Shireen Baratheon

everyone wants to receive messages, or questions, or memes in their inbox. people want to be interacted with and appreciated and sent things at all times. but in order to receive these things, you need to send them in return.

many people are very passive in their approach to rp, in that they sit and wait for people to come to them and don’t take any initiative. i understand that anxiety can make this difficult, but you can’t expect people to send you things and take the first step every time, and not do any of the same yourself. if you want interaction, you need to prove to people that you’re willing to put as much effort in as they do, or why else should they bother?

if you want people to send you questions, send some of your own. if you want people to send you memes, send some of your own. and not purely as a reactionary effort, but if you see a mutual on your dash reblog a meme, send it. soon enough, people will see that you’re interested in writing and they will reciprocate.

“You’re such an idiot. I will literally kiss you on the mouth.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID???”

“Not evil anymore, I want to be loved now.”

“Babygirl, you are awkward and do not understand social cues.”

“Sorry about being mentally ill, the sex will be bomb though.”

“What if my best self is a cunt that can’t wake up before noon?”

“They’ve got something gay going on.”

“I’m the nicest, sweetest, most rage-filled person I know.”

“I couldn’t fix him. But I could fuck him.”

“I am a generator of hate, and my rage is a renewable resource, like sunshine.”

“If you ever feel stupid or weak or powerless, just remember that I, am not.“

“I’m not interested in being polite or heterosexual.”

“You’re talking mad shit for a guy within kissing distance.”

“I’m sorry I’m hot and funny. Are you mad at me?”

“You make a lot of threats for someone who is short and can’t even do a push-up.”

“My fear of abandonment is so strong, because if I could I would abandon myself too.”

“Your first kill together as a couple is an important relationship milestone.”

“My kink? Knowing all the information.”

“I think Aristotle said that.”

“The Universe has a sense of humor and I can respect the commitment to the bit but, girl, please.”

“Vulnerability is so hard. If I told you anything sappy know that I had a hand to hand combat with seven layers of embarrassment and repression.”

“Please don’t say mean things to me.”

“My hobbies include knowing and being right.”

“I told you a joke and you’re laughing. I love you.”

“I’m covered in blood for sexy reasons. Also I just got stabbed.”

“I don’t identify as “male” or “female”, I identify as a warning.”

“I’ve made a huge mistake.”

“First of all, I didn’t “miss” the red flags. I looked at them and thought: yeah, that’s sexy.”

“I could recognize him by tits alone.”

“I hate when people ask me what sign I am. Like, bitch, I am a sign from God. Start running.”

The wooden door loomed, forbidden, at the far edge of the room, and Royce stared at it in thought. Behind it was both their fathers; the muffled voices of two grown men drifted incomprehensible into the living space.

Shireen looked up at the other guy. So far her gaze had been fixed at either the floor or her own fidgeting hands, now she dared look at Mr. Bolton’s son. At home yesterday she had dared to daydream about this strange kid wanting to be her friend, but now that felt almost impossible. He talked to her though, so he had to at least not hate her, right? 

HE interrupts her studies, another thing for stannis to scold him about later, and smiles.  “this looks like such fun,” he leans against the door frame, holding his wrapped presents in his hands.  “but i’m dismissing the maester for you, shireen, you have far more pressing matters that needs be attended to.  opening gifts for one.”

“Uncle!” She grinned, practically jumping out of her chair. She stopped midway through her first step towards Renly, and shot her maester an apologetic smile. “I will memorize all the castles for next time,” she promised before turning back to her uncle. Knowing Shireen to be a dutiful girl the maester knew she’d keep her word, and so he quietly packed up his things. 

There was no hint of a storm the night his daughter was born, so his wife’s cries carried through the corridors and echoed around empty rooms. It was only natural for a laboring mother to yell, Stannis told himself as he paced and sat and rose to pace again. The folklore gave that the louder the cries of the babe and the mother, the healthier the child would be. The father was barred from the birthing room — Stannis thought it ridiculous — he had been between Selyse’s legs long enough to conceive the babe; why he was not allowed to be present for the fruiting of the union was one of those petty little practices he abhorred. But he wasn’t going to fight about it. He had a suspicion that Selyse was relieved her husband would be nowhere near. When they finally put Shireen, scrubbed and pink — though was she a bit pale? — in his arms, he looked a question at Selyse exhausted on the pillows. She’s fine, Stannis. And so their life as parents began.

—

He had never heard Shireen cry, even at her birth. Selyse had shouted enough for the both of them, the midwives teased, though they teased less and less and then not at all as the little girl’s skin greyed and cracked. But she was strong, was Shireen, and better, she was unwilling to yield. Shireen’s blue eyes narrowed like her father’s when she suspected someone would stand between herself and something she thought she should do for herself. It drove Selyse mad that everything took four times as long as it should due to a headstrong babe whose first full sentence was “Me do it!” But Stannis was proud, so proud he sometimes thought it was a sin. Though he tormented himself with guilt that he had somehow caused her greyscale, somewhere deep within he knew she was right when she said she would find a cure or find someone who could effect one. Though Selyse and the rest of the household were shocked when she recovered, Stannis was stoic. His look was one of unconcern, but in his head he was still hearing her tiny voice saying “Me do it!”

—

At her wedding, they danced: Shireen’s shining head agleam somewhere down near the crook of his elbow. She was never tall enough to reach his shoulder. He had to lean down to embrace her, that awkward crouch to look into her eyes always worth it. Her groom was not a tall man — like his father, Devan was a man of slight stature — Shireen’s head fit into the fresh shaven crook of her new husband’s neck intimately as though she were smelling him and enjoying it. Stannis looked away, proud, feeling intrusive — this woman in the golden glow of her sensuality could not be his daughter — but she was. And the young man in her arms had been Stannis’ son long before the betrothal. This simple, joyful ceremony only made it all official.

—

Stannis did not weep at her deathbed — he had not the energy. He could only sit and watch her face, smoother in repose than in life. He did not quite know why he had outlived his babe. It was unnatural, he said to himself. His own wife had passed long ago; his best friend also; his brothers, their sons. Shireen had lived to be over seventy and her children were now grandparents. She died peacefully, a widow and a mother, with all her loving family around her. But it was her father who sat longest after she was gone, holding her hand that grew chilly in the twilight.

“My child is gone,” he murmured to the windows and the grey air outside.

“You have done your duty,” he heard the night reply.

–