#pretender to throne

[gallimaufryish]

Token of Louis XVII, titular King of France and Navarre (1793-1795)

[vintrage]

can someone please get this girl her dog back

[hibernaculish]

applause for valiant Ned’s precious little girl and Jon Snow’s favorite baby sister ─=≡Σʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ

[dipperscavern]

ugh my most fave account in the whole WORLD can I ask for bathing w Jon??? Doesn’t even have to be smutty (tho I wouldn’t complain) just like spending time with him after a stressful day, maybe a massage, maybe some ogling idk 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

most fave account in the world… you’re just saying that… [batting my lashes] absolutely u can!! thank u for the ask <3

jon snow x fem!reader, set after the battle of the bastards

jon’s not sure who’s blood he’s covered in anymore. dirt & grime cling to him like moths to a flame, and he’s exhausted — in all senses.

it’s emotional, being back in winterfell. it’s halls echo with the haunted laughter of the ghosts that once roamed them, and jon can almost feel the memories etched onto the bricks under his fingertips. how many feet have walked these halls?

he knows winterfell it’s just a castle, a place that’s been here & will remain here long after he dies. he knows it’s the people that make a place a home — knows the castle doesn’t take sides or have favorites of its inhabitants, but he can’t help the feeling of possession that licks up his spine. a strange sense of family, like the castle itself has been waiting to hold them all in its walls once more.

and, he feels a sense of pride. accomplishment. finally does he have back that which was taken from him and his family when the realm fell apart. he’s been guarding the wall for years, and he vows to guard winterfell with the same ferocity.

he thinks all this while he stands at the window of his old room, watching the banners of flayed men be cut down & replaced with direwolves. bolton’s, cut down. replaced by starks. a hot bath awaits behind him, waiting to wash his sins clean, but he hasn’t so much as looked at it yet. he feels so much, all of it all at once. grief, shock, pain, nostalgia — all which make his head spin.

the adrenaline of battle quickly disappears from his system, making his knees buckle as he leans against the windowsill. little black spots dance in his vision as he tries to regain his balance. rickon chipped a tooth on this sill, he thinks. the memory uncomfortably squeezes at his heart.

as his brain assesses he’s not in danger anymore, various injuries now come to light. the ache of his knuckles, bruised & wet with blood. whether it’s his or ramsays, he can’t be entirely certain. his legs hurt, his arms hurt; the cuts on his face scream as dirt mixes with the open wound. he can feel the plethora of grime in his scalp, and the strain of his hair being pulled back. he should- needs to be back out there, checking on his men, surveying winterfells grounds, helping with the cleanup — but he can’t do that until he gives his body some respite. he needs relief, but where does he even start?

he’s smoothing a hand over his jaw when the door opens, and he turns to see you. you exhale, visibly relaxing at the sight of him as you close the door. your eyes rake up and down his body, seemingly checking for any mortal wounds. he understands, you lost sight of each other as soon as the battle started. well, you lost sight of him as the entirety of the bolton army ran at him full speed.

“Sansa said you’d be here.”

albeit less than him, you’re covered in the aftermath of battle yourself. while relieved to see you, jon doesn’t have the energy to respond, meeting your eyes with a tired look & nodding. you smile at the sight of what he’s leaning against, moving to join him at the sanctuary of his window.

“Rickon chipped a tooth on this sill.”

when he thought of it, it hurt. but when you mention it, it only makes him smile — huffing out a breath of laughter.

“Aye. He did.”

you look out the window for a moment, relishing in seeing the stark banners hang once more, before reaching a hand up to cradle his cheek. you have it angled to not touch any of his cuts, and the small gesture makes him only fall more in love with you, if even possible.

you look at him for a moment, and then move to reach for jon’s gloved hand. he almost pulls back at the thought of sullying your clean hands with his own, caked with blood both metaphorically & physically — but he fails to realize you took lives today too. your hands are just as sullied as his own, but never in his mind will they be equal. either way, you don’t seem to mind, eager to reaffirm the idea that he’s okay by feeling him under your hands.

you begin to slide off his glove, and he winces at the exposure of his bloody knuckles. they’re bruised, skin partially cracked from the force he used to have a conversation with the bolton bastard. your brows pinch, muttering an apology as you toss the glove on the floor & move to take off the other.

he looks at you as you work, and he suddenly feels a surge of emotion. how lucky is he to have someone that understands him so? you know what he needs even when jon himself doesn’t, and he has to resist the urge to interrupt you by pressing a kiss to your temple. he settles on allowing the corners of his lips to quirk up in a small smile.

even in his gratefulness, he can’t help the thought that lingers in the back of his mind. the thought that he should be out there, tending to the wounded or helping in some other way (as if he wasn’t part of the fight to win back winterfell). anything other than remaining warm in the castle halls while there’s still work to be done. he can’t help himself, and eventually voices as much.

