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it is actually fucking crazy that ned makes theon carry the sword though. like we’ve all sort of moved past it but literally why would he do that what’s wrong with him.

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The Kraken's Daughter AFFC

A Ghost in Winterfell ADWD

The horror of turning into your mother.

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Robb and Theon in The Kiss of Judas

🎨 art by the talented @shripscapi

This beautiful and, in a way, breathtaking (at least in my opinion) artwork has been in my mind in concept for at least a year, and has been beautifully brought to life by Liesl. I have always felt that there was an almost biblical element to Robb Stark’s arc and his betrayal, by Roose Bolton, Walder Frey, and most pointedly, Theon Greyjoy (though the latter was done with less malice, but then again, that is not a prerequisite to betrayal). Robb Stark is a young king with good intentions, wanting the best for his people, but whether from greed, a want for revenge, or a wish for belonging, he was killed. His murder in of itself was at the hands of Roose Bolton and Walder Frey’s men, but being that those men were not particularly close to Robb nor was the king fond of them, the impact of their betrayal comes mostly from the shock and gore of it all, as well as the disregard for the revered tradition of guest right. Roose Bolton and Walder Frey have a direct hand in Robb Stark’s death, but Theon Greyjoy’s betrayal of his self-proclaimed “brother” has an indirect part in it too (it is to be noted, when I say betrayal, I do not mean to imply that Theon owes loyalty to the Starks, the family that took him from his home as a boy; I am not of the opinion he does, but Theon describes his own actions as betrayal, for personal loyalty to Robb). It is a matter of debate if Theon would have been able to return to Robb without being intercepted by his father if he had chosen to try and warn his friend that the Ironborn were preparing to launch an attack instead of allying with the North. What is not up for debate is that Theon’s capture of Winterfell weakened the North and its morale, bringing into question how they should move forward. On a more personal level, Theon’s claim of having murdered Robb’s younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, was devastating to the young king. The grief was what inadvertently led Robb to sleep with and ultimately marry Jeyne Westerling. While the Freys likely would have tried to betray Robb at some point, if Robb had followed their plan to marry a Frey girl, he would have probably lived for some time, at least to ensure a Frey/Stark heir. Theon does not have full responsibility for all these acts, but his betrayal certainly weakened Robb. Robb and Theon were close as Jesus and Judas were, despite the “kings” being warned or otherwise knowing better. Judas betraying Jesus is more impactful than if it had been another other apostle, just as, in my opinion, Theon betraying Robb is more impactful than Roose and Walder doing the same. On a more general note, while Robb did not die on a literal cross, I do not find it to be a coincidence that he died at a dinner. Robb’s story likely is purposefully inspired by biblical elements, along with being informed by various other historical figures, which I will elaborate on below.

With the iconography in my commission, my intention was for the piece to contain symbols that could pass as something you could find either in a Bible from times past or a Westerosi history book. Liesl’s art is beautiful and too polished, given modern methods, to pass for something found in a medieval manuscript, but it does look like it could be a descendent of such a thing. Medieval art is too archaic for my liking so I had purposefully set out with this compromise in mind, and Liesl’s art style was the closest to my vision. The weirwood is specific to Westeros and the in-world religion of Robb, but the halo is more biblical in nature. My intention was not to portray Robb as perfect or pure-intentioned, certainly not as selfless as the Christian depiction of Jesus. The iconography is meant to be more saintly in nature. Saint is not synonymous with perfect, anyone who knows an extensive amount about saints knows that there are saints canonized that weren’t particularly good people in their lifetime. My particular inspiration was Edward the Martyr, king of England (before William’s conquest). Edward died at the age of 16 under guest right. He was killed by a group of guards, his own people, on his stepmother’s estate. His death, too, was described as Christ-like. Here is a quote from a recount of his death:

“Those magnates had agreed among themselves a wicked plot: they were possessed of so damnable an intention and so murky and diabolical a blindness, that they did not fear to lay hands on God's anointed. Armed men surrounded him on all sides… The venerable king had with him very few soldiers, since he did not suspect anyone, trusting "in the Lord and in the might of His power” — it was just as the Jews once surrounded our Lord… They were seized by a single madness, an equal insanity ... The soldiers laid hold of him: one on his right-hand side drew him towards him, as if he wished to give him a kiss; another grabbed his left side firmly and gave him the death blow.”

