oraiososta

[oraiososta]

ENDLESS LIST OF MY FAVORITE COSTUMES

 •  [ 5 / ∞ ] The Nutcracker and The Four Realms (2018) COSTUME DESIGNER: Jenny Beavan

[oraiososta]

DAEMON BLACKFYRE vs JON SNOW vs BRYNDEN RIVERS: parallels/antiparalells:

Mothers: Daena Targaryen, a former Queen Consort to the Iron throne, was Daemon’s mother. Lyanna Stark, a highborn lady from the North, was Jon’s mother, and her family built a statue in her honor in the crypts of Winterfell. Melissa Blackwood, a highborn lady of northern/riverlands origin, was Brynden’s mother. She’s still remembered by her house, there’s a statue of her in the godswood of Raventree Hall.

Swords: Daemon was given the ancestral sword of house Targaryen, Blackfyre, by his father, King Aegon IV. Jon Snow was gifted the ancestral sword of house Mormont, Longclaw, by Jeor Mormont. Brynden wielded Dark Sister, the sword that belonged to Visenya Targaryen.

Daemon Blackfyre rebelled against his half-brother Daeron II, fighting for his right to the Iron Throne. Jon Snow was loyal to his half-brother Robb Stark, the King in the North, and wanted to fight beside him willing to become a deserter. Brynden Rivers was loyal to Daeron II and led an army against Daemon, killing him later.

Daemon Blackfyre married Rohanne of Tyrosh and had 8 known children and unknown sons with her. Both Jon Snow and Brynden swore to have no children joining the Night’s Watch, but both of them had lovers: Ygritte and Shiera Seastar.

Brynden Rivers and Jon Snow were elected as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Daemon Blackfyre was the leader of the Blackfyre rebellion and wanted to claim the Iron Throne for himself.

Daemon Blackfyre died not leaving his 12 years old son Aegon’s side, who was killed by Brynden Rivers. Daemon was also killed by him. Jon Snow and Brynden sacrificed children for the greater good: in Brynden’s case it was Aegon Blackfyre, in Jon’s - Gilly’s son.

Additionally, both Brynden and Jon have an ability to warg into animals.

[oraiososta]

theon: *shows up home wearing a necklace after years away as a hostage*

his father:

[oraiososta]

[oraiososta]

murtagh (garrett hedlund) layout

[oraiososta]

best girl rhaena coming through

[oraiososta]

˙ ˖ ˙ ˖ ˙ ˖ ˙ ˖ ˙ ♢  ghost on ghost !  /  sentence starters  ♢ ˙ ˖ ˙ ˖ ˙ ˖ ˙ ˖ ˙

these are taken from and inspired by iron & wine’s album ‘ghost on ghost’

❛  the trick’s in the timing  ❜

❛  you can call me anytime  ❜

❛  i feel as free as a morning bird  ❜

❛  i never meant to fall so hard  ❜

❛  we kissed at the county fair  ❜

❛  i know you’ll never leave me  ❜

❛  i miss you again  ❜

❛  i got lost  ❜

❛  you must understand  ❜

❛  i only lie when you don’t want the truth  ❜

❛  i’m only frightened ‘cause you finally gave me somethin’ to lose  ❜

❛  you’ve been bringin’ me joy  ❜

❛  i’ve come to confess  ❜

❛  i’m in love  ❜

❛  i’m living for you  ❜

❛  but i love you and you love me  ❜

❛  he’s jealous of me and what we’ve got  ❜

❛  i finally saw the colors of the world   ❜

❛  the music never lasts too long ❜

❛  _____ had a way to be kind with words  ❜

❛  i had a knife in the back of my car  ❜

❛  it’s cold ❜

❛  you’re bored  ❜

❛  when i dream, i’m back home  ❜

❛  why’d you follow her there ?  ❜

❛  once in awhile, your confidence leaves you  ❜

❛  we were two string beans  ❜

❛  i heard your heart  ❜

❛  i came to you and you to me  ❜

❛  doesn’t anybody see how scared you are ?  ❜

❛  there was a time when you were runnin’ to me  ❜

[oraiososta]