“I should be out there.”

“Sansa has it.” you say, not even glancing at him as you begin to fiddle with the buckles of his outer layer.

sansa. he thinks back to the spoiled princess that left winterfell, and now to the politically-savvy ruler that’s been left in her wake. from what he’s seen, she’s become strong, and if you say she has it — she has it. he selfishly relishes in letting someone else take the lead, even if only for a moment.

he feels exhaustion beginning to settle in, taking root deep in his bones. the prospect of you, a bed, and warm furs currently entice him more than any offer of gold or jewelry, but he knows it’ll be long before he can get what he desires. he decides to compromise, settling for the present until time calls for sleep.

once you get his outer layer off, he begins to strip himself bare. he has no care for you seeing him, you’ve both been as naked as your name day before the other countless times — who is he to hide from you now?

as the dirt, sweat, and blood that were trapped underneath his clothing get released, the reprieve is palpable. his skin appreciates its liberation from the suffocating fabric, beginning to assuage its protest.

eventually, he steps in, sinking into the bath & letting the hot water turn his mind off. his eyes flutter shut at the instant soothe it provides, and he’s thankful to have all his uncomfortable clothing off. his injuries sting at first, making him grimace, but they eventually calm down. he’s vaguely aware of you approaching behind him, moving to sit on the stool handmaidens usually use to assist their lord or lady.

your hands come to fuss with his hair, untying the portion of it that’s held back. the tension that snaps free from his head has his brows knitting, a shaky exhale falling from his lips. your hands run through his curls, lightly scratching at his scalp. the ache of it is delicious, and goosebumps litter his body at the feeling.

you look down at jon, a light smile adorning your face at the sight of his relief. watching the bolton army swarm him had your chest tightening, uncomfortably compromising any hope of air entering your lungs. you watched as ramsay paid his debt for his transgressions, as jon lost himself in his anger, and as sansa snapped him out of it. and truthfully, horribly, you’re just glad he’s alright.

you lean forward, resting a hand on the edge of the tub as your head leans against his own, tipped back. your other hand comes over his shoulder, finding purchase on any skin available to you. you’ve done this dance before — almost losing him, and then having to convince yourself he’s okay again. you can only do that by feeling him through your fingertips, greedily soaking up his touch like vultures during winter.

you both don’t need words. you became fluent in the language of your comfortable silence long ago.

you sit there for a moment, relishing in his presence, his touch, being in winterfell again. you look to the window, thinking of all there is to be done, and sigh. you need to get back out there. you press a kiss to his temple, then retract, moving to stand up. the water lightly sloshes around as jon looks at you.

you lightly caress the back of his neck, looking down at him. “I should return. Offer assistance where it’s needed.”

you move to walk off, but jon catches your hand. “You could join me,” he says. “If you like.”

you look to him, your gaze accidentally flickering to his chest. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you look away. you never did have any resolve when it came to jon.

you squeeze his hand, then turn to start undressing. you didn’t even realize how uncomfortable you were until you started shedding your layers, freeing your irritated skin. your head drops down, and you run your hands through your hair. gods. how long had you been fighting?

you don’t notice how jon’s gaze is trapped on you, mapping the expanse of your body. if he’s ever doubted the existence of the gods, your presence reaffirms that belief. you were hand crafted, created with the intention to embody beauty in human form. if you asked of him absolution, jon would pray — kneeling before you as his altar.

you discard your clothes, moving to step in opposite from him. you’re fairly unharmed, other than the few small bruises that litter your body. the hot water enveloping you is everything and more, and you mutter a “Gods..” as you sink in. jon’s gaze hasn’t left you once.

you sigh. “It’s strange. Being back.”

jon only nods, looking out the window, expression becoming distant as he recounts the experiences had in the safety of these walls. hide and seek games that lasted well into the night. sneaking into the kitchens. archery and sword training. nan’s old ghost stories. your shared first kiss.

the last thought has his lips quirking up in a smile, returning his sight to you only to find you already looking at him. he leans forward, arm outstretching for you.

