halflion

[halflion]

𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, ridicule, and poorly written love songs, Tyrion never anticipated that the end might smell faintly of candle wax and her hair. His eyes found her, and he, that bitter imp of infinite jests and bottomless wine, looked upon her as a scholar might regard a rare and ruinous text: with caution, reverence, and the creeping knowledge that it might undo him. He hadn’t meant to reach for her hand; his fingers move of their own accord, treacherous little things, tired of wine cups and poison games, craving something warm. ❛ Ah, yes. Monstrosities in silk doublets and maiden’s veils. And those were just the weddings. ❜

But her thumb brushes his knuckles, and the jest dies a quiet death on his tongue. He meets her gaze once more, and there it is, that familiar tremble of vulnerability beneath her armor; the ghost of the girl who once prayed to be rescued by knights. His fingers brush Sansa’s, a feather-light trespass, a question asked without words. He tells himself it is for comfort, for human intimacy in a place built to house the dead. But the truth festers beneath even his sharpest denials: there are so very few hands he’s touched that did not recoil. He tilts his head, owl-like, letting the question breathe, as though it’s a vintage that requires airing before it can be tasted.

❛ My lady, I’ve spent so long dancing with death I’m beginning to wonder if it fancies me. ❜ He gestures lightly with his free hand, as if to underline the absurdity of it all — a dwarf in a crypt, holding hands with the Stark girl, waiting for the world to end. ❛ And I’ve met enough smug executioners and sanctimonious kings to know — ❜ he leans in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, ❛ — death, at least, is honest. It doesn't care for names or titles. It comes without flattery. ❜ A pause. A breath. Then, quieter, too sincere to wear the armor of irony:

❛ But I find… I would mind it far less if your hand were the last thing I held. ❜

He says it without flourish, without jest, and it sits between them like a lit candle — fragile, flickering, and terribly brave. He half-expects the universe to correct itself — for her to retract, slowly and politely, the way one removes a fingertip from an open flame. With that impeccable Stark stoicism, that spine forged from the coldest months of the year. But no. She stays. And that, he thinks, is the cruelest kindness of all — for it makes him hope. Tyrion has lived his whole life shrinking, a contortionist of social necessity, bending himself into something palatable. The fool, the fiend, the fixture. A goblet in one hand, a barb in the other, always one step ahead of pity. And yet here, in this tomb of kings and endings, with her fingers still curled into his as if choosing to anchor him, he dares, for the first time in a very long time, to want to be seen.

His eyes lift again, catching hers now, fully — the risk be damned. His lips twitch, though the smile never quite finishes its journey. It stalls somewhere behind his eyes, where the weariness lives. Still, there’s warmth in it. His thumb brushing lightly across the side of her hand in thanks. Thank you for not pulling away. Thank you for letting me believe, if only for a spell, that not everything I touch turns cold. ❛ If the dead do come through that door, I hope they appreciate how well-lit the place is. Always hated the thought of dying in poor lighting. ❜

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐇, 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄. The damp crypt hums with the stifled whispers of those not meant for war, faces pale in the dim torchlight, eyes wide with uncertainty. None would sleep. None dared. They waited for the hour they feared might be their last. The enemy had not yet broken through the stone, but their power had — icy tendrils that stretched through the silence, and Sansa felt it curling as though a noose. In truth, she had felt the frigid chill long before the dead had breached their walls. It was not the familiar bite of northern wind and snow, but something more ancient, terrifying, something darker. She, with winter woven through her blood, could not have been prepared for the cold that now ravages her home.

⠀⠀⠀Still, Sansa does not tremble.

⠀⠀⠀She had done her trembling years ago, when she had been a bird in a cage, wrapped in delicate plumage, pretty silks and obedient silences. Now her fingers pale around the dagger's hilt, not because she believes it would save her, but because it is an anchor — a reminder that their doing nothing is not weakness, but the wisest of decisions. She had learned, brutally and irrevocably, that sometimes staying, waiting, were the surest ways to survive. Beside her, torchlight flickers, casting shadows across the strong lines of Tyrion's face. Those wise and mournful features she had once regarded with loathing and fear. And then, by some miracle, with a quiet admiration. Even trust. Sansa barely looks at him at first, her gaze fixed upon the sculpture of an ancestor carved from stone. She feels the sweat gather between her shoulder blades, feels the talons of dread curl tighter around her bones. But then his fingers find hers, and the talons hiss and retract as though burned.

