home
ask
submit
about me
blogroll

Flor. Argentina. 20. Bookworm. TV and movie lover. Important, AKA, you should know this: about me.



Blogs about: Marvel, Game of Thrones, Sherlock, Doctor Who, Merlin, Supernatural, Star Trek, LOST, The Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire.



The Misha to my Sebastian. She's also the Thor to my Loki. We don't like to talk about it, tbh.
The Steve to my Tony.
The John to my Sherlock.


The north remembers, Lord Davos.

nothing burns like the cold

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. “Theon,” they seemed to whisper, “Theon.”

The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. “Please.” He fell to his knees. “A sword, that’s all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek.” Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. “I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands.”

A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. “… Bran,” the tree murmured.

They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. “I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me … laughed at me … they …”

(Source: greyjoyss)