Who does that sound like???

I love the idea of Robb as a figure similar to Edward the Martyr. He is a boy-king, and not particularly religious or impressive in feats (though Robb, having bested Tywin thus far in the story, is significantly ahead of Edward in terms of his military). Their death is tragic and they are exceptional, not for being great men, but for being innocent children thrust into a role and then martyred. Thus their stories turn to legends and they are seen as holy or saint-like in nature. Though Robb worshipped the Old Gods, due to his maternal family’s legacy and beliefs, it is not all that far fetched he could have a cult dedicated to him or be revered by the Faith of the Seven later on in Westerosi history.

Concerning other symbolism, I will acknowledge that Robb’s youth is exaggerated here to drive home the point of him being little more than an innocent child. He has not grown his beard yet and he is dwarfed by his furs. His clothes are meant to intimidate, make him look regal and intimidating. But really, it makes him look like a kid. Theon is portrayed as an adult, five years Robb’s senior. He is not meant to be malicious and his love for Robb is not false. He still betrays him all the same, that’s the tragedy of it. Robb knows he is king, knows he should keep a distance from Theon, many have told him. But yet he is informal here, having removed his glove so Theon can hold him. Robb is not relaxed, but that is not due to a lack of affection or some sort of stiffness around Theon, but rather to create an effect of a dead boy walking, rigor-mortis. Theon’s clothes aren’t meant to have any symbolism about him. I looked at all sorts of biblical art and depictions of the Kiss of Judas to decide what colors I wanted Theon to wear. I saw a lot of reds and whites, but I didn’t like that for Theon. I saw gold as well, but we didn’t want to default to House colors as that is overdone. The result was giving Theon the most luxurious clothes possible. Black was an expensive color and velvet an expensive fabric. His garb is more expensive and showy than the King’s himself. That is because Theon is exceptionally vain and Robb is not. Theon has all sorts of jewelry and even has pearls on his boots. Who does that???? It’s so gaudy and impractical, I love it for Theon. The pearls will eventually fall off and he will have wasted a fortune, but Theon does not think about practicality like that. He is a guarded person decorating himself with bits and baubles to give himself some sort of purpose or comfort that is not there. He subconsciously wishes to trick people into thinking he is secure and has value, when he feels no sense of belonging anywhere. No wonder his father bullied him.

My endless thanks and gratitude to Liesl @shripscapi. I love your work and appreciate you. Everyone should follow her account and check out more of her art because it is beautiful. She is a joy to work with and very thorough and dedicated. She has been very flexible and patient with me in the months making this and my past commissions. I have had nothing but wonderful experiences with her, she is one of my favorite and most respected artists in this community. And thank you for anyone who has stuck here and read this, I obviously a passion for this sort of stuff. I love to ramble and this is my hyper-fixation so I’m very excited about this.

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J for Strabo and Vesta or D for Coryo and Sejanus please?? 🥰

hiiii anon!!! first tysm for the ask!! and alright, going for strabo and vesta! just for context: for this tiny thing, I went for an au where vesta and strabo knew each other since they were children :) it's a bit out of context and random, but here it is:

Vesta Rocha always had the best of intentions. And it was with the best of intentions that she walked up and down the slopes of the lower part of District 2 until her legs ached, until the secondhand flats Venus had given her felt tight on her feet, until she had to tie her curls up in a ponytail. She knocked on door after door, looking at the people from a neighborhood so far from her own with a huge smile that showed a missing tooth as she asked:

"Hello! Do you know any Plinth? No, not that Plinth. Another one. Do you know any? No? Really? Not even one? Oh…"

Disappointment after disappointment, door after door, Vesta couldn’t find what she was looking for. But she had good intentions. She had a good heart. And when she came back to knock on Strabo Plinth’s door, with a pout on her face and a sad expression, she hoped he would at least be happy about her attempts. But when he asked her why on earth she seemed to have walked so much when she had a bicycle, and she gave him the explanation without thinking twice, it wasn’t a smile that appeared on his face, nor an excited or grateful expression.

