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You think you’d wanted revenge a long time? I’ve been after it all my life. It’s all I care about, and look at me

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i won’t be queen of the ashes

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Game of Thrones: Game Revealed S08E01 - Iain Glen and Emilia Clarke

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They were smiling.

Smiling! When do these two ever smile? When they’re together, that’s when.

Images belong to HBO

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Heard you were broken in rough. And he got what he deserved; I gave it to him. How?

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I think this ending for Jaime and Cersei was AWFUL. Cersei’s death is probably one of the most anticipated death on Game of Thrones, having long been built up as the real baddie of the series. To have her and Jaime killed by a collapsing ceiling, was probably the WORST possible ending for these two. 

To think minor characters like Lyanna Mormont, Missandei and Edd had better deaths than two of the biggest characters on Game of Thrones. 

I have always been a fan of the theory that Arya would kill Cersei using Jaime’s face. It made sense that after all that training with the House of Black and White, that Arya would use the trick of the Faceless Men to kill a major character using the face of another main character. Instead she only used this power to kill minor characters Walder Frey and Meryn Trant. 

This is how I think it should have played out in Episode 5:

Bear in mind, I don’t think Arya should have been the one to kill the Night King. In my opinion it should have been Jaime (to fully redeem himself and make him a hero) or Bran, should have killed him. So in my version Arya hasn’t killed the Night King, so she’s really gunning for Cersei.

After saying goodbye to the Hound, Arya is seen her running past the dragon skulls, having played there during her time in King’s Landing.

We see Jaime fight Euron by the cove, which results in Jaime getting injured and Euron dying. We last see Jaime stumbling away towards the secret entrance. 

We have the scene when Jaime reaches Cersei and they embrace and Jaime guides her through the secret tunnel back to the cove.

Jaime and Cersei make it to the cove. Cersei runs up ahead for air and sees the dead Euron. She voices her relief in his death and compliments Jaime on his fight. But as she does her eyes fall on another figure, an unarmored man with no face, and to her horror, sees that he is wearing Jaime’s golden hand. She turns to see Arya, dressed in Jaime’s armour.

Realising that her love has been killed, and before her stands her family’s greatest enemy, she breaks down. She finally reveals her desperate humanity, the mother who still grieves for her three lost children, her dead father and whose just lost the only other person she held dear. She kneels and begs Arya to spare the life of her and her child.

But Arya is stoic. She reminds Cersei of her involvement in her father Ned’s death, and in turn the deaths of her mother Catelyn and brother Robb. If it weren’t for the Lannisters, her whole family would still be alive, even Rickon, who was left unprotected by his mother’s absence. She also talks about Cersei’s mistreatment of Sansa, a sister who wishes the same revenge as her. 

‘You play the game of thrones, you win or you die’ says Arya, having been told by Bran of Cersei’s words to Ned. Arya draws her dagger. Knowing that this is the end, and that she deserves her fate. She maybe shares her final words either relating to Jaime, like ‘It doesn’t make sense to live when he does not, we were born together, and so we will die together.’ or maybe even mentioning Daenerys, as the beautiful queen that will take her throne, but destroy everything else.

Still kneeling, Cersei grasps onto Jaime’s golden hand. Arya slits Cersei’s throat, just like her own mother Catelyn had been killed by the Freys. Cersei’s body falls by Jaime’s. Arya looks down, but can’t bring herself to smile, like the Hound, her revenge does not bring her joy. 

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the world will be yours,  s w e e t l i n g.

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In which Sandor faces his fears, Stranger behaves like a loyal dog, and all wrongs are soothed and corrected. Because it’s fan fiction, dammit, and I can do what I want.

They fall. With one eye, Sandor meets his brother’s gaze; enraged and undead eyes glare back at him. Gregor never needed words to convey his meager thoughts. “This is fitting,” Sandor admits to himself, “I got to do it. I took him out of this world.”

The fire surges up to greet them and faster than Sandor thought it would happen, Gregor’s skull lands with a sickening crush. He feels his evil brother’s spine snap in several places and dark, inhuman blood seeps from Gregor’s crushed head. It makes delicate spray patterns all over the ashen bricks and rubble. Sandor thinks, “This is death.” Then remembers that the dead don’t think; at least he doesn’t believe so.

His ribs ache - he knows at least one is broken. Gregor’s enormous, monstrous form cushioned him just enough to survive. The Hound would’ve laughed grimly at that fact but Sandor is more afraid than he ever remembers feeling. Because now he has to get up.