⠀⠀⠀It is the barest caress. Tentative and almost fearful, but in the stillness of death’s approach, it strikes her chest as though thunder. She does not flinch, does not withdraw her hand. Instead, her fingers curl around his. His, possibly the only hand that had touched her without malicious intent. Sansa draws a tremulous breath and turns her head to, at long last, face him, a faint smile curving her lips.

⠀⠀⠀❛ We have both faced far worse tombs than this, ❜ she states, voice edged with a sliver of jest, ❛ and survived crueller monsters. ❜ She continues, her eyes drifting to their joined hands, her thumb daring the faintest brush across his knuckles — perhaps to soothe the restlessness she senses thrums beneath. When her gaze rises to meet his again, there is a flicker of trepidation, the slightest whisper of a frightened young girl who lives beneath walls of ivory and steel.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Are you frightened of death, Lord Tyrion? ❜ She asks, and believes she knows the answer before it comes, but there is strange comfort in hearing honest truth from a man who never lied to her.

[halflion]

IN TRUTH, TYRION HAD CONSIDERED lighting a candle in Lord Strong's honor — if only to cast more dramatic shadows over his already heroic sulk. It made for a beautiful tragedy. As Harwin loosed his quip, Tyrion allowed himself a smirk, a sharp gleam honed to filigree. He tipped his goblet in idle salute and, with a voice like honey dripped over glass, said: ❛ A lion is permitted to roam freely, my dear friend, so long as his roar is louder than his scent. ❜ He moved nearer, the soft soles of his boots making barely a whisper across the polished stone, his gaze flickering once—pointedly—toward the vast sprawl of sea. It sparkled like false coin under torchlight, and Tyrion found himself mildly annoyed by its extravagance. ❛ Or teeth, should the roar falter and the charm fail—which, in my case, rarely occurs simultaneously. ❜ The silence hung far too heavy, spiced with salt and wine and the faint scent of noble rot. Tyrion took another sip. He made a small, satisfied sound, as though the dornish red agreed with his assessment of the realm's foolishness.

❛ So. How fares the silver heir? ❜ A breeze ghosted through the stonework, tousling Tyrion’s curls and making a mockery of the drink’s feeble warmth. He turned now, fully, studying him with a scholar’s precision and a poet’s ruin. ❛ Irony, wouldn't you agree? Yours breathes fire. Mine, frost. But neither of them care for cages, no matter how prettily we gild the bars. ❜ He reached into the folds of his doublet, producing a silver flask far better than the wine served in the Rock’s more formal halls. With a casual air and the elegance of a practiced rogue, he uncorked it and offered it to Harwin with a half-bow. ❛ . . . There is no cruelty so quiet as the absence of affection in a marriage born of duty alone. ❜

⊹⠀ཐི ༏ ཋྀ⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @serharwinstrong — a continued story ❩

[halflion]

⊹⠀𑁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐎 ❩

❛ Sansa was a lady at three — always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valour. All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs. ❜

Introducing an independent, canon-divergent portrayal of Sansa Stark from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. This interpretation is shaped by the books and HBO's Game of Thrones, as well as personal headcanons and AU elements. Mature themes ahead. 21+, minors do not interact. Written by Lyra.

promo credit. 

[halflion]

IT WAS A BITTER JOKE, that a man as loath to be buried as he, would spend his last hours suffocating between corpses. Tyrion Lannister, once the terror of small council chambers, the proud wielder of sharp tongues and sharper wine, sat with his back to a cracked pillar and counted the places he had failed to die. Blackwater. The Eyrie. The septic depths of his father’s hatred. His own brother’s pity. He, Hand of the Queen, drunkard of no small renown, occasional murderer, perennial disappointment. To live through assassins, battles, betrayals, and a trial by combat, only to be torn apart like meat in the tomb of kings he had never knelt to. He might have laughed, if his throat were not so parched by fear. Instead, he looked at her.

Sansa.

Poised as if carved from winter itself, every inch the woman he had never once deserved; her fingers gripping the dagger with a stubbornness that both broke and built him. Perhaps in another life, far from this one, he might have made some low, self-deprecating quip about being slain by a woman’s beauty before the dead ever touched him.  But there was no room for such artless cowardice now. Only a grave hunger for something he could not name. He shifted nearer, boots grinding against stone that had seen better blood spilled in older wars. His own hand, traitor that it was, hovered between them. Not quite reaching. Not quite retreating. The dead scraped closer; the crypt exhaling its sour breath into their lungs.

Tyrion thought, grimly, that perhaps there had been no gods at all. Only men carving statues out of hope and fear and naming them merciful. He stole a glance at her, through the ragged edge of the gloom. ( Pride. Defiance. ) She would not go gently into the mouth of oblivion, no more than he would. His hand brushed hers; the faintest, trembling contact. A jester’s prayer. A sinner's plea. A fool’s last confession.