Strabo looked furious.

And it must have been at least five minutes since they started arguing without end. And Vesta didn’t understand. She just couldn’t understand him at all.

What was wrong with Strabo Plinth?

"What’s wrong with you?" she shouted back after one of his mean remarks, stomping her foot.

"What’s wrong with me?" Strabo sounded incredulous. "I didn’t ask you to do anything! I didn’t want you to do anything for me!"

"I just wanted to help you and you’re just being mean to me!" Vesta had always been the crybaby of the four sisters, and it was inevitable that her eyes were now full of tears.

"I didn’t want your help!"

"Why?!"

"Because I don’t want you to take me away from my Pa!"

Why? He hurts you. He hurts you all the time. I just wanted to help. I just wanted to help you and you don’t want help.

That’s what Vesta would have said if seeing Strabo Plinth crying hadn’t been shocking enough to make the words forget to come out of her throat. For a moment, she forgot her own tears, her own tight chest. She forgot her wounded pride and she forgot how absurd it was that he would rather live with the man she had seen only a few times than with a distant relative, whoever that might be. She even forgot about the pink bicycle she was holding, which fell to the ground the moment she ran to Strabo and hugged him tightly. And no matter how much he tried to push her away, no matter how much he shouted for her to leave him alone and go away and never come back, she just held him tighter.

Vesta didn’t know how to apologize for that. And she didn’t know what exactly she was apologizing for. For having tried to find Strabo’s distant relatives? Probably not. Did she feel sorry for him? Sorry for the way he was raised? For the fact that he never had a chance, and never would? Did she feel sorry for not being able to help him, or at least not in the way she wanted to, in the way he deserved?

Either way, there were no words in English or Spanish or any of the languages spoken throughout the districts of Panem that could express how sad Vesta was for that boy.

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everyone shut up and look at this

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hate hate HATE when people act like cersei wanting to keep myrcella in kings landing is a symptom of her narcissism or "loving her children as an extension of herself" like yeah youre right a girl who was married off against her will to a political enemy as a peace token and maritally raped for 15 years wanting to spare her daughter the same fate is psychotic and self centered my bad

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hate hate HATE when people act like cersei wanting to keep myrcella in kings landing is a symptom of her narcissism or "loving her children as an extension of herself" like yeah youre right a girl who was married off against her will to a political enemy as a peace token and maritally raped for 15 years wanting to spare her daughter the same fate is psychotic and self centered my bad

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FILTHY

pairing | ramsay bolton x reader

summary | the new-made lord wants a bath

warnings | 18+ MDNI, mentions of flaying, preestablished situationship that's on hold (lol), reader is a servant, could be ooc but idk i tried, ramsay is a bitch and you shouldn't trust anything he says OR DOESN'T SAY ever, spellchecked but that's it cause #yolo

word count | 2.0k

A strand of hair clung to your forehead, sweat slick from countless trips up and down the steep steps of Winterfell. Your biceps ached as you heaved the bucket onto the tub’s edge, palms burning from the raw bite of its thin, rusted handle.

Blowing the hair from your face, you glared across the room. “You’re enjoying this.”

Ramsay grinned from where he lounged on his bed. He was dressed in nothing but a thin robe, tied loose enough to expose much of his pale chest, marred by slashing scars.

His body was nothing you hadn’t seen before. Nothing you hadn’t mapped with your tongue.

And yet he captivated you still.

“My lord,” he corrected. “You’re enjoying this, my lord.”

Your teeth gritted.

Would it be wrong, you wondered, to cross the room and dump the bucket’s contents over his head? The water was near boiling. Perhaps it would burn his pretty face off, melting the stupid spell he had over you.

Or perhaps it would end with you strung up in the dungeon, skin kissed by a flaying blade...

Tilting the bucket, you hoped the steady splash of water might drown your thoughts. The tub was nearly full now. You would be able to leave Ramsay’s rooms after this – so long as my lord didn’t take issue with the temperature (again).

Five times you had been made to fill and drain then fill the tub again.