It’s impossibly hot. The smell of Gregor’s rotten blood and burning skin is nauseating. As he tries to crawl away, Sandor realizes his left leg is broken, twisted incorrectly. And he’s still struggling to adjust to his limited sight, the blood of an empty socket seeps all the way down his neck.

There is no where to go; the fire is everywhere, dancing around and under and over them - but the dust of the shattered walls of the keep extinguished the fire directly where they landed. At least for now.

Panic sets in and Sandor feels himself freeze, knowing he will Burn, burn again, burn forever. “This is hell,” he thinks briefly, “one of seven. And I’m trapped here with Gregor in the fire.” With one eye, he desperately scans the gray and smoky sky for any way out, anything to climb, but there is nothing.

Nothing but a bird, some carrion creature, circling the Red Keep. “Gregor is dead and I am alive,” he thinks. And realizes with a sad, disgusting sob that he never planned for this, never hoped for it.

Everything is burning - but there’s something beyond those flames, more death, more destruction, and somewhere, a very angry woman on an enormous dragon - but there’s more beyond all that. There’s peace and quiet. There’s a bird in the North and a wolf-girl in the melting city.

So Sandor runs, well limps, to the edge of the circle of rubble, flames already eating away at the dust and bricks, and launches himself off an outcrop of rocks, straight through the flames and down a landslide of ruins.

Fire eats away at his skin, at his clothing; he doesn’t know if he’ll pass through it or become part of it. And just as quickly as they fell, he is through it, tumbling down a collapsed wall, hitting his bad leg and burned skin on the way down, extinguishing flames almost as soon as they touch him. And everything is dark and quiet. “Finally,” he thinks, “this is death now, and no fire and no Gregor.” He makes his peace with it.

Sandor comes to dizzy and confused, laying on and half-covered by an avalanche of rubble. Gregor is dead, he remembers. And Sandor does laugh this time and coughs at the smoke in his lungs. His arms are covered in terrible red burns but it doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

He drags himself away from the worst of the fire and ruins into a small alcove, miraculously upright. There’s a pile of wood he breaks up, fashions into a splint, and grits his teeth as he snaps his leg the right way into place. He lets himself scream and cry. There’s no one alive to hear him, not this close to the Red Keep.

Next, he hoists himself up, against the wall, struggling on one foot, with one eye, and only one arm working at his commands; the other shakes and twitches. There’s blood seeping into his eye too, or perhaps out of his eye, he isn’t sure. He feels a gash at the top of his head and abrasions and burns all over his neck, shoulders, and face.

He grabs another piece of wood to use as a crutch and readies himself to move. He will have to go quickly and quietly and find a sword or spear. The further he walks, there are more and more soldiers and people screaming and a dragon circling, angry and vengeful, overhead.

He can’t move near as fast as he knows he should and he can’t figure out where he is, everything is broken and burning and crumbling. The ringing in his head drowns out everything but the loudest screams and closest blasts of dragon fire. Mercifully, people ignore him and scatter in all directions through what’s left of the streets.

Gods, he hopes Arya got out alive before the worst of the ruins could swallow her. “Stranger is waiting,” he remembers, “I left him outside the gates.” He never thought he’d see his companion again so he’d set him loose but the horse had stood there, stubborn as ever. Sandor hopes he’s still standing there, unbothered by the war going on close by.

-

His head stops cooperating when he tries to clambor on top of Stranger. His one leg won’t bend, his arms are shaking, his empty eye aches, and everything is spinning and going black. He just wants to sleep.

So he gives up and sinks into dirt and grass and thinks, “At least I’m not dying in that bloody city. At least I finished it. At least there’s blue sky here.”

-

Seven Hells, but the Gods just won’t let him die. Everything hurts and that’s how he knows he’s still, somehow, alive. He coughs and a cool hand finds his forehead through layers of cloth. He can’t see anything. “Blindness seems a fair trade for Gregor’s execution,” he thinks calmly. And then light seeps through into his good eye and he growls in annoyance.

“Too bright?” A small man is gently peeling away layers of bandages.

Sandor grunts in response, sluggishly waves the man’s hand away, and tries to sit up. They’re moving, riding on some kind of cart. There are lots of people and horses, he can smell and hear them.

“Don’t try to sit. You’ve fractured a few ribs. There are splints.”

Sandor sinks back onto the makeshift cot. The bandages come off but the man leaves a layer over the missing eye. “That won’t grow back I’m afraid,” he says. “But your leg and ribs just might heal, given time.”

Was that a joke? This is going to be a long journey.

