arright dudes, now that my last obligation as mod as been fulfilled, i’ma bow out. I’M GONNA MISS YOU GUYS OKAY. YOU BE GOOD TO STEPH, TAM, RAY, AND KARLA OKAY. I FULLY EXPECT A CELEBRATION OF A SECOND ANNIVERSARY NEXT YEAR OKAY.

love you all. <3

for now stannis will be handled by the mods. roose is available for grabs.

as always, i’ll be on my personal as well as on twitter.

i’m sorry to the people i have outstanding threads with. just. i’m sorry, lmao. (hides face) see you guys on the flipside. xoxo


lester-morrigen:

[After his very strange meeting with Renly Baratheon, he figures that he should go and see his older brother.  It seems like the best idea, especially given the rather hostile note that their meeting has ended on and Lester can’t help but wonder if things would have ended that badly if Renly has been talking to the Prime Minister.  He wonders if the decent of the conversation had mostly been his only thought.

He checks with Melisandre first, who has not seen him and looks rather worried when he mention his absence.  Lester waves her worry away and tells him fine.  He checks with Davos, who is likewise clueless, and then goes and sees Davos’s son, who tells Lester that Stannis is in his office.  Lester nods and wonders where he was before, then waves the thought away as unimportant.

Lester is actually very worried.  He has never had anything close to a personal conversation with the Prime Minster, nor desired to, but he rather has to at this point.  He knocks on the door and hears a sharp sound for him to enter.  He peaks his head inside the room.]

Prime Minster.  I’m—I’m sorry to bother you with this, and if you’re busy, I can go away, but I just thought you should know…your brother was here.  Just about five minutes ago.  I spoke with him and—well, I guess I thought you should know.

Stannis had spent the last few hours in the conference room until Scotland Yard jargon had bled out from the page and into his ears. Martial law was not agreeable to anyone and the decree had brought with it no few dissents and no few unsavory compromises between the police and the offended public.

At this rate, he’d be the most unpopular Prime Minister yet if he wasn’t already. Add insult to injury, Loras Tyrell, his brother’s own husband, thought to echo public sentiment. Stannis didn’t need another fullblown act of treason to add to the many things he was already juggling.

He’d surfaced for air in his office, rubbing the back of his eyes with his thumb, when Lester had knocked on the door expecting a mundane clerical matter. Not Renly. And not Renly’s visit.

And? He prompted impatiently, annoyed by Lester’s meandering apologies. What did he want? Although it didn’t take a smart man to guess that it had something to do with Loras Tyrell. That Renly didn’t barge into No10 with a battering ram was the only thing that surprised him.


baratheon-selyse:

She didn’t need to ask how his day had been; there would be little point in that. Selyse knew about the Stark boy, the accusations of treason; she knew it couldn’t have been an easy day for Stannis without needing to ask and without needed to hear a brusque reply from him. He on the other hand, probably had no idea of what happened inside his own home, “Everything is packed and ready in the drawing room to be taken tomorrow morning.”

Selyse gave the album a quick glance again and remembered the pictures of Shireen as a child, when times were simpler ones. “Shireen was upset today,” she said, and waited to study Stannis’ reaction. “She’s afraid she’s done something unforgivable to Tommen.” Maybe mentioning that Shireen was friends with a boy whose brother had been declared a traitor by Stannis not a day ago wasn’t a good idea, and Shireen could tell her father if she wanted. “And that she lost a friend for defending her ideals.” She lost a friend for defending you, Selyse thought but remained quiet.

'Probably,' she said and he'd wanted to scoff. Sentiment, unflatteringly regarded by a man who took trips to Storm's End whenever he could, and passed his father's office with halted steps that could've been taken for caution at the uneven flagstones underneath the hallway carpet but, in truth, was out of reverence for the dead. The same man who felt the barb of every Lannister insult against Robert, and thought of his mother's parting words first at the news of Renly's accident. As if enmity were an heirloom and with Robert gone, he the rightful bearer.

