![m-baratheon:
blood and glory memesix quotes [ 1/6 ]:
“You look after yourself, princess. And your mother if she’ll let you. I’ll be there before you know it.”](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcd297DKZU1rvgswzo1_500.png)
blood and glory meme
six quotes [ 1/6 ]:“You look after yourself, princess. And your mother if she’ll let you. I’ll be there before you know it.”
![cersei-lnnstr:
blood and glory thread | six quotes[4/6] arys oakheart
“You look after yourself, princess. And your mother if she’ll let you. I’ll be there before you know it.”](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mc06diYhOx1rvfgr2o1_500.png)
blood and glory thread | six quotes
[4/6] arys oakheart“You look after yourself, princess. And your mother if she’ll let you. I’ll be there before you know it.”
five friendships - Myrcella and Arys [5/5]
His voice over the receiver is fuzzy from the feedback; but it’s enough to bring her comfort. He’s okay.
“You look after yourself, princess. And your mother if she’ll let you.”
She nods, and she tells herself how silly she is, worrying about him when she knew he could take care of himself.
“I’ll be there before you know it.” [x]
![sevendeaths:
B&G meme • Six quotes in no particular order: [1/6] [x]
History would have this day pencilled in great detail, even when the only witnesses were guilty or dead or stone. Some would argue that this was the start of the war. Some would argue still that the war, after all, had been between the state and its people, not of families braying against each other for power or for might. For legacy, for name. But a country that freed itself from a fever-dream, and bled itself dry.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbqjhas0iG1rhh3veo1_500.png)
B&G meme • Six quotes in no particular order: [1/6] [x]
History would have this day pencilled in great detail, even when the only witnesses were guilty or dead or stone. Some would argue that this was the start of the war. Some would argue still that the war, after all, had been between the state and its people, not of families braying against each other for power or for might. For legacy, for name. But a country that freed itself from a fever-dream, and bled itself dry.
The Blitzkrieg that came the summer of 1945 was less fist than finger. Like a machine-gun fire from the heavens, stitching London every which way until the city’s hemlines bled into the Thames. Threads tore from their chokeholds; the fabric fluttered in the wind, made lost and Northless.
Incoming! shouted a passerby, relinquishing his hold on his top hat in favor of grabbing the man beside him.
The air whistled; the crowd parted.
The Old Bailey burned.
Minutes before then, it had been a sanctuary. Sacks filled with gravel and debris pushed up against the wall, lending centuries old stone with the little strength of crude chunks of lime and shale. In its desperation, the city packed earth. Dry concrete. Car parts, burnt rubber, dead bodies.
Incoming!
The ground trembled; the street groaned.
The Old Bailey burned.