“Come here.”

he reaches for you, and you oblige — letting him turn you around & pull you to his chest. the water sloshes as you both move, getting more comfortable than you’ve been in weeks.

his touch has always been grounding, anchoring you in a way you weren’t made to understand. right now, it’s just you and jon in your own world. no sickness, no death, no cruelty. only serenity, and you think you could stay in this moment forever. still, you know you can’t, and that the aftermath of battle awaits just outside the old wooden door.

but, for now, you both lay against the other — gaze trapped on rickons’ sill as the banner of the wolf flies once more.

[milesdrift]

Beauty Caught in a Trap

Jacerys Velaryon x Reader

Tags: Second person, female reader, AFAB reader, twin incest, possessive behaviour, obsession, dark, smut. (Not completely accurate to canon)

Notes: These words were written by an intrusive thought

Note 2: (4th nov 2024) Thank you so much for all the love im receiving for this!

You were born a few minutes after Jacerys, your twin brother. He’s always been with you, besides you, holding you since day one.

Your mother knew you and Jacerys-Jac as you liked to call him, would always be close. As you grew that closeness, turned into something you couldn’t quite understand; you didn’t know what it was but it made you feel, different.

-

You were at your home in Dragonstone, just a bit off of the coast of the mainland of Westeros.

You were in the large library of the stronghold. You loved reading but Jacerys preferred fighting. He never really did understand why you liked reading so much.

-

You just picked a book off of the shelf and sat down on one of the many long tables in the library to read.

You were about halfway deep into the book when you felt a warm hand graze against the exposed back of your almost backless dress.

You squealed in fear only for you to realise it was just Jacerys.

“Jacerys! You cannot keep acting like a phantom!” You said pushing him by the chesy while taking a deep breath, trying to reduce your heartbeat.

Chuckling in response, “And you should not frighten so easily besides as long as I’m here no one will dare lay a finger on you.” the glint in his beautiful hazel eyes darkened as he continued

Extending his arm around your back as you quietly returned back to the world of reading you noticed a slight crimson colour out of the corner of your eye.

Jacerys had a deep cut along his cheek, ascending to his cheekbone. “Jac your cheek is bleeding!”

“Oh right, That’s what I came here to tell you about; I guess I forgot” he shrugged while smiling.

You cupped his cheeks and ran a finger along the blood. You got up rapidly and pulled him with you to your chambers.

“Y/N? What are you doing?” He lifted him to reduce the weight of his body as he continued to let you pull him.

As soon as you reached your chambers, you sat him down and stood in front of him thinking as he grabbed your hands to fondle with.

“Excuse me while I change into my nightgown, all this running makes me feel like this dress is weighing me down.” hurriedly you excused all your handmaidens and grabbed a silk black nightgown with red lace near the neck.

You still being a young lady, exempted you from being judged for wearing short dresses.

You changed and returned to your bed, “Now Jac do tell me how you hurt yourself as I look for the bandages.” you asked with a hint of sarcasm in your voice.

He explained how you bent down to reach the bottom cabinet of your side table to which Jacerys could not divert his eyes from.

You pulled out the first aid kit and poured alcohol on a small cotton ball. Normally you would’ve gone to the infirmary at home but you wanted to learn how to handle things yourself.

He winced as the alcohol touched his skin “Please try to be a bit more sensitive doll.”

“Mhm, I’m trying.l” You cupped his cheeks again to place the bandage, and that’s when you started to feel how close your faces were but you chose to ignore it.

“All done brother dearest, you owe me a slice of lemon cake tomorrow as payment.” you joked.

He didn’t respond but instead continued to look you in your eyes.

“Jac? Do you need something el-”

He pinned you on the bed, kissing you intensely with his tongue intertwined with yours. He broke the kiss and you let out an unintentional whine at the separation, and then he started to ravage your neck.

Red marks all over your neck, your nightgown giving him easy access to go lower. He stuck his knee in between your legs, “Jac! What is the haah meaning of th-this?”

He stuck his knee deeper in between you. Suddenly he separated from you completely.

Your knight, Ser Criston knocked. “Princess? Are you okay in there?”