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐈𝐂𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒 || 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐑::

A soft, reassuring smirk crosses Finnick’s features as Annie touches his wrist. He knows how hard it is, coming back from the Games, being the one who SURVIVES this mess. And maybe it’s even worse for Annie than it was for him because she’s too good. She’s such a good person, with a wonderful heart. He knows he’ll do all he can to make her feel better – not safe, because no one is safe in Panem. As a young boy, he thought winning the Games would give him a proper life, but it was just him being naive. He’s still trapped in the Games; he didn’t win at all. He keeps seeing so many people die. For the first time, his tribute has survived, and even if it’s hard, he’s especially glad Annie made it out alive. He’s not sure of why, and he’s not sure he wants to know why he feels this PROTECTIVE toward her.

Snow doesn’t have any plan for her ? That’s a good thing. Maybe she can HOPE for a normal life, with time, of course. That’s what she deserves. “Honestly ? It’s probably better for you this way. They use us. We’re pawns to them, long after the Games. But I also think you’re amazing, much more than he’ll ever understand. Don’t let him reach you.” Did he say too much ? Maybe. He clears his throat. He just wants her to feel comfortable. If Annie could see herself through Finnick’s eyes, she’d probably be surprised. He hesitates for a short moment at her next comment. Of course he’s still trapped in this servitude. It gave Annie many sponsors, at least. He nods. “Yeah. I’m still their precious toy. And thanks to that, they can’t hurt you or Mags.”

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ —  FINNICK’S WORDS RINGS STRANGELY TO HER  . . .  AMAZING.  it’s such an odd word, one she can’t quite place to herself.  amazing.  it doesn’t sound right.  she had grown up in the upper sectors of district 4.  she hadn’t even learned how to swim until she was older, after a near drowning accident  -  and thankfully she had learned, for it was the only thing that saved her in the arena.  she had grown up in luxury, had not seen the lower sectors of district 4  . . .  while most had to fish and make trades and spend restless days beneath the sun to make a living, she had been comfortable in her home.  a home that’s gone now, thanks to snow.  she’s not  . . .  a soft sigh parts from her, and she looks up at finnick with softened eyes.  he thinks too highly of me, she thinks.  a part of her wishes she had his strength, his resolve  . . .  that her mind could have carried the games with her as it did him.

       “ but you get hurt. ”  annie’s eyes turn saddened.  she doesn’t like the thought of it, not even a little bit  -  of finnick going back to the capitol, facing the repeated process of client after client  . . .  the capitol darling, handsome and beloved.  but that’s not him.  when they had been in school together, she remembers finding him charming and handsome and brave  . . .  but after he won his games, she remembers him being sad.  she’s seen firsthand what he endures.  and she hates the capitol for it  -  but there’s nothing she can do.  she’s powerless.  her fingers gently brush the back of his hand, tracing the veins there.  “ don’t hurt yourself for me. ”  she exhales shakily.  real, real, real, she chants to herself, as thunder roars around them.  “ i wish we could sail away  . . .  no more games or capitol or snow  . . . ”

[oraiososta]

𝐉𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 || @azmenka​ ::​​​​

❛ you can’t save everyone. ❜ ( for Oberyn )

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ —  OBERYN IS NOT A MAN WHO IS told what he can or cannot do  . . .  the red viper is fierce and his venom is proud, and he is the master to his own action  . . .  hence, when balon’s son and heir, maron greyjoy, manifests seemingly from the shadows of the night, as the sea sings below his kingfisher, only to say he can’t save everyone, the red viper cannot help but to scoff.  logically oberyn understands these words to be true  . . .  he understands them all too well.  in spite of his efforts to keep his family and those he loves safe, his failures have been monumental  -  he had failed to keep elia safe from the dragons.  he had failed protecting her son from the mountain’s grasp.  he had even failed in saving rhaenys from the blades  . . .  until the letter from starfall came.  his redemption, his chance to avenge elia, to undo those wrongs, and give her rest.  from the beginning, doran’s plans had matched his brother’s.  avenge their sister.  bring down the lannisters.  place the rightful queen on the throne.  oberyn had not always agreed with his brother’s motives, but the endgame was much the same.  certainly, oberyn has taken liberties in how he has raised her  -  adara sand, his bastard daughter, a sand snake, until the truth could be unveiled  . . .  he brought her up no differently.  hers is venom, much like his. 