Five times you had resisted the urge to smack Ramsay upside his head.

When the last drop had dripped, you set the bucket aside to assess the water’s temperature with your fingertips. Instantly, tension released from your muscles. It felt nice – not so cold as he claimed the first bath to be, not so hot as the third, and nicer than any bath you had ever taken.

You dried your hand on your apron. “Better,” you told him stiffly.

Ramsay swung his legs off the side of his bed. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

He waited until he was in front of you, on the other side of the tub, to undo his robe and let it slide from his shoulders. Broad shoulders. Good for gripping and biting and–

 Ramsay stepped into the tub. You fought to keep your eyes on his – pale and violent, yet oh-so pretty, like ice gleaming on the surface of a lake. Water lapped at the tub’s edge as he moved a foot throughout it, assessing the temperature for himself. The sound was a siren song, urging coaxing begging you to look down. You didn’t want to. You did want to. Your mouth salivated at the thought of what you would see, the flat plain of his stomach and the impressive length between his legs.

As if able to read your mind, Ramsay smirked at you before lowering into the water. “Tepid,” he said, “but I suppose I’ll make do.”

Make do. He’ll make do, you thought incredulously.

Most days, you and other servants were expected to sponge off with leftover dishwater. Others, your Lord Roose Bolton might allow you each a bucket from the kennels, whatever the hounds hadn’t drank before having their water refreshed. The former left your skin dry and smelling sour, while the latter left it sticky with drool.

You would kill for one of the clean, oil-scented baths enjoyed by nobles – tepid or not.

With your arms crossed behind your back, you fisted the thin linen of your dress. “I am glad it meets your standards,” you made yourself say.

“That’s not even close to what I said.”

“But if it pleases you,” you ignored him, snatching the bucket up by its handle, “I will be taking my leave for the night.”

You made it no more than a step backwards from him when he began to tut. “You think you’re done?” he asked, amused. “You forget yourself. This is Winterfell, little pet – and I am to be the Warden of the North someday.” As if you could forget… the smug bastard reminded you daily. “Do you truly think wardens are meant to trouble themselves with tasks so menial as bathing?”

“If a man can be trusted to ward the North,” you said tiredly, “then surely he can be trusted to scrub his own balls.”

If Ramsay was another lord – his father, or even the patient Lord Eddard Stark – you would face punishment for speaking out of turn. Lord Roose might’ve even yanked the forked tongue straight from your mouth, plopping it into a jar of vinegar to decorate his council room.

But Ramsay was not Roose, nor Eddard.          

Ramsay found humor in insolence.

Grinning, he said, “Oh, but you’re so much better at it.” He swiped the sponge off the bath tray set up beside the tub, holding it out to you like a gift. You only stared at it. Impatience sprouted like weeds between his teeth. “Would you like me to say please?”

You would.

“Don’t bother.” You dropped the bucket with a loud clang, adjusting your skirt to kneel beside the tub. “I worry the word might burn your tongue.” And who would tend to that wound if not you? And how quickly would your resolve falter that close to his mouth, his lips, the sharp points of his teeth?

Ramsay ignored your snark. But as you took the sponge from his hand, your fingertips grazing his palm, he said, “Good girl.”

There was a sudden tightness in your gut.

You assured yourself it was due to loathing – not lust.

Ignoring him as he had done you, you dipped the sponge in the water – careful to avoid looking at anything, ahem, important – and wrung it out before grabbing his favorite cypress soap off the bath tray. When the sponge was thoroughly lathered with fresh-scented bubbles, you tapped the back of Ramsay’s shoulder a bit harder than necessary.

“Lean up.”

“My lord,” he corrected again, even while doing as you commanded.

Ramsay’s back was as impressive as his front. Well-muscled from years of archery and hunting with his hounds. Still pale, still flecked with scars – some deep and vicious, from prey with a bit more fight in them; others long and sensual, from pets like you or Myranda.

There were freckles on his back, too. Cute, dainty – words that couldn’t be used to describe Ramsay Snow Bolton in any other way. Soap waterfalled over them as you scrubbed between his shoulder blades, your mind drifting to nights spent beneath his sheets. How often had you laid awake, trying to count each one amidst the soft hum of his snores? How often had you traced a finger from one to the next, mapping them into constellations more beautiful than any maester had discovered?