Jacerys was forced to let out a displeased groan in disbelief. He looked back at you with intent, “Just wait for tomorrow doll, I’ll have you all to myself.”

-

Almost an hour ago:

Jacerys was fighting with Ser Harwin.

“My prince we can conclude this class for today. You have fought marvellously. Shall I escort you to your chambers?”

“Ser Harwin you are not needed for the rest of the day, I’ll be out here for some time while you can depart to your room. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Very well my prince.” He said kneeling and then leaving.

Jacerys had a sharp and precise sword, staring at it for a bit, he then got an idea which he knew would give him his love, his future wife her attention.

He then proceeded to cut his cheek slightly.

-

You woke up with a clouded head the next day. The clouds began to rain and thoughts of yesterday began to spasm in your head, back and forth.

You ignored the thoughts and marked them off as intrusive.

You got up to see that your handmaidens weren’t there. You hated seeing them sweat so you drew yourself a bath and pick out a comfortable velvet dress in black and red.

Normally you stick with clothes matching the Velaryon household which is a sea green and silver. Surprisingly as well, you woke up almost 10 hours later than usual which put you in utter disbelief.

-

You left your room expecting to see Ser Criston but you saw no one. No guards no knight.

You were confused. You carried on to the dining room assuming they’re having their monthly meeting.

You entered the dining hall and again no one, just a lay of food on the long dining table.

You didn’t think much of it and sat down on your seat diagonal to your father’s chair.

You served yourself and began eating only to be greeted by Jacerys.

“Well you certainly are a night owl.”

You gave Jac a smile. You expected him to sit beside you as normal but instead he sat in your father’s chair.

“I am going to take over the Iron throne so I might as well get used to it now.” You giggled.

You both continued the rest of your meal in silence and just when you were about to depart Jac held your wrist.

“Why don’t we go to my chamber and catch up? Even if we are twins we are definitely not alike.”

“Why not,” You got up and hooked your arm around his.

-

He sat you down on his bed and just admired you for a second.

“You look beautiful today dear sister.”

“Why thank you,” You say with a proud grin.

“I love you Y/N. You know that right?” “Well obviously!” You say with a big upside down smile.

He then pounced. He started ravaging you like he did yesterday, you thought it was just a dream.

Your beautiful velvet dress allowed him easy access to your large chest on which he lathered you in hickeys.

Tears fell down your eye and he wiped them off with the length of his finger.

“Mngh-ah! Jac!” You moaned and he almost ejaculated, half hard right in his pants.

“You made me wait far too long dear sister. So we’re going to have to move this up a pace.”

And then you heard him removed his pants.

-

He pulled out a 9-10 inch cock which was thick and even longer when fully hard. You shivered knowing that, that wouldn’t fit into you.

He shoved it in roughly, showing no mercy to you.

Letting out a deep groan he said “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone let anyone lay a finger and you. Now look, your virgin pussy belongs to me. I’ll be honest, I’m a virgin too but I know you well enough to know what pleases you.”

He finished speaking and shoved in another inch.

He kept thrusting into you harder and harder.

“Haah Jacerys!”

One last thrust and you came so hard. The ecstasy of it made your tired body close its eyes and render you immobile.

Jacerys wasn’t done yet, he kept going and going and then finally finished. Ejaculating all over your flat and beautiful stomach.

He laid beside you and spoke. “This is how much I love you, my future wife.”

And you both fell into the world of dreams with his arms around your waist and head resting between your neck.

[unicoo]

Can we finally talk about how even if the Dance never happened, Jace ascending the throne would’ve still started a war? Or are we just going to keep acting like the Blackfyre Rebellions don’t tell us all we need to know?

Just wondering….

Oh and if you do want to talk about it, lemme hear you lol 👀

[winepresswrath]

Madame Yu would never but oh for one fic where she packs up the kids and flees the jurisdiction. Jiang Cheng and Yanli would be so upset and miss Wei Wuxian and their father and you know, their home & community. Jiang Fengmian feels like he's taken a truck to the face (thanks truck-kun). Wei Wuxian is sure it's all his fault and is deeply distressed. Madame Yu is probably literally possessed. But still. It sucks! leave! Hit the bricks! listen to the meme skeleton that has taken up residence in your head.