       it was a venom he took pride in, when rhaenys went against doran’s wishes to first go to the iron islands, to secure the greyjoy fleet for her cause  . . .  a wise decision, from oberyn’s point of view.  the ironborn were just as hungry for revenge, so why not spur it into action ? ? ?  and, admittedly, he had been apprehensive when news of the proposal came  . . .  but unlike doran, oberyn is pleased  -  a lord like willas tyrell or robb stark or edmure tully would have been wrought with boredom, lacking the force necessary to tear down a whole dynasty like the lannisters  . . .

       it certainly shows in maron’s character, as he approaches the red viper and speaks to him in such a manner  -  cannot save everyone.  the thought is both vexing and amusing and the emotions play obviously over oberyn’s face.  still  . . .  he understands part of the intention  . . .  after all, he has made it clear his intentions  -  avenge his sister and her son, place his niece on the throne, and protect his family by any means necessary  . . .  to save them from the absolute carnage and bloodshed the lannisters would see them through, again.

       “ you have a unique set of losses which mirror house martell’s, lord of the axe.  i know better than most what it means to avenge someone you failed to protect, as i am sure you do, ”  oberyn says, his dark, near obsidian, eyes flashing amidst the darkness.  “ there will be no rest until blood pays for blood. ”  avenge them they shall.  a cold smile adorns oberyn’s lips, reaping pleasure from the thought of slaying the mountain, taking his skull, and presenting it to tywin before he, too, is speared.

       but revenge is not only for house martell  . . .  house greyjoy shall also have its pound of flesh.  the boltons.  yes, the bloody and loathsome house of immorality and violence, placed precisely where they ought to be  -  in the unforgiving cold of the winter, a damned place oberyn takes no pleasure in eventually returning to  . . .  but the north is yet another necessity in the grand scheme of things.  and, alas, with the starks dead and the boltons in power, it shall not be easy to procure.  once, doran had thought robb stark a possible match  -  secure the north, corner the lannisters from both sides  -  but the boy was a fool.  he thrust aside his crown for honor.  he and his people paid the price for his faults, just as ned stark did.  oberyn never liked the idea of ice and fire.  too catastrophic.  arguably the same could be said for the sea and fire, but a kraken and a dragon are rulers of the sky and sea, apex predators  -  far likelier to endure.

       it is this fierce and dangerous match  -  of which doran has been opposed to from the beginning  -  that shall bring the boltons to their knees.  oberyn can only imagine the absolute havoc the ironborn shall wreak onto them, particularly what maron greyjoy shall do to the bastard of bolton himself.  ramsay snow.

       oberyn hopes he has a chance to see it.

       “ once the south has been taken, might we dare to make a tread into the northern territories.  our allies shall be greater, then, and our resources more plentiful. ”  oberyn looks up at the moon.  arianne is to wed willas tyrell  . . .  arrangements, discreetly, are being made within this very moment.  with house tyrell secretly within their grasp, right under the noses of the lannisters, the fight should be easy.  more so, the mutual hatred against the lannisters shall be a great driving force  . . .  and with margaery tyrell to wed a prince  . . .  “ and when the full force of such an army travels north, the houses shall kneel.  the boltons won’t, not willingly, but they’ll have no trouble when your axe is lodged into their heels. ”

       the red viper steps away from the rails of the ship, turning to face maron greyjoy properly.  a tall and broad boy, fierce and jaded and hungry for justice  . . .  as they all are.  oberyn finds that he sees much of himself in the boy, the same anger  . . .  the same losses.  what a relief it is that balon greyjoy’s son shall not repeat the sins and follies of his father.

       and the realm shall know fear for it.