You had thought you would marry him, once. Imagined babes with dark hair growing into smiles that were all teeth, their pale skin spotted with stars. Not so crazy a dream, once… A bastard marrying a serving girl was no queer thing, after all. It happened all the time.

But now he was a lord.

Your lord.

“Either I’m filthy,” Ramsay said, disrupting the haze that had fallen over you, “or you’re distracted. Are you admiring your handiwork?” In truth, you couldn’t tell which of the claw marks had come from you, Myranda, or any of the other girls Ramsay had taken to bed.

Could he tell? You hoped so – and hated yourself for it.

“You had it right the first time,” you said, stiff and awkward, with a familiarity not befitting a lord and his servant. “You are filthy.”

He chuckled. “Then perhaps you should bathe me more often.”

A smile twitched at your lips, rinsing the soap from his back with cupped hands. “It’s not your body that needs cleansing.” It was his mind, his mouth, his hands – especially his hands, pristinely groomed, yet stained bone deep with the lifeblood of every man, woman, and child who had met his flaying knife. “There isn’t enough soap in the world to make you pure.” Nor any title that can change what you are.

Tommen Baratheon’s decree might have legitimized Ramsay, given him a name to match his blood, but in the eyes of a trueborn lord? A bastard was a bastard from birth ‘til death, no matter the scribblings of a boy king. If Fat Walda bore Roose a son, he would be named heir – and as for Ramsay? There would be only two options: death or the Wall. And while the bastard looked swell in black, you knew he would swear no oath to the Nights Watch.

When you were done rinsing, Ramsay leaned back and laid his arms along the side of the tub. He watched as you wet the sponge again. He looked calm – a façade betrayed by the subtle tap tap tap of his index finger.

“Would you like me better if I were pure?”

Your eyes widened.

“Servants aren’t meant to hold such opinions of their lord,” you managed evenly. The sponge was already well lathered, but you coated it with more soap anyway, avoiding Ramsay’s stare.

He snorted. “We both know you hold no shortage of opinions.”

“Such as?”

“You think I should wash my own balls, to start.”

“That’s not an opinion,” you argued. “It’s fact. Do you think Eddard Stark needed someone to bathe him below the waist? Or how about his son?” The Young Wolf, they had called him. “That one died a king,” you said, “yet I’d bet my last coin no servant ever had to scrub his cock.”

The water rippled as Ramsay shrugged. “Perhaps that’s why they failed to hold Winterfell. Too much time spent polishing the ole sweaty jewels rather than ruling the lands they were given.” You could hear the smile in his voice, lazy and cruel. “Or perhaps they just fools, cut down by smarter, more worthy men.”

“Is that what you are now?” you asked without thinking. “A smarter, more worthy man?”

You cursed yourself for looking at him then, for noticing how his eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. He was offended. Hurt, even – or as hurt as someone like him could be. Was I not smart before? he refused to ask. Did you, too, not consider me worthy?

But then he blinked, all childish vulnerability faded into a look of trained boredom.

“I changed my mind. A servant shouldn’t hold opinions of their lord – they’re too stupid to be trusted.”

His words coiled in your chest, a barbed serpent around your heart.

You knew better than to get upset. It was the nature of hurt things, after all, to hurt those around them. And who was more adept at getting under the skin than a pretty boy with sharp teeth, death on his heels and power at his fingertips?

Squaring your shoulders with a deep breath, you set the sopping sponge on the bath try. “Apologies, my lord, but I’m afraid I’m in no position to be of further use to you tonight. I will fetch another servant to–”

Ramsay caught you by the wrist as you stood up, intending to escape. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub from the force of his movement. Your skin burned where he touched you. Not like fire, hot with bubbling blisters – but like frostbite, a cold sting burrowing underneath your flesh.

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “If I wanted another servant, I would call for one myself.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t think.

Slowly, Ramsay loosened his hold on your wrist.

Even slower, he let go completely.