He learns they are riding North. He tries to ignore his heart pounding in his chest at the prospect of Winterfell - and her. He may not be a dead man, but he’s a broken one. Still, it will be good to see her face again, he decides.

Someone, Jon Snow he assumes, decided the injured soldiers should return to Winterfell and bring any refugees who would choose to follow. It would be a hard march, no denying, but there were plenty of people who had chosen to walk into the mouth of winter, rather than stay in the burning city.

One of the soldiers from the battle of the dead had recognized Sandor unconscious near his horse and dragged him along.

-

It takes them a long time to reach the castle, with all their wounded and the dead they have to bury along the way. Each day, Sandor limps a little further, bends his leg a little more, heals slower and slower it seems to him. He tries to adjust to seeing through one eye and not to think about he’s become even uglier, even more battered.

As the days pass, he peels away more and more layers of bandages. Half his torso and both arms are covered in burn marks now; not so deep and damaging as his original face burns, but ugly and wrecked all the same. It will be worth it all, just to see her again. Just to outlive his brother. Just to live at all.

-

Winterfell looms above them. Stranger has followed close to Sandor’s cart the entire trip, stubbornly refusing any rider and biting several men who tried to mount him. Now, Sandor feels strong enough to ride, if only his splinted leg will bend enough to let him lurch up. “Gods damn me, I don’t want to look any more pathetic than I already do,” he thinks.

But it’s useless. After a few struggling attempts, Stranger stamps a warning foot and huffs aggressively at him. “Guess I’m riding in the bloody cart,” Sandor admits, “Might as well make a fool of myself.”

It’s organized chaos inside the walls. Food and extra beds have been prepared for the influx of refugees from the south and several maesters and assistants take the worst of the wounded into their care.

It’s not hard to spot her auburn hair and mourning clothes; The Lady of Winterfell is all elegance and decorum as she hands out blankets and welcomes the people into her protection with grace and gentle words. His cart stops short of the mass of people and the men take the horses and goods into the stables and shelters.

Sandor grabs his crutch and does what little he can to be of use. Stranger disappears into a barn and the man who’d nursed him the whole way (a student at the citadel, he’d learned) hands him a heavy sack. “If you want to be useful, put this on your back and bring it to the infirmary.” He starts to help Sandor tie the bag to his back when suddenly he feels her eyes on him, even from yards away.

He freezes, forgetting the bag and the man and the chaos around them. There is only her, tall and proud, moving toward him. At first, she steps delicately in and around the crowd, then less politely as she starts to run at him. Sansa flings herself at him, nearly knocking him back onto the cart, and he drops the bag and his crutch, just to close her up in his scarred arms.

Kissed by fire, that’s what Tormund called her, and bloody hells is he going to prove him right.

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The Lady of Winterfell

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Should have been Jaime....

WARNING SPOILERS FOR GAME OF THRONES

SEASON 8 EPISODE 3

Is it just me or should Jaime Lannister have been the one to kill the Night King in the Godswood rather than Arya Stark?

Don’t get me wrong, I love Arya. She’s one of my favourite characters and she is a badass but she has had no connection to the White walkers and the Night King until this episode. 

But as an assassin, she benefits from staying in the shadows, and could have been used as a secret weapon against Cersei. She is now a hero, of legendary status, having killed a mythological being. 

I am also personally disappointed that this death might mean that Arya doesn’t have a hand in killing Cersei. Her wearing Jaime’s face to murder Cersei, is one of my favourite theories, but it would surely be too much for her to kill the two main baddies, both in the final series. 

There are also people in the series that were more deserving to kill the Night King. Undoubtedly the three people who most deserved to kill the Night King were:

Jon Snow: Having sworn an oath to the Night’s Watch to protect Westeros from whatever lay beyond the Wall, having later become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and made it his personal mission to warn others of the White Walkers, and fought them more than anyone on the show, and lost many friends  to his hoard. Yes, Jon is the most obvious character, who has already had many heroic moments and is already lauded by his men and his queen, but you have to admit he deserved the kill, considering how the Night King has shaped his life.

Bran Stark / The Three Eyed Raven: Having been persecuted by the Night King since he was ‘marked’ by him when shared a vision with him. He was forced to separate from his brother Rickon when he had to travel north, and later lost his mentor the first Three Eyed Raven, Hodor and Jojen to his undead men. With his new status as the Three Eyed Raven, he has become the Night King’s mortal enemy, which hasn’t been fully explained, and doesn’t look like we will get any answers now.