       “ if the rumors are true, your brother is alive.  i doubt you’ll find him as you remember him when you and my niece do secure the north, but at the very least you’ll have him. ”  oberyn exhales then, hooking his thumb through his leather belt, adorned with patterns of twisted snakes, and tilts his head to the sky.  he longs for the shore  . . .  for a horse and his spear, to fight, not to sit and wait with utter impatience here.  praise the gods, his moment is afoot.  “ i shall go into the stormlands when we port.  they say the mountain is there  . . .  my men and i shall corner them.  bring him down.  and when i return, i shall present the mountain’s head  -  consider it an early wedding present. ”

       rhaenys is unhappy with such a plan, though she recognizes the importance  . . .  oberyn must fight, lest he wither and perish on this ship.  he must spill lannister blood beside his men.  and with the mountain so close  . . .

       “ and, with any luck, we shall have storm’s end and dragonstone not long after, ”  oberyn says, smiling wickedly.  “ and i shall reap great pleasure in watching the lannister corpses rise before the iron throne  . . . ”

[oraiososta]

𝐉𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 || @inspireswar​​ ::​​​​

“  you can’t dictate what’s best for someone else. ” for rickard

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ —  A SHARP HISS PIERCES THROUGH RICKARD’S CLENCHED teeth,  his steel grey eyes reluctantly raising from the vast array of papers and letters less than neatly arranged upon his desk  . . .  lyarra had always been better at keeping his head in order, particularly when he is restless  . . .  to find the angry gaze of his daughter.  the mood in his private offices had been somber long before she had intruded, all but throwing open his door  -  a fit of rage, stemming from the wolf-blood he had so narrowly dodged  . . .  as had ned and benjen, yet brandon and lyanna had more than their fair share.  her nostrils flare and she looks positively bedraggled.  feral, even.  rickard’s gaze remains level.  knowing full well that he could not excuse her, he sets down his quill into his ink and moves away the papers, so he might fold his calloused, leathery hands atop the deep wood desk.  he takes a few breaths before daring to speak.

       “ i never claimed that was within my power, lyanna.  i have no delusions that you and brandon are happy in your predicaments. ”  rickard acknowledges this as an understatement.  from the moment he had sealed the dealings with lord hoster tully and lord robert baratheon, he knew his children would be furious  . . .  he had been right, of course  -  his wolf-blooded children fumed and berated his decision, oblivious to the vast importance behind it all.  they reacted in defense to their independence being stripped from them, a matter that rickard could sympathize with, but it did not change the necessity.  “ but this is more than just our lives.  this is the good of the north and its people. ”

       day by day, king aerys shows the true depths of his madness  . . .  like a candle flame slowly igniting into an inferno, threatening to sweep across the realm and bring it to ash.  long had rickard kept a narrow eye upon the south, ever watchful  . . .  but his suspicions are rising.  the vast paranoia of the mad king has become obvious.  he is hated by his people and he knows it, even if he denies it.  rhaegar targaryen cannot become king soon enough.  but who is to say when he will, or what aerys shall do beforehand.  whatever the case may be, rickard acknowledges that the north, in spite of its vastness and iced ferocity, is vulnerable.  his lord father, the late edwyle stark, had had little love towards the south and its people.  he had opted to keep the north secluded, keep to its own  . . .  he sought no other allies, save the ones he knew.  rickard was his only living son and heir  . . .  rather than send him away to be a ward, he had been kept and raised within winterfell.  isolated.

       there was no chance to form greater allies, for edwyle’s own paranoia kept his son tightly bound to winterfell and its lands.  it was not until rickard grew that he began to actively educate himself on westeros and its histories, its houses.  he had hoped to convince his father to let him marry a souther girl, so he might rectify his father’s faults.  but lyarra stark had set aside any such musings.  in spite of his own ambitions, rickard fell in love with the girl  . . .  a true she-wolf of the north, fierce and determined.  but she was a second daughter  . . .  his lord father would have rather had him marry lyarra’s older sister.  and he might have been forced to, had his lord father not died so suddenly.  reared from his horse, his back broken  . . .  dead before he even returned to winterfell.  rickard had been free to marry lyarra after that.  and happy they had been.

