
Were those the
same words you said when you took your vows?”

“They were. As the lord commander knows.”

“Are you certain that I have not forgotten some? The ones about
the king and his laws, and how we must defend every foot of his land
and cling to each ruined castle?
How does that part go?” Jon waited
for an answer. None came. “I am the shield that guards the realms of
Those are the words. So tell me, my lord—what are these
wildlings, if not men?”

Moreover, both of them proudly keep by their side a potent example of the possibilities their reforms would open up to the outcasts and the marginalized:

“Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King.”

For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning in his dungeon. “Your Grace, you cannot… I am no fit man to be a King’s Hand.”

“There is no man fitter.” Stannis sheathed Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet.

“I am lowborn,” Davos reminded him. “An upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me.”

“Then we will make new lords.”

Septon Cellador spoke up. “This boy Satin. It’s said you mean to make him your steward and squire, in Tollett’s place. My lord, the boy’s a whore … a … dare I say … a painted catamite from the brothels of Oldtown.”

And you are a drunk. “What he was in Oldtown is none of our concern. He’s quick to learn and very clever. The other recruits started out despising him, but he won them over and made friends of them all. He’s fearless in a fight, and can even read and write after a fashion. He should be capable of fetching me my meals and saddling my horse, don’t you think?”

But…there’s still more to it. There’s a strong emotional connection between the two men as well, all the more touching given Stannis’ distrust of affection and Jon’s keeping his distance from his friends following his election as Lord Commander. 

“The woman was named Ygritte. I broke my vows with her, but I swear to you on my father’s name that I never turned my cloak.”

“I believe you,” the king said.

That startled him. “Why?”

Stannis snorted. “I know Janos Slynt. And I knew Ned Stark as well. Your father was no friend of mine, but only a fool would doubt his honor or his honesty. You have his look.”

“Words. Words are wind. Why do you think I abandoned Dragonstone and sailed to the Wall, Lord Snow?”

“I am no lord, sire. You came because we sent for you, I hope. Though I could not say why you took so long about it.”

Surprisingly, Stannis smiled at that. “You’re bold enough to be a Stark.”

He glanced at the letter again. I will save your sister if I can. A surprisingly tender sentiment from Stannis…

Jon glanced back at Stannis. For an instant, their eyes met. Then the king nodded, and went back inside his tower.

So, what does this have to do with R+L=J? Jon may worship the Young Dragon, but he knows the horrors the last Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne inflicted on the Starks. I think he’ll be aghast to learn that he’s Mad Aerys’ grandson, not to mention heartbroken that Ned isn’t his biological father. (Btw, how fucked up is it that one of Jon’s grandfathers burned the other alive?) Jon’s story is all about his father figures, and when his true heritage is unveiled, I believe he’ll cling all the fiercer to Stannis; after all, his claim to the Iron Throne invalidates both Stark and Targaryen restorations, thus preventing Jon from having to choose between them.

The Spoils of Qarth

Daenerys would gain many practical benefits from conquering Qarth beyond the loyalty of the Dothraki. Qarth’s vast fleets provide a solution to a problem that has dogged her since the first war with Yunkai: how is she ever going to get ten to twenty thousand soldiers and perhaps as many as one hundred thousand freedmen from Slaver’s Bay to Westeros? Traveling overland to the Free Cities by the Demon Road is simply not an option; too many freedmen would die from hunger, thirst and exposure. But Daenerys does not have the necessary shipping to transport tens of thousands of people around Valyria and across the Summer Sea, nor does she possess the necessary warships to protect them from pirates and enemy fleets, nor the provisions needed to feed them on such journey, nor the gold required to pay the captains and sailors.

The closest Daenerys has come to possessing a significant fleet was when Xaro Xhoan Daxos and the Thirteen offered Dany a gift of thirteen ships. This she knew to be woefully inadequate to the task of transporting her court, khalasar, sellswords and Unsullied, let alone the hundred thousand freedmen under her protection (unsurprising, as Xaro most likely wanted Daenerys defanged and the freedmen reenslaved):

Dany wondered how many men thirteen galleys could hold. It had taken three to carry her and her khalasar from Qarth to Astapor, but that was before she had acquired eight thousand Unsullied, a thousand sellswords and a vast horde of freedmen. (DwD, Dany III)

And this was before the Dragon Queen had to find a way of shipping hundreds of thousands of Dothraki and their horses across the Narrow Sea as well. Daenerys is facing a transportation and supply challenge on a scale not seen since the Princess Nymeria’s time. Qarth is the only country east of Valyria that possesses a war fleet and a merchant marine with close to the necessary number of ships:

Descendants of the ancient kings and queens of Qarth, the Pureborn commanded the Civic Guard and the fleet of ornate galleys that ruled the straits between the seas. Daenerys Targaryen had wanted that fleet, or part of it, and some of their soldiers as well. (CoK, Dany III)

“How many ships do you own, Xaro? “

“Eighty-three, if one does not count my pleasure barge.”

“And your colleagues in the Thirteen?”

“Among us all, perhaps a thousand.”

“And the Spicers and the Tourmaline Brotherhood?”

“Their trifling fleets are of no account.”

“Even so,” she said, “tell me.”

