#secondaryking

    For the past few hours, Margaery sat within her personal chambers. Chambers offered to her by the lady of Winterfell upon her arrival with the Targaryen army. Since then, she would find herself cooped up by the fireplace reading books collected from any room she could bring herself to venture. It was how the former queen could temporarily find peace in her circumstances, and tonight like other nights, she sat comfortably on her bed with fur blankets draped over her legs and a book in hand. Stories of a peaceful love affair was the escape she needed from the cruelty the real world had to offer . As preparations were made for the upcoming war and the long winter nights to come, she remain locked up in the space she deemed safe. Safe to shed tears without worrying those who cared for her. An escape from the politics of which she truly wished to keep a distance after everything she’d been through. As her eyes grazed over the romantic passage of two lovers, she allowed herself to smile as she briefly fell into the vision,  yet a sudden knock on the door pulled her from the pages, and Margaery quickly lifted her head; loose brunette locks falling over her shoulders as she peered up at the woman who now stood in the way of the opened door. ❛  Oh, Sansa. You startled me.  ❜ She said lightly, brushing off a smile when she saw the emotion in her face. ❛  What is it ? Are you alright ?  ❜ Concern consumed the woman, but when Sansa stepped aside, she was graced with an unimaginable sight. 

                            that’s what gendry’s first thought had been,    it was,    when he found them by one o’ the gardens.    storm’s end is a gloomy sort o’ castle:   its wall thick and grey,    humongous and intimidatin’     -    the sort o’ castle,   as the legends told,   t’ have kept it standin’ even in the face o’ angry gods.   it was no kind t’ be pretty enough for gardens.    the few they had were rare and have only been kept alive tediously by experts gendry has been told were shipped from either highgarden or riverrun.     yet,    his two siblings found one o’ them so easily.    (    siblings,   he thinks with a swallow;    only a few weeks ago,   he thought he would’ve died,   simply,   by the winterfell floor without as much as a face fer’ people t’ remember him by once it’s been stepped and clawed at durin’ the battle.     t’ think he’d have   -   a title,   a name.   a family.    s’ too much,   ‘s what it is;    too real for ‘t to have happened,   it was,   t’ some poor bastard from fleabottom and yet—    )    two o’ a kind,   gendry thinks again,   watchin’ them for a while,   soakin’ the image in.     they are light-haired,    bright eyes,   and o’ true royal blood,    these sister and brother o’ his.    in comparison,   gendry is   -   broad-shouldered,   awkward,   and too   -   dark,   maybe.   dirty.   he is only a lowborn.    and yet—

                           brother,    he thinks.    he is their brother.    ‘ven if the court o’ storms weren’t as friendly t’ them,   hissin’ behind their backs that they were merely bastards o’ the lannisters and,   oh,   would you look at that?    they would whisper,    it shows.   gendry remembers thinkin’ bitterly,   angrily.    always so angry sometimes     -     why would it matter?     by name still,    they’re family o’ his,   ‘s what they are.    and gendry swore he won’t be like stannis baratheon,    or renly baratheon,    or the fat old king had been;    he won’t do them wrong.    won’t be like any other highborns who’re only family ‘cause s’ what their house had put them in;   and that they would sacrifice or kill one another,   ‘s what they would do,   t’ ensure that their own bloody damn self is put on some silly chair.     but,   a question quickly comes:     what does ‘t mean t’ be a good brother,   though?    gendry doesn’t know.    he’s n’ver been a good ‘nythin’ to anybody b’fore.    even when he wanted t’ be somethin’ to arya,   he was—     (   but gendry stops that train o’ thought before it spreads.    he’s here now,   and she isn’t.   gendry will move on,   he tells himself.   he has to.  )    just a lowly smith,   was all he is.   a bastard nobody has ‘ver wanted.     and now ...

               ‘      tommen.     myrcella.     would’ve figured ye’ two t’ find the rare gardens.     ’

                             but he’s stalling.     stupid,   stupid bull.     ‘ven when he wanted t’ do good,   he couldn’t.     a brother,   aye,   ‘s what he was given the chance t’ be.   and he wanted t’ be a good one,   too.    but how good can a good be if his first few acts were t’ break his own family’s heart ?