       rickard acknowledges he gained no political advantages in marrying lyarra.  theirs had been a rare and true love marriage.  he had adored her, in his own way  -  an icy, stoic man, yet he melted in her presence in the most discreet of ways, only she could understand  -  and losing her had taken away a part of him that could never be returned.

       ideally, each of his children would have the chance to marry for such love, to find someone to be so fiercely devoted to.  but he acknowledges the rarity that was his love for lyarra, and their opportunity to wed  . . .  it is a right he cannot lend to his children.  now more than ever, political advantages are necessary.  as the dragon sits and basks in the fire of his own madness, the wolves must expand their territories and allies.  it is a matter that rickard is not apt to share with his children, for he does not wish to worry them with something that has not yet transpired.  not yet, anyway.

       “ this does not please me, lya.  none of it does. ”  rickard stands from his desk and walks around to approach her, reaching to touch her shoulders.  “ if it were up to me, i would allow you to run freely across the north, and carry on however you pleased.  but i am not just a father, i am the lord of winterfell and the warden of the north.  my position is greater than my familial affections.  as is yours. ”  he squeezes her shoulder, then.  “ the gift i had with your mother is one i wish for all of you, but we are not all so fortunate, least of all in times such as these. ”

[oraiososta]

elizabeth woodville dresses

[oraiososta]

A commission I got a couple years back for valentine’s day from @minoruru who did an amazing job. based on the plot bunnies that drive my fanfic that I will one day continue

[oraiososta]

𝐉𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 || @azmenka​ ::​​​​

❛ i hate the way that i don’t hate you. ❜ ( for Theon )

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ —  R  -  THEON DOES NOT REPLY.  HIS EYES HANG low, staring to the stone floor beneath his disfigured feet  . . .  covered by a fresh pair of boots, protecting the almost inhuman flesh against the chill in the air.  he feels cold, even as he sits in front of the fireplace.  the flames are warm and crackle, creating a golden hue across the small chamber.  the room is so very small.  small, but not as small as his dungeon in master’s keep.  his fingers, what remain, flex.  no, no, not his master  -  ramsay snow, ramsay snow, ramsay snow is no more  . . .  he’s dead.  at least, theon thinks so.  he hadn’t seen him die, per say, though he had seen hundreds upon hundreds of ironborn and dornish man skewering and eviscerating the bolton men  . . .  and theon has heard that maron was the one to kill ramsay.  but this could all be rumors.  all just whispers.  mas  -  ramsay might have escaped.  the thought almost draws theon to recoil from the flames, as though the bastard of bolton himself would burst from the fire, knife in hand, and flay yet another layer of flesh from him.

      holding back a shaking breath, theon forces his tired eyes, crinkled and worn from the dry cold air and from the restless nights behind him, to look upon maron.  his brother, his last brother.  theon is loathe to admit he does not remember the faces of rodrik nor maron  . . .  they are simply shadows in the far back of his vision, shadows who tormented him and teased him and bullied him  . . .  he had resented them once, he thinks.  had looked back on these memories with scowls.  these memories were clearer once, he tells himself, as his stubby fingers pull the wool cloak tighter over his frail body.  the eyes are much the same, for they are the same eyes theon once had  . . .  the vibrant blue, like the sea.  maron’s are brighter.

       theon wishes he could recall if he had seen maron when he went to the iron islands, to plead on robb’s behalf  . . .  but he can scarcely recall.  he can barely recall asha’s face, or balon’s, or pyke itself  -  had it been cold ? ? ?  he tries to picture it, but all he sees is winterfell, before the boltons, and he hears the stark children  . . .  and then it twists into a nightmare, seeing the two boys he had burnt and passed off as bran and rickon.  and ser rodrik’s head  -

       i betrayed them.  all of them.