“Twelve or thirteen hundred for the Spicers. No more than eight hundred for the Brotherhood.” (CoK, Dany V)

This adds up to a merchant marine of at least 3,100 trade ships (!) and an unknown but substantial number of warships. Many of the trade ships are quite large, designed for carrying considerable bulk. During Prince Quentyn’s stay in Volantis he spots “Qartheen spicers big as palaces” (DwD, The Merchant Man). Such ships would thus be capable of carrying a considerable number of men and horses. Now, it’s unlikely that Daernys will net the entire Qartheen fleet, as some ships would flee and many would be away calling at distant ports. But even if the captured Qartheen fleets are not fully up to the challenge of taking the entire Dothraki horde across the Narrow Sea, they will still allow Daenerys to move her army and freedmen through the Summer Sea while the khalasars ride across Essos as they always have. Along the way, the Queen’s fleet could capture or hire additional ships to transport her Dothraki from the carracks, skiffs, cogs, great cogs, long-ships, and swan ships that fill the docks of New Ghis, Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, Myr and Pentos.

Qarth also possesses an extremely large amount of coin and movable (hence lootable) wealth that Daenerys could also make good use of in crewing and supplying her fleet:

The outer gates were banded with copper, the middle with iron; the innermost were studded with golden eyes… As she rode her silver into the city, small children rushed out to scatter flowers in her path. They wore golden sandals and bright paint, no more.

She passed under a bronze arch fashioned in the likeness of two snakes mating, their scales delicate flakes of jade, obsidian, and lapis lazuli.

They passed through a bazaar in a cavernous building whose latticework ceiling was home to a thousand gaily colored birds. Trees and flowers bloomed on the terraced walls above the stalls, while below it seemed as if everything the gods had put into the world was for sale.

Xaro was a languid, elegant man with a bald head and a great beak of a nose crusted with rubies, opals, and flakes of jade. (CoK Dany II)

Reclining on cool satin cushions, Xaro Xhoan Daxos poured ruby-red wine into matched goblets of jade and gold

Dany’s tight silver collar was chafing against her throat. She unfastened it and flung it aside. The collar was set with an enchanted amethyst that Xaro swore would ward her against all poisons.

[Dany] had taken care to go before [the Pureborn] in flowing green samite with one breast bared, silvered sandals on her feet, with a belt of black-and-white pearls about her waist.

The chairs [of the Pureborn] were immense, fantastically carved, bright with goldwork and studded with amber, onyx, lapis, and jade, each one different from all the others, and each striving to be the most fabulous.

“I have given you this palanquin of ebony and gold, and a matched set of bullocks to bear it, one white as ivory and one black as jet, with horns inlaid with jewels.

The armor of [Xaro’s little knights] had been made of silver and gold, the knights of jade and beryl and onyx and tourmaline, of amber and opal and amethyst, each as tall as her little finger. (CoK Dany III)

She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when Irri brought her a Qartheen gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls. (CoK Dany V)

Many Summer Sea sailors are slaves and would thus follow Daenerys out of devotion. However, there are just as many if not more free sailors and sell sails that would have to be paid for their valuable services. During Dany’s stay in Qarth, hiring sailors was just as great a stumbling block as acquiring ships:

“If each of the Thirteen would lend me ten ships-”

“You would have one hundred thirty ships, and no crew to sail them. The justice of your cause means naught to the common men of Qarth. Why should my sailors care who sits upon the throne of some kingdom at the edge of the world?”

“I will pay them to care.”

“With what coin, sweet star of my heaven?”

“With the gold the seekers bring.”

“That you may do,” Xaro acknowledged, “but so much caring will cost dear. You will need to pay them far more than I do, and all of Qarth laughs at my ruinous generosity.” (CoK, Dany III)

Then there is the question of procuring the necessary provisions for the fleet over the course of its journey. Victarion Greyjoy on his own trip east split his Iron Fleet into three separate squadrons and had them resupply in Lys, Volantis, and the Basilisks Isles respectively before meeting up and again provisioning at the Isle of Cedars (in the process decimating the local pig population). And Victarion’s fleet only numbered ninety-nine ships and approximately 10,000 men. A fleet of one thousand ships and about one hundred thousand people would require many stops and ample provisioning. These provisions would have to be paid for unless Daenerys wants to waste time waging a destructive series of food wars against the common people of the Summer Sea (not happening). So Dany is going to have to pay for her food and with Winter coming she’s going to have to pay big.

Plundering the private wealth of the Pureborn, the Thirteen, the Spicers and the Brotherhood while also helping herself to the city treasury and stripping the precious metal and jewels off the public monuments would overnight make Daenerys one of the richest people in the world. This plunder could then be used to hire sailors and buy food and water from ports across the Summer Sea. Whatever is left over could then be used to purchase the services of any sellswords and sellsails the Free Cities sends against her, and perhaps even pay off the Iron Bank to win over the Braavosi.

The more I watch Game of Thrones, really, the more I feel that it’s Sansa–not Dany, Jon, Stannis, or any other claimant–that I want to see end up in power (although a life sitting on the Iron Throne may be the last thing she wants). Toughened by her experience but tough enough to retain some measure of kindness, she’s one queen I could imagine sculpting Westeros’s rubble into something worthwhile–one person who could look at the plans for a castle without first asking where is it you hold the executions.
—  Time magazine review of Mockingbird

otrascosasseries  asked:

Drabble Request: Everlark meeting at GOT exhibition ( or at the THG but that would be confusing because of the names...) thanks!

Lord this got out of hand ;) I hope you enjoy - though this does contain some spoilery stuff if you haven’t watched Game of Thrones yet.

“Prim, you have to calm down and quit running!” Katniss hissed at her younger sister, nervously glancing around at the hoard of people in the convention hall.

“I am not Prim,” she answered, turning toward her sister and flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

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