mother of dragons

20, norway
top secret blog of trying to make graphics for the first time.

book-robb is a fifteen year old boy who has to be a man. tv-robb is a man who acts like he’s a fifteen year old boy.

(Source: emmyc)

(Source: rubyredwisp)

queencersei:

margaery tyrell: 2x03/3x02
“Self-loathing is not a fucking character-builder. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t make you better. It’s just an ever-deepening, creepy-ass trap; a trap that is a huge moneymaker for corporations that do not have and never will have good intentions. You’re not disgusting. You’re not freakish. You’re not ugly. And you’re never going to be perfect. And holy shit, that is so okay.”
Jane, Casual Blasphemies

3.01 ♦  valar dohaeris

(Source: amywiliams)
“If I could wish the Kingslayer back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or consent… but what you did, I know you did for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon. Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts… wherever they take us. Don’t we, Mother?”

A Storm of Swords (via wordsoficeandfire)

aka, words show!Robb would never say.

(via queenandmistress)

Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I…my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?

(Source: rubyredwisp)

flamingcapitol:

So this is my beef with HBO’s Game of Thrones. In the first episode - in one of the last scenes - Khal Drogo takes Daenerys away from his Khalasar and, in simple terms, he rapes her. Yes, she’s his wife, and yes, it was obvious that they were going to have sex on their wedding night, but that isn’t what it’s like in the books.

Have a comparison.

The scene from the show:

The scene from the book:

She stood there helpless and trembling in her wedding silks while he secured the horses, and when he turned to look at her, she began to cry.

Khal Drogo stared at her tears, his face strangely empty of expression. “No,” he said. He lifted his hand and rubbed away the tears roughly with a callused thumb.

“You speak the Common Tongue,” Dany said in wonder.

“No,” he said again.

Perhaps he had only that word, she thought, but it was one word more than she had known he had, and somehow it made her feel a little better. Drogo touched her hair lightly, sliding the silver-blond strands between his fingers and murmuring softly in Dothraki. Dany did not understand the words, yet there was a warmth in the tone, a tenderness she had never expected from this man.

He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head, so she was looking up into his eyes. Drogo towered over her as he towered over everyone. Taking her lightly under the arms, he lifted her and seated her on a rounded rock beside the stream. Then he sat on the ground facing her, legs crossed beneath him, their faces at a height. “No,” he said.

“Is that the only word you know?” she asked him.

Drogo did not reply. His long heavy braid was coiled in the dirt beside him. He pulled it over his right shoulder and began to remove the bells from his hair, one by one. After a moment, Dany leaned forward to help. When they were done, Drogo gestured. She understood. Slowly, carefully, she began to undo his braid.

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