Fringe; Season One.
》Edmure Tully & Roslin Frey; requested by admiralwithoutships.
》AU: Game of Thrones in the 1920s, requested by Anonymous.
Girls, Girls, Girls.
》Robb Stark in blue, requested by riconstark.
She had lived too long, and Ned was waiting. It was Robb she feared for. “On my honor as a Tully,” she told Lord Walder, “on my honor as a Stark, I will trade your boy’s life for Robb’s. A son for a son.” Her hand shook so badly she was ringing Jinglebell’s head.
Boom, the drum sounded, boom doom boom doom. The old man’s lips went in and out. The knife trembled in Catelyn’s hand, slippery with sweat. “A son for a son, heh,” he repeated. “But that’s a grandson… and he never was much use.”
A man in dark armor and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood stepped up to Robb. “Jaime Lannister sends his regards.” He thrust his longsword through her son’s heart, and twisted.
“Lagertha, a skilled Amazon, who, though a maiden, had the courage of a man, and fought in front among the bravest with her hair loose over her shoulders. All-marveled at her matchless deeds, for her locks flying down her back betrayed that she was a woman.”
Arya Stark, modern AU; a wanderer, a loner, a rebel, an outcast, vengeful, can only trust herself, everything’s been taken from her, no one.
“It’s just a stupid sword,” she said, aloud this time…
…but it wasn’t.
Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile.”
requested by fangorns
》screencap meme; colours abound | requested by afforest
“Do you fear death?”
She bit her lip. ”No.”
”Let us see.” The priest lowered his cowl. Beneath he had no face, only a yellowed skull with a few scraps of skin still clinging to the cheeks, and a white worm wriggling from one empty eye socket. ”Kiss me, child,” he croaked, in a voice as dry and husky as a death rattle.
Does he think to scare me? Arya kissed him where his nose should be and plucked the grave worm from his eye to eat it, but it melted like a shadow in her hand.
The yellow skull was melting too, and the kindliest old man that she had ever seen was smiling down at her. ”No one has ever tried to eat my worm before,” he said. ”Are you hungry, child?”
Yes, she thought, but not for food.
