ᴀsʜᴇs ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ.

i am generous. loyal to those who are loyal to me. i've proven i'm no craven. and i am cleverer than most, surely wits count for something. i can even be KIND. kindness is not a habit with us lannisters, i fear, but i know I have some somewhere. book canon tyrion.

[valcnquar]

@oftarth / call.

                    imprisoned, chained, villainized, cursed by gods and men alike --- and he is sure, were the more distasteful men of these cells not already sent off to serve an equally distasteful task against the wall, he would be made to break his fast amongst a dozen or more abhorrently-scented brutes; knowing his sweet sister, one or several of them with blades well-paid for tucked beneath their belts, all with his name sealed with a poisoned kiss upon the steel.

                                          perhaps, something to be thankful for, then, that the only other human being, aside from the guards, in the room to witness the shame of the fallen imp --- watery oats and stale water, a wooden bench upon which he is forced to kneel in order to reach his plate --- is a wench easily thrice his size, and twice that of any of their guards. he studies her, this woman, as he forces down meager spoonfuls of his distasteful meal; such a build as hers, she could easily down any one of their less than companionable companions, nad yet she sits so meekly opposite, too large for their table where he is far too small.

                                                                   he speaks, at last, for once near as sober as a septon, and yet nowhere near as at peace as one with stillness and silence.   ‘ i see that you have not taken any more to your meal than i have to mine. i wonder, if the BOTH of us were to petition for a capon in its place, would they mind it better than were it just the one of us? ‘

[valcnquar]

when you’re almost done with a starter and then your computer crashes and you’re broken inside.

[valcnquar]

RIP me, uh . . . like for a starter?

[valcnquar]

the real question is how do you get back into the westeros life once you’ve spent like six months out of it.

[valcnquar]

@erusnix @handofhonor  i cannot believe

[makebeliever]

♕ I’m friends with your mother. I’m here to help. Don’t eat the help. @swordofsnow​

[vividimole]

Tyrion: Let me give you some advice bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you. Jon: What the hell do you know about being a bastard? Tyrion: All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.

Game of thrones (via vividimole)

[wseteros-deactivated20210810]

[sourshawn-deactivated20171116]

A game of thrones// George R.R Martin

[valcnquar]

blind girl.

                    ‘ westeros? ’

       beth’s head tips, lashes flicking shut and open over the milky film that veils pupils and irises alike, brow furrowing ; she waits, a moment, then lifts her bowl a little higher, hears the sparse coins from the day’s fare shift, faint and tinny, against each other, against the wood. her rags brush against her forearms, coarse but warm ; a cool day, the braavosi fog curling about her ankles, about the callused soles of her feet through her boots. ( the knife, there, pressed against her calf. something familiar in this one’s voice, beth thinks, though she doesn’t know him. some other girl that remembers. )

                    ‘ i heard there’s a reward. for a dwarf. the queen’s brother. for anyone who can bring her his head. they place wagers, in the inn, some nights, on who’ll find him first, when they’re in their cups. ’

       she blinks again, waits, cracked wooden bowl still aloft ; she has more she could tell him, but not without her silver. she’s found most braavosi are more like to help the blind beggar girl than do her harm or rob her, but this one speaks the andal tongue, and smoothly, and she trusts him not.

    ‘ westeros, the green land, across the sea, yes. ‘

                 he prides himself on the fairness of his attitude towards the rabble, especially set against the singular lack of such compassion in his family; and yet it proves a difficulty, to keep the blister of impatience from his words, so much so that he must remind himself harshly that he is no longer a southron lord of good house, that he is not clad in itchy linen and cheapest cloth for a part in some mummer’s show. here, he is simply nameless, a misshapen face in a throng of bravos and whores and merchants and mummers, all of them more nameless than himself and yet none so equally named. to speak as a southron lord while wearing the garb of a peasant is to raise questions --- and any inquiry as to his birth is like to invite the stranger into his borrowed chambers on an errand for his sweet sister.

                                                                        her words do little to cheer him, nor did he expect that they would, but were he seeking comfort, he would have done better at any one of the brothels that litter the harbor than here, questioning a blind begging girl. the silver is produced and given  ( subtly, hidden in the crease of the palm and released close to the mouth of the bowl so as to hide its gleam ; it would not do to flaunt what wealth he has, so near to evenfall and where any inn-goer can see, when he still has a long waddle back to illyrio’s manse )  though it seems to fall so much the heavier from his grasp in lieu of news already known to him.

                                      ‘ i’d place my wager on the WORMS, myself. wherever he may have fled to, it’s surely them that have claimed the lion’s share by now, or that will when he is found. is that all? ‘

[valcnquar]

@artfulprecision / call.

  of all the people he has pictured stepping through the heavy oaken door to his   miserable chamber --- his sister, his father, ser ilyn payne --- she is one of the   last that he would have expected.

  and yet there she stands, tall and graceful, yet he cannot discern from her face   the motive for her visit. it is a mask, carved of sweet marble and yet, despite   the light in those great doe-eyes, utterly immobile. he stands from his low   bench, ignoring the painful cramping in his legs, and inclines his head in the   shortest of bows. call him kinslayer, but he is no less mindful of his courtesies   than sansa.

  that is, as regards all but his dear, dear family.

  ‘ lady margaery. ‘   for with her royal husband rotting in the sept, she is no   longer anything more.   ‘ i’m certain your lord father would not approve of   your presence here. ‘

[juliastiles]

[valcnquar]

@bloodiedwolf / call.

  the beggar girl catches his eye --- for what reason, he cannot say. perhaps it   is that, in this unfamiliar reach beyond westeros, he is inclined to catch out the   slightest of traces of andal features; whether in a blind grope for something   reminiscent of his home, or in fear of assassins, he cannot say. to be true,   there is much of the north in the girl, from what he has seen of northmen. why,   but for those sightless eyes, she might be an adolescent lord eddard with   teats. for a moment, relief; the possibility of a fellow westerosi, and one who   cannot see to recognize him as the fled brother of the queen regent. after   hesitation, he approaches her, maintaining a cautious distance should she be   a leper.

                              ‘ --- a silver for you, child, if you should tell me what, if any,   news of westeros you have no doubt heard of this inn’s patrons. ‘   who better   than a beggar, unnoticed and quickly dismissed, to hear the gossip of ships’   captains?

[valcnquar]

@myflayedkiss / call.

                     ‘ i was under the impression that the sigil of house bolton was the   flayed man, not the GELDED MAN. has lord ramsay changed it of late? ‘   he   can’t help but feel a sympathetic twinge in his own cock. poor theon greyjoy.   ‘ speaking of, where might his lordship be found? i bring word from king’s   landing. ‘

[valcnquar]

@podstye / call.

                  ‘ TELL ME, podrick, how many are there calling for my head at the  present moment? ‘  what stump remains of his nose seems to itch abominably,  a fine accompaniment to the pounding in his head. his uncle had been kind  enough to allow him the comfort of two or three books in his cell, and yet he’d  strained his eyes the whole night through without comprehending a single  word. for once, his squire’s shyness comes as relief.  ‘ a dozen? a hundred?  and what of my judges, do they remain in deliberation? you are my eyes and  ears in this miserable hole, pod, i would know what you have heard. ‘

[ngiaaah]

game of thrones + shakespeare

[valcnquar]

while i’m here, might as well throw out a STARTER CALL. like for a starter, based anywhere from book one to book five.