[adelarsims]

he is a princess

[nabaath-areng]

When I was little I thought one of our cats Sockan (translation: the sock) was a tiger. She was more bright orange/red IRL too compared to photos

[minasvalentine]

aegon grew some hair I see 🔎👁️

[beedreamscape]

This has to be the last thing I say on C3 finale because otherwise, I will not stop, it simply baffles me in its mediocrity. And obviously, this will be negative, if you loved it, good for you, this is my takeaway as someone who loved this campaign and was severely let down.

This finale changes everything that came before and not for good, better yet, it emphasizes all the faults in the structure of what c3 tried to be, it made most of the campaign feel like a true exercise in futility — How far can we go in a campaign that is meandering and unsatisfying? How long can we have the same discussion over and over and over again despite everyone knowing how this will end? How long can we drag out characters that don't change without anyone noticing? (spoiler everyone noticed)

Can't say I was emotionally invested in the finale because I tapped out back in the 70s, came back for Aeor/Downfall shenanigans, and left again. But in experiencing the finale something became clear to me:

THIS STORY NEEDED TO BE SHORTER.

WITH ANOTHER PARTY AT THE HELM.

If the objective from the very conception of C3 was to wipe out the gods, that had to be clear from the very start. And it wasn't clear, at all — not in the characters, not in the starting city, not in theme. This was a completely different campaign at the start! That clarity was what made Calamity so great, it was short and precise, and every pc SERVICED THE THEME, filled with hubris and contempt, not to mention the setting.

Even Ludinus went in circles for convenience of the campaign length and became a weaker opponent for it, more of a nuisance than a villain. The threat he posed at episode 50 was much stronger than now at 120 something. The battle against Otohan was more nail-biting and emotionally engaging than fighting Ludinus and Predathos, a god eater!!!!

This campaign would've benefited from three to four acts instead of one overarching objective like the past campaigns because urgency is the name of the game and we can't carry urgency for 70 episodes straight (and they didn't).

The constant inclusion of the other parties made it clear how easy it was to detach BH from the story, how easy and fun it was for them to tell it through another party's eyes (one of the main reasons why I walked away back when I did, but that's more of a personal preference).

Which is not to say Bells Hell's didn't deserve a long story! They could very well have existed in a more intimate campaign which these characters were clearly built for! Their premises begged for closer looks in slow moments, something tragicomical, exploration of the inner world while developing MARQUET and its microcosm of injustice and politics which was left in the dust mid-campaign (pun intended).

And I'm not suggesting this just for our enjoyment, I know it's them playing and their enjoyment comes first blah blah, though this is a multi-million company therefore their jobs but this would contribute to their enjoyment! You could see several moments in the campaign how tapped out they felt and acted. I doubt it was "fun" discussing the gods situation ad naseaum, trudging through landscapes they barely cared about, with empty arcs.

I could nitpick every fault I see in the finale but it would be pointless, these issues have been dragged from ages ago and poor character matching, and now this is a culmination of everything and it barely fazes me anymore.

(And yeah it's their game and it's "free", but that doesn't undermine its weight as a story, stories were made be analyzed, and it was a poorly structured one no matter how much I still like and admire them as people.)

WHICH is not to say I had no fun at all ever, I did! several times! and that's what makes me upset, it could've been great instead is just meh.

[polysucks]

*hits vape* the real confirmation that Jon is Lyanna and Rhaegar’s kid is the fact that Ghost is white. Something something Targaryen hair.

[eternalpariah]

SANDOR MF CLEGANE

YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARD

[leupagus]

Half of this fic is just me looking for more excuses to put in all the cool women that the show wrote out

Still working on the next chapter for the GOT rewrite from hell, but I had to write a little about how the fuck menstruation works in Westeros (other than "oh you can get married now!" which I refuse to believe is the norm) and also to introduce the Sphinx:

The next morning, Shireen woke up to find blood on her shift and a sharp sort of twist in her stomach, as though she'd swallowed a molten pin. The blood came out easily enough, with frantic scrubbing in the basin, but the pain grew over the course of the morning.

"It's your flowering," said Maester Alleras briskly, when she went to him in a tightly-controlled panic. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen," said Shireen, realizing the date. Her nameday had passed two weeks ago.

"And what do you know of flowering?" he asked, smiling slightly at her blush. "Forgive me, but Northerners have queer ideas of teaching their children about these matters. I do not wish to presume your level of education."

