— Shared 6 months ago - 4 notes - via / Source - reblog

THE DIVINE RIGHT, a medieval-Renaissance nobility RP based on Game of Thrones, is returning with a new forum, new canons, new plots, and new magic.

THE DIVINE RIGHT, a medieval-Renaissance nobility RP based on Game of Thrones, is returning with a new forum, new canons, new plots, and new magic.


— Shared 6 months ago - 39 notes - via / Source - reblog

THE DIVINE RIGHT, a medieval-Renaissance nobility RP based on Game of Thrones, is returning with a new forum, new canons, new plots, and new magic.

Reblogging again as a head’s up - TDR is moving and will have lots of shiny and new things, so head on over to the new tumblr if you’re interested!

THE DIVINE RIGHT, a medieval-Renaissance nobility RP based on Game of Thrones, is returning with a new forum, new canons, new plots, and new magic.

Reblogging again as a head’s up - TDR is moving and will have lots of shiny and new things, so head on over to the new tumblr if you’re interested!


— Shared 6 months ago - 39 notes - via / Source - reblog

THE DIVINE RIGHT, a medieval-Renaissance nobility RP based on Game of Thrones, is returning with a new forum, new canons, new plots, and new magic.

THE DIVINE RIGHT, a medieval-Renaissance nobility RP based on Game of Thrones, is returning with a new forum, new canons, new plots, and new magic.


— Shared 10 months ago - 4 notes - via / Source - reblog
18 + dastanais oooooo

litetreason:

ooooooo

“Don’t.” Anaïs’ voice is softer than intended, but she’s preoccupied with keeping her mouth above water. Dastan floats with enviable ease. “Don’t you dare.”

Black eyes hover over the water’s surface, narrowing in tandem with the green. They disappear, and Anaïs is left with nothing but her barely effective paddling. There isn’t even any time to turn around, legs pumping furiously in the water, before something ensnares her ankle.

A rush of salt replaces Anaïs’ stream of curses. A shadow encircles her and she freezes, unable to discern anything beneath the surface. Panic feels a lot like a pair of hands on your face and lips against your mouth, curiously warm within the ocean- something about oxygen deprivation reminds her about sharks.

Anaïs’ fist has never seen much use on the surface, but proves to be more effective than either expected. The apology, if it could be called that, is spluttered out once they both retreat to the shore. Of course, the whole thing could have been avoided, but would she have preferred it that way? Dastan doesn’t receive an answer; Anaïs is shaking the water from her ears.

fanfic   dastan pivari   anais borgia   dastanais   q   

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You win or you die ❧ ft. the Danes of Verona

You win or you die ❧ ft. the Danes of Verona

graphics   house dane   family tree   q   

— Shared 10 months ago - 2 notes - via / Source - reblog

i dreamt of you

knightofloveandbeauty:

When she pushes her sleeves back, the color drains from his face. Her arms are covered in half-dried blood, so mottled with bruises and scars that it looks more like a battlefield than her skin. Alastor looks at her as if they were his own arms, his own blood, his own bruises.

“Oh, Arya.”

Just Arya.

Now she is certain she’s dreaming.

-

Arya tries not to cry, she really does, but dreams aren’t the same. A whimper slips past her tongue and she buckles, bends, tears herself apart, absent even her usual dignity. There is no pain her arms. Instead, it is nestled in pieces: her throat and her chest and her lungs and her eyes, which sting with tears. And he is there, holding her with his chin atop her head, rocking them back and forth as she sobs.

-

They stay like that for a long time, and when she can’t cry anymore, she presses into the warmth at her cheek, the slow rise and fall of two tender bodies. None of this is real, but does it matter?

“I miss you,” she says at last, quietly.

“Shhh.” Alastor catches her hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist as gentle as a whisper. His blue, blue eyes meet hers with conviction. “You always come back, Arya Coulter.”

“Always,” she murmurs, and drowns in his arms.

-

Time stretches and falls apart as they talk. She tells him of many things: her mother, waking dreams, the cave behind the waterfall that she and Lyanna and Noelle swore he would never see. It is a vow she happily breaks.

When she looks again, the bruises are gone, at least until the morning.

fanfic   alastor preston   arya coulter   alarya   q   

— Shared 10 months ago - 1 note - via / Source - reblog

songwood:

There is a new routine to learn, manners to perfect, names to remember. Henry hardly has a moment to himself unless he sneaks off to the river under the guise of relieving himself. 

"Nature calls," he tells his new captain (a Prince), forcing cheer. If Artair Dane is suspicious of his new knight’s absences, he doesn’t say anything. He’s too preoccupied with the packing up of the Royal Pavilion to pay much mind to the overgrown hayseed with a small bladder.

At the river, at least, he can be alone. Henry has time to reflect on his new life when he’s there. A Knight of the Kingsguard. But no true knight at all, he reminds himself as he crunches through the underbrush, dry in the summer heat. He’s a liar and a coward, among other things but to tell the truth now would make him a lot worse. Henry’s head clouds with the muck he’s made of his life. 

He draws up short as he reaches the bank, the roar of the water drowning out all other sound. There, across the stream, the unmistakable stance of the one woman Henry can’t bear to see. Bridget has seen him too; he can tell by the way she suddenly straightens her back, immediately on the defense. He hasn’t seen her since she left his tent in a huff, and him in a fever. Henry meant to seek her out, to tell her that he wished it could be some other way, but his new duties had kept him. For a moment he thinks he might shout that to her, from the safety of the other side of the river. This is the next in a long line of stupid ideas but reason, a rarity, prevails. 

They stare at one another for a long while, and Henry wonders if she’s thinking the same thing. That they will likely never see each other again. If Henry had a head for metaphor, the symbolism of the river between them would be affecting. As it is, he simply wonders whether their children would have had red hair like her, or as been as tall as him. Would their daughters grow up in the snowdrifts of Ironhal, or the gardens of Rosecourt? 

Bridget is the first to turn away. She stomps up the West Bank as though she’s 

"My Lady!" he calls above the rush.

Bridget’s answer is a stone thrown, and the sharp crack of it against his forehead is her farewell kiss.

fanfic   henry hornton   bridget north   bridry   q   


— Shared 10 months ago - 1 note - via / Source - reblog

poorlyplacedswordinnuendos:

♫ BAND AU; house preston as a folk-rock supergroup

"music isn’t about cursing twelve times in a single verse or fifteen-minute drum solos or how high you can autotune your voice — it’s about the music.

"shut up, alastor."