       “ you ought to, ”  theon croaks.  his eyes skim across his brother’s hands, clad in fingerless leather gloves  . . .  no blood there, if he killed ramsay, why is there no blood ? ? ?  

       grimly, theon wonders how long it has been  . . .  how many hours, days, possibly weeks, it has been since the boltons were destroyed.  where is ramsay’s body ? ? ?  theon wants to see it.  he needs to see him dead.  no.  he needs him burnt  -  brought to ashes, so that there is NO possibility of him ever returning.  if ramsay’s body is buried, he shall climb his way out.  if he is cut into pieces and spread across the world, the pieces will search and crawl and reunite themselves, and come for him again.  only ashes will bring peace.

       “ where is he ? ? ? ”

[oraiososta]

𝐉𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 || @azmenka​ ::​​​​

❛  were you … spying on me ?  ❜ ( for Doran )

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ —  DORAN’S HEAD TILTS SLIGHTLY, DARK EYES SHIFTING to where areo hotah might have been standing  . . .  yet there is an empty space there, instead.  and doran knows full well why that is.  his eyes shift again, this time to maron greyjoy standing before him.  he knew he was coming, of course  -  he had anticipated this confrontation for quite some time.  it was an inevitability.  the mistrust sewn between them, right from the start of this alliance, would all come to a head like this  . . .  he had considered staying in dorne a little longer after the conquest of king’s landing, if only to avoid the matter  -  the possibility, though rather meager, of this morning being his last  -  but that would do no one any good.  so, he came  . . .  he took to sail, and now he waits.

     there is no point in lying now.

       he leans back in his chair, his eyes  -  a pure black, like a pair of onyxes  -  raise to match the gaze of the kraken.  sharp eyes, vengeful and fierce and unrelenting as the ocean itself.  doran cannot say he does not see why his niece faltered, why she had stepped off of teh coarse he had perfectly laid for her  . . .  why she had forsaken the clean, easy way, to instead take the unforgiving nature of the ocean.  filled with krakens.  he cannot say he has forgiven her for it, either.  perhaps if she had listened, oberyn might be alive  . . .  arianne might not be wed to some dull oaf in highgarden, with quentyn set to marry the lady margaery, whose husbands have a nasty habit of dying away. 

      doran had hesitated when rhaenys expressed her desire to ally with the ironborn, but he could not fault her logic  -  to have the ironborn on her side would be beneficial, for their fleet is beyond compare on the open water;  even upon water they are unmatched.  but when he received her letter, explaining her proposal  . . .  she had endangered herself.  doran knew westeros would fight against a dornish-looking targaryen princess as its queen, but with a well-loved lord at her side  . . .  of ancient name, of great reputation, the fightback against her would have been minimal.  instead, she chose a liability.

      yet they had claimed king’s landing, though the unrest lingers.  the country heaves a deep, tired breath after the war itself, but the unrest shall carry.  after all, the boltons still hold the north, and doran knows they hold theon greyjoy.  with the south secured, it will not take long before the fight there begins  . . .

       doran decides the moment to speak is now, and truthful shall be his words  . . .  for, after all, the kraken’s son would be able to see through them.  “ yes.  from the moment my niece went against my wishes in betrothing herself to you, i had my eyes upon you, ”  he says, calmly.  many eyes.  the eyes of areo hotah, until he made one critical mistake  . . .  and his body lost to the ocean.  the eyes of others had faltered in the end, whether by fear or a new wave of loyalty.  he cannot be sure.  

       the prince of dorne opens his hands.

