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16 March 2012 @ 11:57 pm
G A M E O F T H R O N E S K I N K M E M E  

- all characters must be from george r. r. martin's a song of ice and fire's series or the hbo adaption game of thrones
- leave a pairing in the comments, along with an accompanying kink - eg jaime/cersei, voyeurism, theon/robb, oral.
- graphics and fanart are also accepted
- no hate pleeease, we don't all love the same ships but let's not bash because of it :)
- multiple fills are encouraged

SEE: asoiafkinkmeme

leah rebecca: Robb Starkbloodofpyke on March 23rd, 2012 09:30 pm (UTC)
ashes to ashes
He’s dead, they tell him. Flayed and broken and beaten, but dead. He doesn’t ask, but they tell him anyway, almost relishing the words, these Northmen who will always want for blood. Ramsay made him a pet, they say, and lived up to the Bolton name, and he’s dead too, the Bastard of the Dreadfort, but the important thing is Theon’s dead, and isn’t Your Grace pleased by these tidings?

He doesn’t answer, only sits there, fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword, fingers tangled in Grey Wind’s fur, until his men bow and scrape their way out the door, leaving behind only their words. He’s dead, Robb thinks, wondering if he should be as happy as they tell him to be. He’s dead, he thinks again, memories crowding in his mind. He’s dead, he thinks one more time, and he remembers the words falling from his lips, I want his head, he had ordered, and he wonders again how he should feel.

His eyes close and he sees Bran and Rickon, breathless, playing in the yard, and then he sees them dead, rotting, hoisted above the gates of the ruined Winterfell. He thinks of the way ice curled through his veins when he heard, the way that ice burned away once the news sunk in. He thinks of Theon, chained and wasting away in some dungeon cell, Ramsay smacking his thick lips as a knife worked away at him, wonders if this is justice, if this is what he wants.

The crown feels heavy on his head, and his hands reach up and grasp it, bringing it down to the table in front of him, and he turns it over and over in his hands, telling himself that he’s the king, that he should feel glad an enemy, two enemies, were rooted out and killed. Better them than me, he tells himself, better them than the rest of the North. He needs to think like a king, he tells himself, needs to be glad that it was only two lives in exchange for the North, for a victory.

It’s easy to tell himself that, harder to forget. He remembers Theon at Winterfell, remembers the feel of a heartbeat racing against his, remembers the feel of fingers laced with his so tightly he felt like they would break off. He remembers, and he sits there until the darkness creeps across the room and covers him.

He’s dead, he tells himself, it doesn’t matter, he’s dead, it’s over, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.

If he repeats it enough, he thinks, it will be fine, he will feel something, anything, he will be the king his men want him to be, and it will be fine.
oximore: Nimuehoximore on March 24th, 2012 10:49 pm (UTC)
Re: ashes to ashes

thx you so much
this is just what I needed
(now I don't even know if this is better or worse than the other way around)