The crypt trembled again, and a crack echoed somewhere beyond; stone against stone, history breaking its bones anew. Still he waited, wordless, foolish, a hand outstretched in the half-light, for whatever verdict she would deliver: Salvation or damnation —

It mattered little.

He had already thrown his soul to her feet.

a prelude to a tale with @ladyofwinterroses

[halflion]

TYRION DID NOT DEIGN TO TURN at the disturbance. He simply lifted his goblet in idle greeting, wrist loose, fingers elegant in their languor, as if he were a minor god bestowing benediction upon the weary. The wine in his cup, a thin, sullen thing by Westerosi standards, caught the flames and bled garnet down the sides, and he drank deeply once more, as if hoping the vintage might ferment into something stronger within his own stomach. It would not. ( It never did. ) He regarded Daario through the veil of his lashes, the way a seasoned player regards a half-learned opponent on the cyvasse board: with amusement first, and strategy soon after. A sellsword made princeling, Tyrion thought, wandering these draughty halls like a ghost in search of a tomb to call his own. There was something almost endearing about the restlessness that clung to Daario, a man who had survived slaughter and betrayal aplenty, yet seemed wholly unprepared for the quiet, suffocating weight of hope. Tyrion’s mouth curled into a smirk so faint it might have been mistaken for a twitch.

" Ghosts, " he echoed, the word gliding from his tongue like a shard of broken mirror, catching a hundred reflections and flattering none. " They make better drinking companions than most men. Less prone to interruption, for one. " He tilted his cup, the dregs swirling like a storm caught in miniature, an entire world upended with a careless flick of the wrist. Tyrion leaned forward then, propping his elbows upon his knees with the theatrical air of a man preparing to deliver either an insult or an absolution, leaving his audience to wonder which would sting worse. " . . . . Tell me, sellsword — " he murmured, voice dropping low, " when you traded your sword for a cause, did you understand what it would cost you? "

⠀⠀⠀A MERCENARY’S FORTITUDE is forged from stone; hard, cold, unyielding. Yet here he is, with a knot of disquiet in his chest, wandering through the foreign shadows of Dragonstone, drawing foreign air into his lungs, gaze tracing foreign constellations. This place, these people, they were strangers to him, and Daario bore a gnawing and restless urge to learn it all, to transmute foreign into familiar. For her. Always for her. To protect her as fiercely as he had sworn to do, to safeguard her legacy, and the precious miracle she nurtures beneath her heart. A mercenary, he may have been, but a father, a protector — that was what he had become. It is why, when sleep refuses him in favour of fevered thoughts of her safety, Daario had slipped from their bedchamber. Barefoot, in nothing but a linen shirt and britches, his arakh strapped to his back, he prowls the dimly lit corridors; mapping every uncharted twist, turn and chamber into memory. 

⠀⠀⠀In his quiet exploration, he finds a door ajar; a flicker of light spilling into the dark. Instinctively, Daario’s fingers curl around the hilt of his blade, mistrust sharpening his every sense as though he were a predator stalking prey. But then, a familiar voice reaches his ears, and with it comes a wave of ease. A faint, amused grin curl Daario’s lips as he steps into the chamber, greeted by Tyrion’s silhouette seated before the hearth. It seems the restless tension is not his alone.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Women and wine, ❜ he says, voice spun from a sound residing between roguish and arrogant, ❛ certainly the sweetest things to tempt a man, yet the most dangerous. ❜ he steps closer, the warmth of the fire bathing them both in golden hues. ❛ Does your wine speak back to you? Or perhaps it’s the old ghosts of this place you’re confiding in. ❜

[halflion]

@lannisterslion : " Respect shouldn't be hereditary; it must be earned. " ( answered prompts )

IT WAS ALMOST ENDEARING, Tyrion thought, to see Jaime cling to the notion that honor could be bartered in a kingdom that fed on the bones of better men. A lesser lord might have wept for the poetry of it, but instead, he merely drank, then tilted his head, a minor court jester's bow, or perhaps a butcher considering the throat of some twitching beast, regarding his brother as one might appraise a cracked statue, half-formed, though still vain enough to imagine itself whole. " You know, " Tyrion drawled, shifting to rest the goblet against his chest like a knight bearing his sigil, " hereditary respect has its charms. A babe in gold-threaded swaddling can command a hall with nothing more than a well-timed belch. Is it just? Of course not. But the Seven Kingdoms has always preferred spectacle to fairness. A family crest shines brighter than any deed performed in the dark. " The golden hand clenched imperceptibly against the stone ledge, and Tyrion saw it: that brittle flicker of old pride, quickly eclipsed by the softer, sadder shadow of regret. Jaime, Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, golden son tarnished.