       “ i could not be sure to trust you, ”  doran carries on, his gaze trailing to the gardens of the red keep where he rests.  a quiet place, sitting in the shade of a gazebo overlooking the sea where ironborn ships reside, along with his own.  once he had sat here beside elia, holding his newborn niece  . . .  how much has changed.  “ i imagine the feeling is mutual. ”  he pauses, if only to exhale and to fight against the aches and pains in his legs, intensified by the strain of all which has transpired.  “ the girl  . . .  shireen baratheon.  you care for her as i cared for my own  . . .  i see the same devotion in your eyes.  tell me, would you not also be cautious if she knowingly chose a dangerous path, one you knew would hurt her chances of survival in this world ? ? ? ”

[oraiososta]

THE STARKS ARE BY FAR THE MOST PROLIFIC FAMILY IN THE UPPER ECHELONS OF SOCIETY

⠀    Rickon Stark is not the easiest of boys.

    Okay, fine, he’s not easy at all, so much that his mother is having a hard time finding a match for him. And while he humors her by frequenting society more and more, he has also been spending time with a notable figure of the aristocracy, Ser Davos Seaworth. The old man, who was born in the lowers ranks of society and had fallen in favors with one of the noblest lords in Westeros, had not grown apart of his acid amusements and sharp tongue. He was definitely Rickon’s favorite person on the land.

    And this is how he meets Lady Shireen Baratheon.

    The only daughter of that same lord who has made Ser Davos rise in society, Lady Shireen is the kindest person to walk this Earth. She’s also highly rejected by her family because of her appearance, the big scar that covers great part of her face making both of her parents see her as unfit for all the duties she should perform as their only heir. All of this makes Ser Davos grow fond of the girl, having her almost as his own kin.

    When Shireen finds a diary from a dead relative, she’ll end up having Rickon’s help to discover her place in the family that dislikes her at the same time he will learns that the right person never cares about having it easy.

[oraiososta]

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ — 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 || 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐈 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑::

“i am a hateful woman,” she volleys venomously in response, all bit spitting the words.  let him say what they all think.  it had been them against all once.  her emerald gaze is harsh upon him now.  all cersei wants is for her brother back, for her love, and yet he who stands before her is a diminshed version of the golden hero of her dreams.  she blames him, over and over – for not being there, for always being too kind to tyrion: look at what he had done to them; look at what he had done to their boy.

she wants to slap him, to rip out what remains of shortened hair; to defile further the pieces of herself which she must claw to find in the reflection of him.  “and i hate you,” she seethes, her eyes brimming, overflowing down her cheeks, though she cannot tell of her tears are out of anger or anguish or both.  she does not mean the words, however she tries to convince herself; however much she wishes she could.  never, in all her time spent with jaime, had she ever felt so alone.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ —  JAIME MIGHT HAVE FELT A BITTER STING once to her words, to hear her hatred so fuming against him  -  even now, the ghost of a dull ache exists somewhere inside of him, haunting his very bones.  but looking upon her now, emerald eyes tear and her expression twisted by scorn and contempt, he finds the oddest sensation  . . .  familiarity.  for once, it is as if he is seeing himself in cersei  -  a direct reflection, one he thinks he has seen before, but has often ignored.  he sees the anger that has festered inside of him.  kingslayer.  burn them all.  those words resound in his ears, the faces of those who have regarded him with hatred and clear judgment  -  the self-righteous eyes of lord stark  -  have always lingered with him.  he has not always been hateful.  but cersei  . . .  his eyes shift, watching as the reflection seems to shimmer and fade, until he no longer sees the ghostly reflection of himself, but finally that of his sister.  he sees her as she is.

       he does not doubt her words.  in this moment, perhaps for a while, she has hated him  -  and he has lived in the humble and simple delusion of her love.  he has played the fool, played her games.  he swore his cloak to her, only to realize it was a slight by aerys against his father  . . .  and cersei, meant to marry rhaegar, was taken away from him.  jaime wonders what might have been had he not partaken in her plan  . . .  perhaps things would have turned out differently.  perhaps the realm would never have bled.  no.  the realm would have burned under aerys  . . .  one way or another.  “ perhaps you hate me as you do, sweet sister  -  only because you see yourself in me, as i see myself in you, ”  jaime says, in a low voice.  “ you have never be happy, sister  . . .  not with me, not with anyone  . . . ”

[oraiososta]

is it really such a crime for an angel to speak his mind?