(Source: wildfiredrums)
The point slashed just beneath his eyes, and he felt its cold hard touch and then a blaze of pain. His head spun around as if he’d been slapped. […] Finally he rolled over the side and lay breathless and exhausted, flat on his back. Balls of green and orange flame crackled overhead, leaving streaks between the stars. He had a moment to think how pretty it was before Ser Mandon blocked out the view. The knight was a white steel shadow, his eyes shining darkly behind his helm. Tyrion had no more strength than a rag doll. Ser Mandon put the point of his sword to the hollow of his throat and curled both hands around the hilt. […] “Be still, my lord, you’re hurt bad.” A boy’s voice, that makes no sense, thought Tyrion. It sounded almost like Pod.
A wall of red-hot steel, blazing wood, and swirling green flames stretched before him. The mouth of the Blackwater Rush had turned into the mouth of Hell.
They’re not much fun at the beach, I’ll tell ya that much.
the best kind of admiration is oscillating.
to rest a crown upon your head
I love how actually none of them have bowed to the lion. Starks? Okay, they’re just all dead, but they never bowed. Baratheons? Only contender left fighting. Mormonts? Told everyone to go fuck themselves. Arryns? Don’t care, sitting on a mountain. Florents? With Stannis. Greyjoys? Too busy trolling to care.
(Source: assvenger)