Bran could have potentially have killed the Night King a different way than the one that was expected (Dragon glass, fire or Valyrian steel). He could have connected with the Night King in a vision, similar to his experience with Hodor and found a way to defeat him. It would have also given the writers a chance to explain the Night King, a character we know little about and whose motives are unclear. 

I guess you can say that Bran did have a hand in killing the Night King, having given Arya the Valyrian steel dagger, that had been previously used in his attempted murder by orders of Littlefinger. He also was bait to lure the Night King.

Daenerys Targaryen: For losing one of her beloved dragons Viserion to the Night King, as well as losing many of her army to his forces in the final battle. Dany is the least deserving out of the three, but she was an incredible asset to the fight and her defeat of the Night King would have gained her the love and support of the North, who would still rather Jon lead them. 

So why do I think Jaime should have been the one to kill the Night King?

Jaime was regarded as one of the best swordsmen in Westeros before he lost his good hand. He has since trained himself to be just as good, and is one of the few characters with a Valyrian sword, capable of killing the Night King. He has had a major character arc and transformation, and he fits a couple of the Azor Ahai prophecies.

He also is in need of some redemption. His slaying of the Night King, would have protected Bran from sure death, redeeming himself after trying to kill him Series 1, Episode 1. It brings Bran’s story full circle, and also explains why he did not speak against Jaime when he was presented to Daenerys. 

Daenerys would have had to have forgiven him, and as Queen, awarded him in some way, maybe by taking him into her council or appointing him as a commander now that Jorah is no longer able to serve her and Greyworm’s fate is still unknown. The North would have been indebted to him, and hailed him a hero, and his status as Kingslayer would have taken new meaning. 

I doubt Jaime would have wanted to leave Brienne’s side but much like when he charged at Daenerys when she attacked his men with Drogon, he may have have wanted the chance to kill an enemy that threatened those he loved and his family, including Cersei if they failed to kill him in the North. 

If Brienne had felt the need to aid Sansa in the crypts, it would have given Jaime the chance to contemplate whether to follow her to help Tyrion, or check up on Bran, who he knows is in the Godswood with only Theon and a few Ironborn guarding him, having been part of the war meeting. I doubt he would have thought Theon capable of protecting Bran.

I also think Jaime stands a good chance of dying at the end, in the battle against Cersei. As the Night King’s killer, he is now legendary and should die a hero’s death at the end so that his full story can be written in The Book of Brothers and be the hero in tales told to the next generation. I think Jaime deserves to be a hero, but ultimately doesn't deserve to survive the final battle for the Iron Throne, given his past allegiances and actions. 

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This “Tristan & Isolde” artwork gives me major sansan vibes

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#make Trienne happen 2k17

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GAME OF THRONES S07 MEME [4/4] Relationships

↳ Brienne & Sandor

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(Artwork by emmanation)

First FanFiction eek!

From his silent grave, he heard the terrible gallops that sped her way. An ungodly creature, saved from poison  to serve a mistress who wished her dead. A Queen’s champion, with a sword sworn to slit the delicate throat of his little bird.

“I will never be safe.” she whispered in his ear, willing him to come to her aid.

He battled death and all its demons, to come to her aid. He rose, battered and bruised, and hastened behind the monster’s great shadow, but their enemy had got to her first. The ferocious giant had dragged her out of her sanctuary by her long red hair, and thrown her down hard in the mud, so the dismayed crowd could see her head roll. Her Northmen froze in fear, and dropped their swords at the sight of him. His hands, blue with death, gripped his sword as he lifted it, to bear down on her long neck. She closed her eyes. Her head throbbed but her heart was still. In the darkness she could see her calm wolf, who stood loyally by her father’s side, even when he raised his knife to it’s neck.

His blade came crashing down, only to crash into another, that had reached her in time. She was pushed aside by his armoured hand beneath his gravedigger’s cloak. She backed away into the crowd ready to flee, but his hood had fallen, and revealed a face she had been told belonged to The Stranger. 

The people around her flinched at his singed flesh, but for her no sight would have been sweeter, apart from that of his blade piercing her executioner. When he did, dark blue liquid spilled out of his body, were blood should have been. He hammered the shining gold kingsguard armour into the ground, for he who bore it never deserved the seal of a knight. He was no longer a man, he had never been a brother, for if he had, he would not have died that night.

“It’s time to go home.” he said, he wouldn’t give her a choice this time.

