#serbriennecftarth

[a-maimed-man-and-bitter]

Closed starter for @serbriennecftarth

Jaime sat by the TV, listening to Brienne snore.

She was sprawled out on the bed, long limbs everywhere, head thrown back on the pillows, her mouth open. He watched her. How deeply was she asleep?

He watched her and he tried to hate her.

He tried to hate how ugly she was, how he was far far better looking, how he could have any woman he wanted and she was holding him back. He tried to hate how bad she was in bed, how inexperienced, how big and clumsy. How she smothered him when he went down on her and how it took so bloody long to make her come.

He hated her earnest fucking face. The naked emotion of her every expression right on that dumb cow face. She was not in charge of him but thought she was, thought she always knew what was best for him.

Well, she didn’t. It was freezing cold and his phantom hand was throbbing and the whole of his body itched. Nothing in his body felt right and Brienne would never, ever ever ever understand what that felt like.

He got up. Found his phone. Not his regular phone, not the one Brienne checked every night to keep the temptation away, but the other one he hadn’t told her about, the burner he’d bought while she was at work. The one he’d stashed in a shoe in the back of the wardrobe. Only one number listed in the contacts.

Qyburn, he sent. Back in town, can be with you in 30. I need Cerseine.

He hesitated before hitting send, but only for a second.

He left the bedroom without a backward glance at Brienne. Took her car keys from where she’d hidden them in a jar in the kitchen cupboard and her wallet from where she’d hidden that behind the loose brick in the fireplace. She wasn’t anywhere near as smart as she thought she was.

He went outside to her car. It was a shitheap and deliberately so - she’d had a nice one but he’d sold it to get fucked up while she was at a work conference. It was a manual as well, but he could drive it if he held the wheel with his knee and stump while he shifted gears across his body. She didn’t know that.

He was about to get in when he heard the front door open behind him. There she was, in a long black bathrobe, face white and hair frizzed. He didn’t say anything. Opened the door of the car anyway.

[serbrienneoftarth]

URL CHANGE > NEITHERKNIGHTNORLADY IS NOW SERBRIENNECFTARTH

My URL has aged like milk so it’s time for a change.

Same account, same threads, same annoying mun, but now with a new and improved URL.

[wolfqueennamedstark]

       I love @serbriennecftarth because she sent me lemoncakes and bent the knee 

[for-our-sins]

Starter for @serbriennecftarth

She’s wild and bedraggled. More mud and blood than beauty now, but she bares her teeth when Catelyn Stark comes into the cage.

She spits venom. Curses her. Tells her she’ll have her throat ripped out by dogs. That her father will hang every living Northman if Cersei is touched again.

Outside she hears the Karstarks baying for her blood. Never mind that pestilent little peasant put his hand on Cersei’s breast. Tried to rape her while she was chained up, none of them want to hear that from a Lannister. All that matters is that she bit young Lord Karstark’s jugular out - for that they want her head.

“Is that supposed to be a woman?” she asks when Lady Catelyn’s bodyguard steps into the cage. A titter of laughter bursting from her throat. It was an ugly, shambling creature, dressed in man’s mail. Taller than Jaime, broader than Sandor Clegane.

Lady Catelyn does not answer. Instead she asks for her bodyguard’s sword. For a moment, a terrifying moment, Cersei thinks that she will take her head herself. Isn’t that what Northern justice is like?

But instead, she cuts her loose. The bodyguard thing holds her in big, rough hands, chains her wrists and ropes her. Wraps her in a burlap cape and covers her head in a hood. Cersei hisses and curses, but the thing is strong. She’s picked up and slung over the rump of a horse and carried away into the night.

[oathkeeperwench]

My Tumblr Fans:

forsakingonevow (13%)

packsurvivcs (12%)

sassbewitchedmyass (8%)

a-maimed-man-and-bitter (7%)

goldcnhand (5%)

serbriennecftarth (4%)

mxnofhonour (3%)

wackygoofball (3%)

weirddreamergirl (3%)

Oh nice. :)

[boltsandashes]

Blood, Death, Solitude, Failure, Number 13

Blood: What’s the worst injury your muse has ever had?Daryl’s suffered a lot of injuries in his life. Bruises and switch scars from beatings, a few broken bones growing up. He’s suffered minor burns and scrapes, cuts from knives and been shot in the shoulder even, but his worst injury comes from one particularly bad day when a skittish horse threw him down a steep hill, crashing him into a river and sending a bolt stabbing through his side. Then after he –– delirious from pain and blood loss –– managed to drag himself up that hill and stumble his way back to camp, one of his friends decided to shoot him in the head to show off.

Yeah, not a great day for Daryl ;p

Death: Name one thing your muse has lost that they wish they could get back.What part of his timeline are we going with here? Daryl’s lost so many people he wishes he could get back. But if we’re going with objects, he really hates having lost his brother’s motorcycle. Might seem stupid, since a bike can be replaced more easily than most things, but having that was like having one last little piece of Merle with him.

Solitude: Name 3 things your muse couldn’t live without.his crossbow, nature, freedom

Failure: Has your muse ever given up on an important dream?Daryl never had much in the way of dreams. When he was a kid, his dreams were more fairy tale shit that he didn’t give up on so much as he realized weren’t gonna be happening. As he got older he fell into a rut of getting by day to day, mostly by following around his older brother and doing whatever he felt like. It’s only since the world ended that Daryl really started to wake up and start living, and believe he could actually want things for himself and go after them.

Number 13: Does your muse believe any superstitions? Daryl is deeply superstitious in a casual, “why the hell would you tempt fate” kind of way. He’ll shrug it off if anyone brings it up, but you can probably catch him subtly scraping up a penny if he passes it or tapping his finger against a nearby tree if someone says something particularly damning. He’s always believed in ghosts, faeries, and various other urban legend-style creatures, and the dead rising up has done absolutely nothing to dispel those notions for him.

[goddamnmuses-a]

@serbriennecftarth said: “I don’t know how you can still be drinking.” Brienne made a face at the wine glass in his hand.

“Well it’s one of the many things I am very good at.”

[saltquccn]

"Are we going to talk about last night?"

ANGST sentence starters

"I thought we were having a spot of fun. What is there to talk about?" She pours out two goblets, one for her and one for the woman sitting across from her. "Unless you wanted to do it again." A small smirk.