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Laura. 17. Cis (she/her/hers). Lesbian. Hufflepuff.

I am a lazy.
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Posted
1 day ago
On 27 Jul '14

i’m going away for a couple of weeks and i haven’t had time to set up a queue so my blog won’t be active until i get back

9
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Posted
2 days ago
On 26 Jul '14

GRRM: Jeyne Westerling will be in prologue of ‘Winds of Winter’  

9839
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Posted
2 days ago
On 25 Jul '14

Season 4 Bloopers [x]

32
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Posted
3 days ago
On 25 Jul '14

househardyng:

trystane is literally the opposite to being the heir of dorne

the supposed conflict was between ARIANNE and QUENTYN

13409
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Posted
3 days ago
On 25 Jul '14

x

33741
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Posted
4 days ago
On 24 Jul '14
# yep  # game of thrones  
27
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Posted
1 week ago
On 20 Jul '14

montparnah:

look im not saying sansa/brienne is endgame im just saying

  • sansa wants to live happily ever after with a brave and tru knight
  • brienne is a brave and tru knight

think about it

306
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Posted
1 week ago
On 20 Jul '14
2310
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Posted
1 week ago
On 20 Jul '14

1.09 || 4.08

79
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Posted
1 week ago
On 19 Jul '14
ellenfanshaw:

The Gamemakers had suspected she’d died in the cave, she’d been told. The others had continued fighting each other, out in the ring, over the food and once they’d all dropped they’d thought for a while that there would be no victor that year. But they found her alive, pressed up against the back of the cave, not crying but simply frozen, as though there had never been a world outside at all. She did not want to leave, not at first. She’d been afraid of the light.
She’d never been expected to win—she was a waste of a Westerlands tribute, they said, a disappointment coming from the district responsible for Cersei and Jaime Lannister. A Lannister had been her district partner, too, Willem, one of the younger cousins of the more famous branch of the family. She’d killed him—he was the only one she killed. He’d decided early on that she wouldn’t have been a use to him as a helper and turned a knife on her. She’d struggled, surprised to find it sticking from his bones and not hers. Funny. She had expected her death, grown used to it almost but she pulled out the knife covered with knife and it was not her own.
It had been the food that had gotten the others. Never trust anyone, her mother had told her when she was younger, never. The other tributes’ parents had told them the same, she expected, at least some of them. But they were too hungry to care when the notes came down, guiding them towards the table at the center of the arena, five meals for ten remaining tributes. Mayhaps you’ll eat tonight, the note had said and she knew she wouldn’t make it, not with them and she would rather starve and so she ran and hid in the cave and then when they pulled her out, she had won.
It had been so dark in there—they would come and find her, she thought, but she would not have won looking for the food so she stayed there, until she was stiff and dizzy and then there were a thousand hands reaching towards her.
They had thought there would be no victor that year and in the eyes of the Capitol, there might as well not have been, really. She was accidental, incidental, not as brutal as they would have liked. She was pretty, yes (it helped to be pretty) and perhaps she’d been charming enough before the cave but her tongue stiffened and she found she couldn’t speak to the cameras, couldn’t do anything without freezing and imagining she was back in the cave.
They’d almost called no victor that year and they might as well have, she was a disappointment, she knew it and she did not care. She needed to leave the capitol, to run from the outstretched hands, to run from the bones in human skin that wanted her name, wanted her face, wanted her voice.
She had lived before through hiding. So she hid again.

ellenfanshaw:

The Gamemakers had suspected she’d died in the cave, she’d been told. The others had continued fighting each other, out in the ring, over the food and once they’d all dropped they’d thought for a while that there would be no victor that year. But they found her alive, pressed up against the back of the cave, not crying but simply frozen, as though there had never been a world outside at all. She did not want to leave, not at first. She’d been afraid of the light.

She’d never been expected to win—she was a waste of a Westerlands tribute, they said, a disappointment coming from the district responsible for Cersei and Jaime Lannister. A Lannister had been her district partner, too, Willem, one of the younger cousins of the more famous branch of the family. She’d killed him—he was the only one she killed. He’d decided early on that she wouldn’t have been a use to him as a helper and turned a knife on her. She’d struggled, surprised to find it sticking from his bones and not hers. Funny. She had expected her death, grown used to it almost but she pulled out the knife covered with knife and it was not her own.

It had been the food that had gotten the others. Never trust anyone, her mother had told her when she was younger, never. The other tributes’ parents had told them the same, she expected, at least some of them. But they were too hungry to care when the notes came down, guiding them towards the table at the center of the arena, five meals for ten remaining tributes. Mayhaps you’ll eat tonight, the note had said and she knew she wouldn’t make it, not with them and she would rather starve and so she ran and hid in the cave and then when they pulled her out, she had won.

It had been so dark in there—they would come and find her, she thought, but she would not have won looking for the food so she stayed there, until she was stiff and dizzy and then there were a thousand hands reaching towards her.

They had thought there would be no victor that year and in the eyes of the Capitol, there might as well not have been, really. She was accidental, incidental, not as brutal as they would have liked. She was pretty, yes (it helped to be pretty) and perhaps she’d been charming enough before the cave but her tongue stiffened and she found she couldn’t speak to the cameras, couldn’t do anything without freezing and imagining she was back in the cave.

They’d almost called no victor that year and they might as well have, she was a disappointment, she knew it and she did not care. She needed to leave the capitol, to run from the outstretched hands, to run from the bones in human skin that wanted her name, wanted her face, wanted her voice.

She had lived before through hiding. So she hid again.