         ‘     there’s a raven.     from king’s landing.     it   ...    it’s just arrived.    the maester fetched me quickly,   n’   ...      ’        please don’t hate me for this,    he thinks,   closing his eyes shut and clenching his fists tight.     please don’t hate me;    i’ve only just gotten you two.     ‘    yer’ mum—     ’

They had just gotten through with the latest strategy session for the battle against the night king. Things were absurdly tense and that of course that made Arya paranoid. They had all been really careful about breaching the bending the knee topic as their focus had to be on the North. If anything the fact that the dragon queen was here to not only take the six kingdoms, but also the north, it made them all wary. Although they were all united, things could change quite easily and if made her uneasy. She lingered behind in the war room as everyone filed out to get their affairs in order as they prepared for the upcoming battle.

          ♔   ||   F I V E   T E X T S   ||   accepting

Send 📱 for five texts my muse didn’t send yours, and one that they did

( ✉ → baby lion ) is it just me or are these family dinners getting worse and worse

( ✉ → baby lion ) I need you and your sister to keep an eye on Sansa when she’s over at your place

( ✉ → baby lion ) Joffrey doesn’t ever hurt you and Cella, does he?

( ✉ → baby lion ) I don’t understand how you and your sister fit into your family. are you sure you’re not adopted?

( ✉ → baby lion ) how can you live with these people?

‘      the stormlands will be independent.     ‘ve much t’ do,    t’ settle it with queen sansa and whatever’s left o’ the westeros’ government.       ’      there isn’t much left o’ the city now that it’s crumbled.    ‘ven arrangements t’ stay had t’ be made in the few scattered houses on the border where the flames didn’t touch.     gendry refuses t’ look at the ruins    (    though he can,   if he just turn his head,    and there,   it is,    the red keep that was supposed t’ be there,   it was,    but isn’t any longer    )     and instead focuses instead on his brother.    gendry had wanted so much for tommen t’ rest     -     the iron throne is long gone,    he’s no need t’ fight for ‘nythin’ any longer      -     but if it’s his choice...    well,    gendry learns quick that he hasn’t got much o’ a voice if people wanted t’ leave him.    rather that,   he s’pose,   than them stayin’ only t’ please him.    nobody,   gendry thinks,   should be pleasin’ him.      ‘      —    y’ want t’ stay here,    don’t ye’ ?      ’

i could attempt to make it if u want bb ????

                         there isn’t a trail,     not ‘ven a little,   no,    o’ envy nor rage in his voice when he asks.    ‘n fact,    the rarest o’ times,    gendry can feel the edge o’ his mouth curled into a small,    wistful smile.     nothin’ too big,   though;    the expression ‘s still so new.     like the fine,   dark leather they keep insistin’ he wears.    it fits him well,   measured t’ the right size n’ everythin’   —    but it still doesn’t feel like it suits him as grand as everybody thought it is just yet.    still,    gendry’s expression is kind.    if the tales and rumours are true,    robert baratheon was a man o’ his rage and quick temper.    gendry has the same;    though it is not one,   he’s vowed long ago,   t’ ever be directed,   it isn’t,   t’ anybody who never deserves ‘t.    and his family?     (    though only if tommen wants,   only if tommen agrees.    )     they’re never the people who would ‘ver deserve it.

            ‘     storm’s end.    b’fore ye’ become king.      ’      

                             oh,    how the mighty ‘ave fallen,     they would say.     but nothin’ about tommen gives a look like he’s ever fell.    ‘n the light from whatever stormy weather has cast,    tommen looks bright and golden.    slightly weary,   aye,   from the war    -     they all are;    but golden and royal,   nevertheless.       ‘      ‘t can be yours ‘gain,    ‘f it’s what y’ seek,   m’lord.      ’      i’m just a bastard,   ‘fter all.    a bastard who is yer’ brother by name.     i won’t give ye’ reason t’ hate me and hold such painful grudge,   i won’t.    we will not be as poisonous as the kings’ brothers b’fore us.      ‘      i won’t wrong ye’ by oversteppin’.    i may be a lowly smith,   i am,    but yer’    —     what’s left o’ my kin,   if m’lord pardons me t’ say.     i can speak t’ the court o’ the storms if i must.     i won’t mind it none.     ’