" You think me a cynic, " he added lightly, almost laughing. " And . . . perhaps I am. But you —" He lifted his cup toward his brother in mock salute, "— you are a romantic. A dying breed, like the direwolf or the dragon. You believe you might yet earn the realm's love with a clean sword and a clearer conscience. " There were lies one told the realm, and lies one told oneself; he had never decided which were more dangerous, but Jaime seemed determined to master both. " And I think you're a better man than most. Which, in Westeros, is rather like being the finest whore in a plaguehouse . . . an accomplishment, surely, but not one you ought to brag about. "

[halflion]

⠀⠀⠀𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐃 into the goblet like a fresh wound, catching the candlelight in sullen glimmers of garnet and rust. A fitting metaphor, he thought, and took a slow sip, letting the taste settle on his tongue. Dornish—not the best, but palatable. Like most things in life, it improved if one lowered their expectations. He turned the cup in his hand, watching the slow whirl of liquid settle into stillness. A poet might find something profound in that—the way a storm quiets in the end, how even chaos eventually finds its rest. But Tyrion was no poet, only a Lannister, and his storms had never done him the courtesy of fading. He drained the goblet and refilled it with a steady hand, watching the wine kiss the rim before settling, as though it, too, had known hardship and wished to linger in quiet oblivion. “ To you, dear friend, “ he murmured, raising his cup in a solitary toast. “ The only companion who neither judges nor schemes. "

[halflion]

THE   ROYAL   TREATMENT.   all   sentences   are   either   taken   from   fantasy   or   fictional   and   historical   novels   about   kings,   queens,   royal   blood   and   some   sparked   romance   and   magic.   change   all   pronouns   and   names,   locations   as   you   see   fit.

“You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his knees.”

“She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day, and now she could be dead because she had tried to save the man she loved.”

“He was a man known for the violence of his temper as well as the deliciousness of his touch.”

“Am I making you nervous, Natalie?”

“Sad it is, the fate of kings.”

“Go to this masquerade ball with your new friends, put on a pretty gown, and dance the night away.”

“Repentance is like a royal cheer.”

“Even the small joys are worth cherishing, and they will lead to greater ones.”

“when you become king shall find many difficult tasks and you shall have to hurt others and yourself.”

“The throne brings trouble and grief along with the glory.”

“Anger is a feeling afforded only by royal blood. Ordinary people ask for mercy in such situations.”

“True leadership is serving others; follow Queen Elizabeth's noble example.”

“Success isn't wealth or status; impact matters.”

“The power of empowerment can change the world, one person at a time.”

“Leadership is service, not a throne to seize.”

“I have in sincerity pledged myself to your service, as so many of you are pledged to mine.”

“Proper training is key, it allows one to accomplish a great deal."

“Oh honey, someday a real man is going to make you see stars and you won't even be looking at the sky."

“Royalty comes with a cost. My great-great-grandfather was one, and he left me no royalty but loyalty to empower people.”

“At all times an empire is more important than emperor and empress, prince and princess.”

“You might have to ask yourself, however right your claim is, if you are the leader the realm needs and wants.”

“You’re Royal. Get used to it and that involves a lot of burdens and things you don’t want to do.”

“I’m in awe of you, Rowan Palotay.”

“Slow down there, princess. How do you know what kind of first impression you gave me?”

“Prayer is a royal power.”

“You forget yourself and who you are speaking of.”

“Anyone young, famous and beautiful who dies young is forever frozen in time and fascinating to all of us.”

“Youths are the life blood of any nation.”

“I am not yet come of age, my lord. How can I be queen?”

“To crown her is to kill her.”

“He didn't marry you to become king. He became king because he wanted to marry you.”

“Little by little, the old world crumbled, and not once did the king imagine that some of the pieces might fall on him.”

“I believe we are what we make ourselves, and as such, you, Crown Princess, are nothing.”

“Rule with the heart of a servant. Serve with the heart of a king.”

“There’s a fine line between gossip and history, when one is talking about kings.”

“We kings do develop a certain ability to recognize objects under our noses.”

“...alone is such a nebulous state when one is queen.”

“I respect you as my king, and I respect you as my father, but I do not respect you as a man!”

“She was made to be a queen, just like her mother.”

Protect Myrcella with your life. Defend her... and her rights. Set a crown upon her head.“”

“You’re my princess, right? You were always going to be my princess, no matter what you were born.”