“You’ll stay.” He grabbed the sponge off the bath tray and began scrubbing his own chest. “If not to wash my balls, then to provide entertainment.” There was stiffness in his voice that undermined his humor, his command.

No title will change him, you thought, sadness pulling at your heartstrings.

He would always be a bastard with no friends, save for those he forged out of suffering and pain, cruelty wrapped in deceptive adoration. No amount of power would ever purge his need for acceptance. No victory would ever eradicate the loneliness in his bones.

There would be no marriage. No babes with dark hair and star-flecked skin.

But Ramsay was still Ramsay, and you had never been any good at denying him what he wanted.

You knelt back down beside the tub. “Entertain you how?” you asked.

He began to grin.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

super sick bolton divider made by @/valyrianvibranium !!

a/n | i'm of the belief that after the cut ramsay pulls her into the bath, fully clothed, and the rest of their night is actually just smutty and as cute as a night with ramsay can get. definitely doesn't last beyond the night tho - reader is for sure gonna end up dog food at some point. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

anyways, thanks for reading! and an extra special thanks to @polaris-daydreams for being my newest mutual to yap about ramsay and theon with lmao🫶

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let’s be cocooned by mama

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depictions of death as merciful and benevolent and kind move me to tears without fail

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i hate it when someone asks me what my favorite work of art is because i can't say "the one of the woman chilling on the rocks with a dragon lying in her lap and giving off powerful big dick energy" but how else am i supposed to describe it

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Elia and Lyanna I did for the @asoiafpalestine fundraiser!!! This one was super fun, I loved drawing my girls ☀️🐺

Per commissioners request, Elia is Lebanese and Lyanna is Icelandic! If you’d like a piece done by one of our amazing artists, please check out our fundraiser and donate to a family in need.

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top 10 characters who would personally benefit from lesbianism:

1- Catelyn. This is how she beats the patriarchy out of her brain once and for all. Canon woman respecter, she just needs that last restraint to drop before she becomes a true menace to Westerosi society (positive).

2- Brienne. Doesn't need to practice per se, but seeing that there are standards of worth outside of the straight male mind would probably do numbers. This is how the patriarchy dies.

3- Asha. Would definitely be freeing for her, but not higher on the list because she's already in the gayest straight situationship of all time and it seems to be working fine for her. Maybe her boyfriends should dick down though.

4- Sansa. She needs her little teenage crush on Myranda Royce to sink into her soul and give her the clarity and strength to throw every man in her life off of a roof.

5- House Mormont of Bear Island. They are THIIIIS close to a manless society. Free yourselves, ladies.

6- Barbrey Dustin. Girl get over him.

7- Jeyne W. (Gently) Girl get over him.

8- Those House of the Dragon bitches. I haven’t seen the show but idk it’s probably better than any of the straight options. For them and no one else.

9- Dany. It just needs to not be the weird obligation sex she has with Irri and Jhiqui.

10- Cersei. Funny in theory, could be enlightening for her. But in practice it was bad for everyone in a ten mile radius. Hate to say this but maybe she should stick to her twin brother.

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viserys's leprosy is a symbol for the destabilisation of the state/the institution of the crown in the years leading up to the dance, the body politic's condition being reflected on the king's body. it starts even before he kills aemma because he's an ineffectual ruler whose small council is made up of opportunistic men, then (1.02) his hand is rotting away at the same time otto—his hand is preparing to exchange alicent for political power and is giving the king advice that'll cause problems for rhaenyra's ascension down the the line. it doesn't have anything to do with viserys's moral character it would've been wildly ableist if that were the case. aegon's disfigurement is also doing this, in the sense that he's effectively dead to his small council and his own queen mother because power cannot flow through someone who's been excluded from the bounds of traditional masculinity (and this is right when larys, also locked out of ever fully attaining traditional masculinity and is losing the influence he previously gained at court, aligns himself with aegon as he did with the young queen in S1). it's not punishment for the violent misogyny because famously that's not even considered as either of their great flaw by any character in-universe because exploitation of young girls for the propagation of feudal bloodlines is normative within westeros and something that's being repeated by both rhaenyra and alicent in the way they treat with rhaena and dyana/helaena.