"I know it can last for a week or more," Shireen said, thinking of Mother's cycles, how she would confine herself to her rooms to endure the pain in solitude and prayer. "It's very painful and disgusting, but it allows me to bear my future husband's children and therefore is a gift from the gods."

"Hmm. Well, that is what you were taught, at least," grunted the maester. He got up from his desk, rummaging through the cupboard behind him. He was a tall, skinny young man with the deep brown skin and tightly-coiled hair of a Summer Islander, and shared their fondness for brightly-colored nails: they seemed to dance along the shelves until he plucked out a jar and presented it to her with a flourish. "This will help with the pain, and stop the bleeding after this cycle. People of the North use it a great deal."

"Is it moon tea?" Shireen asked, taking it gingerly and wondering at Maester Alleras's use of the term Northerners, which sounded different from People of the North. Perhaps in the Summer Isles, everyone on Westeros was a Northerner. "Why do they use it so much here?"

"It is," he confirmed, "and as for why..." He shrugged. "I've only just arrived in Winterfell, you understand, and as you may have guessed—" this said with another smile— "I was born elsewhere. But from what I've gathered, they must be careful when they have children. The North can only feed so many."

Shireen thought of Fire & Blood, which Father had read to her as a child. The Winter Wolves had been a company of Northerners, who had answered Lord Cregan's call to fulfill the Pact of Ice and Fire with Rhaenyra Targaryen. They'd been greybeards who had knowingly marched to their deaths, for such was the custom of the North back then: at the start of each winter, the old men of each keep and castle and holdfast would choose amongst themselves who would go out into the snows. Some would return home in the spring, having endured the cold or escaped it to find their fortunes in southron lands; most would not.

"Put a thimbleful of this into whatever tea you like best," Maester Alleras continued, gesturing at the jar, his fingernails catching the light as it streamed into the rookery. "Once a day, and come back when you need more."

"Shouldn't I ask—" Shireen bit her lip.

But the maester caught her meaning; his eyes narrowed. "Shouldn't you ask your parents? Yes, I suppose you should. But they should be here to be asked, and they should have told you the truth."

"What's the truth?" Shireen asked, instead of admitting that Mother and Father had never told her anything about it. She couldn't imagine either of them even mentioning the subject. All her information had come from books, or from Mother's complaints.

"The truth is that if a cycle is painful and lasts for a week or more, that is the sign of an illness, not the will of a god. The truth is that you may well find it disgusting, but it is merely something our bodies do and should never be a source of disgust or shame to you or anyone else." He glared, though it did not seem directed at her. "And as for 'bearing your future husband's children,' the truth is that they are your children, just as much as his — indeed more so, unless he carries them about for the first nine months after their birth. But you will not be a woman grown for at least another two years, and any man who wishes you to bear children until at least that time is unworthy of your hand or your love." He sat back down, his half-dozen maester's links chiming musically. "Now run along, little princess."

Lady Sansa was just outside the door, with her brother beside her. "See, I told you she smelled funny," Rickon said triumphantly.

Shireen scowled at him. "Shut up." It was kind of him, she supposed, to have worked out that something was wrong and to wait for her outside the maester's chambers. But Rickon Stark was the sort of friend who was difficult to be grateful for.

"Yes, please do, Rickon," Lady Sansa said, pressing a businesslike kiss on the crown of Rickon's head before turning him round by the shoulders and pushing him down the corridor. Rickon protested, but went all the same, and Lady Sansa turned back to Shireen. "Moon tea?" she asked, nodding at the jar.

Shireen resisted the impulse to hide it somehow. It is merely something our bodies do and should never be a source of disgust or shame. "Yes, my lady," she said.

"Come along, then," said Lady Sansa. "I have some excellent tea from the Arbor. How does that sound?"

"Could I have a hot water-skin, too?" Shireen asked, as Lady Sansa looped her arm through hers.

"Of course. And the lemon trees in the greenhouse have given up their first fruits — we'll have lemon cakes for lunch instead of venison." She smiled and Shireen thought that even if Sansa Stark never took another husband or had children of her own, she was still all the mother that the North ever would need.

[ballbustervideo]

[rise-my-angel]

Corlys telling Viserys to marry his daughter and join "The last two Valyrian Houses" like buddy, you're definitely forgetting one other house but really, you're probably forgetting two.