He lifted her onto his dark stead, and rode towards her icy realm. He cut his way into her home, to seat her on her stone throne. The banners of a flayed man were swiftly burnt in the fire, replaced by a pale wolf, like the one who stood by her side as a girl. A scurry of ravens bearing news of her return, fled the towers to find masters who would welcome the news, and warn those who had failed to stop her, that winter will soon be upon them.

Her champion told her to wait by the warmth of the hearth, while he stood outside the gates of her castle, to welcome her northern lord, as he rode home, away from the battlefield, to punish his wife.

When she heard his approach, she rose from her throne. She stood on the battlements, to stand above him as he reached the gate. The bastard howled his threats, when he found his route to her was barred. How he would string her to his horse, parade her naked through his army, and all the way to King’s Landing, to throw her body before the Lannister queen, bloody and disgraced.

Once he finished reciting his promises, he dismounted his horse, his own hounds snapping impatiently at his heels, awaiting command. But before he could utter another word, a shadow from the gate plunged a large sword into his belly, through to his back, his feet lifted from the floor, pressing his upper body down onto the hard blade. He writhed and spluttered but he could not release himself. Her champion stood patiently, as the blade slowly made it’s way up his torso, pausing just before his neck, so he could feel every last ounce of pain, before he would feel no more.

She watched the last man descended from the Red kings, die at the feet of the Queen of Winter, the slow death deserved for traitors of the North. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled, but she did then. The remaining northmen rallied to her side, “the north remembers” they shouted triumphantly.

She stuck his gormless face on a pike so the bastard of the Dreadfort could watch as his body, strapped to his terrified horse, flee her walls back to men who stood waiting his commands. The white flag of surrender greeted her brother, as he marched his men down on them. He showed their father’s mercy and escorted them back to kneel before their new liege. Hundreds of oaths and pledges were made by her hand. It made her sick to her stomach to think how many had promised to protect her and did not. An honorable father, a handsome prince, a foolish jester and a careful master of coin. 

“I will keep you safe.” he said the night the Blackwater burned. Only he had kept his promise.

Her brother came to see her, in the crypts, where she came to bury their father. He was weary of fighting and longed for the days he knew little other than how to lift a sword, let alone kill with one. He had had strange dreams, that kept him from sleep. He had heard strange tales heard a dragon in need of a rider, a man who was born from ice and fire, and a prophecy that said he was the one that was promised.

 It would take him away from Winterfell, but “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.” she said.

 “Ay,” he said “And there is one who will stay, and rule.” 

A shadow moved from behind the large stone dire-wolf, and knelt by her feet, his head bowed down and asked if she needed him anymore. She held out her hands to hold both sides of his face. The smooth side burnt red under the light of her candle, she placed in her aunt’s stone hand, the other was consumed by darkness. He was not the knight she had dreamt of as a girl, but it was an unmistakable love that made her cold heart race. She kissed his rough lips, and asked him stay with her always, until the Stranger brought them back down to the dark crypts one last time.

He left her by the ancient Weirwood tree. It was a calling he did not understand, but she had to see. The strange raven that had sung to her by her window, now sat among it’s branches. It let out a loud squawk, and she obediently held out her hand to touch the carved face of the tree. 

Her enemies were now far few, 

The mad Queen had locked herself in her red keep. She sat on the iron throne, her skin slashed and bleeding. She cried out for her lost champion, for her beloved brother and to the three golden shrouds that lay before her. One would come to her aid, and stifle her screams, with his golden hand. A small lion with the shadow of a giant, who had once offered his red cloak to her, wished her well, as she did him. His life was bound to another, a woman with hair as pale as snow, but a heart that burnt with fire, while hers had turned to ice. 

The schemer, lay in hiding, in his castle high up in the sky. A disguised face hid among the clouds, her hired blade would pierce his heart and he would fall so far, he would no longer steal her kisses. The blade was caught, but her face was no longer that of an assassin, but a young beautiful woman, her head crowned with blue roses. The guards let her go, innocent of any charge, allowed to serve her god for another day.

She saw her children would not have golden hair as she had once hoped. Their sons would be dark, strong and loyal, they would learn to cut any man down who opposed their family, but honour their people, as her father had done. Their daughters would be wild, fearless, and never let a fickle prince into their hearts. They would be born in the Spring and only know of Summer.

She took her hand from the tree, and thanked her sweet brother for showing her. The raven flapped it’s wings and flew back, to wherever it came from the other side of the Wall. 

Beautiful artwork by emmanation (http://emmanation.deviantart.com/art/Sandor-and-Sansa-sketch-282897118)

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#relatable

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