“For dogs we kings should have lions, and for cats, tigers. The great benefits a crown.”

“This marriage had resulted from impulse.”

“The king is a saint and cannot rule, and his son is a devil and should not.”

“One does not ask if one likes the Blood Royal. They simply are. It is like asking if one likes the Gods.”

“You are a king worthy of their allegiance . . . with a queen full of fire and promise.”

“The idea that how you are born or the name you are given dictate the sort of person you really are.”

“You seem to think that you can still turn back, but it’s too late. You’ll have to face it, Princess. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon enough. And you can’t be this scared when the time comes.”

“Was it worse, she wondered, to be wanted dead or wanted Queen?”

“My royal status is both a shield that protects me and a sword that impales my heart.”

“Respect shouldn't be hereditary; it must be earned.”

“You know, for a pampered princess, you have a certain gift for violence.”

“There is nothing sharper than a well mannered princess’ words.Their true meaning are a mystery.”

“People are born great but yet need to grow into greatness”

“Kings needn’t raise their voices to be heard.”

“She was their witch queen, and they adored her.”

“To be fair, I don't quite see any difference between an assassin and a knight. They both kill people, only one "in the name of Honour '' and the other is just a "monster"

“Crowns belong to those that serve.”

“I have the softness and meekness of a daughter but I also have the boldness and Braveheart of a Son.”

“Will you visit my chambers tonight?”

“A throne won in blood will soon be drenched in it.”

“Even when she's dethroned by hardship, she still wears the sun as a crown.”

“The Princess knew in her heart she is strong, smart, and capable because it is in her blood.”

“There is the matter of succession that has to be settled. You don’t start a reign without settling how it continues.”

“My reign has been anything but traditional. Let’s not start now, shall we?”

“Every girl thinks about growing up in a palace. Few ever ponder living in a cage.”

“Often blessings and burdens comes hand in hand. The bigger the Crown the heavier the burden”

“If stubborness were all that was needed to be a good queen, I'd rule the world.”

“Some girls have a frightening killer instinct. Don't let the ball gowns fool you.”

“You don't turn your back on your destiny.”

[halflion]

⚔︎ 「 𝑹 𝑼 𝑳 𝑬 𝑺 」

I. Adults Only (21+)

Because of the mature themes in george r.r. martin's fire & blood / a song of ice and fire, I’m only comfortable roleplaying with people aged 21 and up.

II. Mature Content Ahead

Expect adult themes like violence, politics, and morally complicated situations. Please take care of yourself and proceed thoughtfully.

III. Be Kind & Respectful

Treat everyone with kindness and respect. Harassment, bullying, or hateful speech is not welcome here.

IV. Clear Consent

Any explicit or sensitive content must be discussed and agreed upon beforehand. If you’re unsure, let’s chat about it.

V. Respect Character Boundaries

Please don’t control or make major decisions for my character without checking in first. Likewise, I’ll do the same for you.

VI. Open Communication

If you have questions, ideas, or concerns, please don’t hesitate to message me! Good communication is key.

VII. Patience Appreciated

Life happens, and I sometimes take a bit to respond—usually within a week. I appreciate all patience and understanding.

VIII. Drama-Free Zone

Let’s keep things friendly—we’re all adults here indulging in a hobby we enjoy. If issues arise, please reach out privately so we can resolve them kindly. I won’t participate in hearsay or accusations without clear evidence of harmful behavior, nor will I dictate who others can or cannot interact with based solely on personal conflicts.

[halflion]

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 “𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯” 𝔟𝔢𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔞𝔠𝔨. 𝔍𝔬𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔦𝔪. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢, 𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡.

#lannisterslion. . . an independent , private , & mutually exclusive JAIME LANNISTER from hbo’s GAME OF THRONES & grrm’s A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE. please read rules prior to following. promo credit.

[halflion]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞? 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬? 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝? 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐬? 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐢𝐭. 𝐍𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭.

Introducing a canon-divergent and independent portrayal of Tyrion Lannister from george r.r. martin’s a song of ice and fire and hbo’s game of thrones. this portrayal is deeply rooted in personal headcanons and au influences. mature themes ahead. penned by snow. 21+ / est, minors, dni. 

promo credit.

[halflion]

What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags? Stories. There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it.

𓆩⚔️𓆪 「 HALFLION is a highly selective and private roleplay blog dedicated to Tyrion Lannister, inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire and its adaptations. this portrayal is deeply rooted in personal headcanons and au influences. mature themes ahead. 21+ / est, minors, dni. penned by snow.

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 & 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 | 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 | 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 | 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