#noplaceforaking

he’s a nerd what can i say and yooo bb :33

On his back, arms folded across his stomach, kind of like...a corpse tbh. It’s unsettling.

She was annoyed, little pint-sized Dany stepping up to challenge her giant of a brother, but there was a hint of a smirk on her lips. She could never stay mad at him for long. 

     He’s still fumbling with his armor when Viserys grabs his shirtsleeve, demanding every bit of attention, as ever he has done. Out of reflex, Bronn stops, although his instinct tells him, no, there is fighting to be done, be gone from here. Stuck in conflict for a moment, Bronn doesn’t have the chance to say anything, only levels his dark eyes at him and freezes.      Viserys is scared, he can tell from just a glance, he is scared and desperate. The boy’s mouth works for a moment before he can get words out, and even then, his voice breaks on the first syllable, and he has to start over.            ❝  Bronn, you-- you don’t have to fight this, we have horses. We could leave. We could just leave King’s Landing, go back to-- to Essos, maybe, or try hiding in Dorne--  ❞     It is a true testament to his fear that Viserys proposes these ideas as feasible and preferable to what is about to happen. They have fought so long ans so hard for this throne, this gold and respect and power, and Viserys would give it up, if it meant keeping the thing that truly mattered to him. The notion is enough to soften Bronn’s gaze, if only for a second. A gloved hand reaches for his King, gently cupping his jaw, an odd juxtaposition to the strength Viserys knows he will display just a few minutes hence.           ❝  No, little darlin’, we’ll not run anymore. I promised ye tha’ years ago. I told ye we were here fer good, ye wouldn’t have ta fear. ‘nd ye don’t. We ain’t gonna leave, we ain’t gonna run, we’re stayin’ right here, right where ye belong. ‘nd ye ain’t gonna be scared, ‘cause m’gonna come back. I promised ye tha’, too, ye remember. But ye gotta let me go. Aye?  ❞     Not for the first time, Viserys is struck with the immensity of care this old mercenary must have for him, to say such things and go forth into so bitter a fight for his sake. He wants to cry, to shed tears, but he won’t let Bronn see that, not right now, not when he has much more pressing matters to worry about. Instead he swallows hard, nods frantically, as if to drill it into his own head. We won’t flee. Bronn will protect my throne, and then come home to me. We won’t flee; Bronn will come home.      Bronn hesitates a moment longer, eyes searching for something in his King; when he doesn’t find it, he pulls the boy to his own chest, taking his face in both hands and kissing him hard, hard enough to nearly knock the breath from Viserys’ lungs, enough that when Bronn pulls away a long second later, his lips tingle with numbness.           ❝  I love ye, boy. I’ll be back. I’ll be back.  ❞     Viserys doesn’t let those tears fall until he watches Bronn retreat down the hall to join his troops, gold cloak hanging proudly from his shoulders and sword hefted high in his hand.           We won’t flee. Bronn will come home. 

     the first time they touch, cold metal fingers on a fragile, slender wrist,     bronn sees the world. time turns backwards alongside the earth, and     he sees--      the first time they touch, a young boy who demands to ride the back     of a man he has only barely been acquainted to. when those big hands     lift him, viserys remembers forty years that his brain should not have,     and remembers--     the first time they touch, his hand reaching up to send healing into the     mangled horns of the qunari before him, wherein they both freeze,      caught in the same tide of memories, connecting more than flesh, and      they feel--     the first time they touch, when a tough, scarred hand takes a smaller     one in his own and helps him to his feet, his other hand reaching for     the dark welts around his throat, and they look at one another--     and the first time they touch, they know. 

     Naturally, there have been quite a few occasions as such. He's more than happy to tell most of those war stories, but there's one in particular he's less likely to speak of. As a child, his parents were incredibly poor, and bitter towards their children, his six siblings, and became quite abusive as time wore on. One of the worst nights of his childhood, his mother came at him with a knife, slashing through his back and nearly injuring his spinal cord. Considering he was still basically a child, he was more or less unable to defend himself, and so is likely to consider that the closest he came to ever being murdered. 

     That's a bit of a complicated answer, because how I play him (with Jerome Flynn as an FC) is a bit at odds with how he is described in book canon, so I'll try to explain the differences as I go.      In the book, he's a pretty lanky, thin guy who's pretty damn tall. I feel like his legs would be pretty thin, but extremely muscular, in a very lithe way. Long legs, thick calves, probably surprisingly skinny ankles, haha. Cute knobby knees because they're just skinny enough that there's no real meat to cover them.      This is opposed to how I play him, where he's slightly shorter, and definitely has much thicker legs. His legs are slightly shorter than you'd expect, not stocky, but not elegantly long by any means. Very thick, muscular thighs, round knees (that probably have scars), nice thick calves. Probably pretty hairy, too.      In both versions, though, he definitely has a pronounced swagger, almost like a strut, although he's just as capable of toning that down to blend in and sneak about, when need be.