So he didn’t scoff and instead just nodded in quiet resignation. “Bring it, then, if you want,” he said dismissively, made more off-hand by the distraction of routine. His mobile next to the phone on the bedside table, then his watch, his wallet, a note he then crumpled and threw into the bin. 

Just as he reached up to loosen his tie, Selyse spoke again, something about something mundane that he nodded through just as dismissively. “Good,” he murmured, and made his way to the adjoining bathroom.

Dressing down after a long day would’ve been the start of comfort. But for Stannis, there was nothing restful about the home except for the sense of ownership that made him confident in stepping into his own territory. There was nothing comfortable about a marriage bed that was cold even when both husband and wife kept the sheets warm. Stannis thought that was neither better nor worse, only because he had no mark for what was good or bad.

He chucked his suit jacket in the laundry bin, and had his tie rolled in his fist when he heard Selyse through the half-open door. He frowned, more in confusion than in upset. What did he care for children’s quarrels?

Stannis gave a huff, answering loudly enough to be heard, “And?” He didn’t find it surprising that Shireen would be in disagreement with Tommen. Their families weren’t on the best of terms, and perhaps never had been. “She’ll learn sooner or later that not everyone will agree with what she stands for. It was only a matter of time.”


handwithoutfingers:

Once at the door, he put his bag down for a moment to fish into his pocket for the key Stannis had given him. He had needed a key, after all, if he was going to be coming here at random intervals when there might be no one other than himself to let him in. But then again, there might always be someone around – Davos still wasn’t sure how being rich worked; did everyone really have guards about 24/7?

Shaking his head at himself, he slid the key into the lock and turned it, then nudged the door open with his shoulder. As it opened, he peered inside, but he couldn’t see anyone moving around yet. They’d be here anyway though, he knew that much, so he simply picked up his bag and made his way inside, shutting the door behind him. He tried to remember Stannis’ directions to get Davos to his office, and he remembered vaguely, so he set off, taking in as much as the manor as he went, trying to commit the place and layout to memory.

Finally, he came face-to-face with Stannis’ office door, and as soon as he’d stopped in front of it, he knocked a couple of times, then pushed the door open and slipped inside.

His “office” was not so much an office but a space he’d carved out somehow. If Storm’s End had ever lacked for inhabitants, it had never lacked for rooms that would’ve housed a sprawling family even though the Baratheons had always been very few. He’d first wandered into that room when he was five and thought, at that moment, with dust in the air and silence ringing in his ears, that he wished to never leave. It had been his grandfather’s game room. In the middle had been a pool table made ominous by the old sheet that covered it. The walls had no bookshelves, not like Steffon’s own office, and the large windows looked to the west. It caught the sun when it was already cool.

He was thirteen when he first changed anything inside. At first he’d been hesitant to sit on the armchair in the corner, or light a fire in the small hearth when it got cold during the winter. The hush was a secret he hadn’t wanted to betray. But when his parents died, Stannis felt that the secret had passed on to him, like a forgotten heirloom in a forgotten safebox. He’d gotten rid of the pool table first, and opened the windows for the first time. The first gust of wind had rifled his hair. Unlike the other rooms in the house, it didn’t smell like sunlight in the morning, but of dew the evening before. As if it aged slower than the rest of the house, and was more earth than stone.

Other than that, there was little else changed about it. The walls remained bare but for the dark wooden panels and the few stag heads over the mantle. Stannis had Cressen unearth a desk for him to use, but of its several drawers only one could be opened. He filled that with little things although years later, he wouldn’t remember what they were for. A receipt from a coffee shop in Oxford, an anti-Targaryen pamphlet handed out by the student unions that he’d read only once. The desk chair was old as well, one of the old pieces from his grandmother’s sitting room. Cressen told him that Rhaelle Targaryen loved to write, but Stannis had never seen anything in her handwriting but for haphazardly scrawled dates at the back of old photographs. 

Many years later and the room had been spotless when he came in two days ago. The book he’d left on the table months before he left for the Navy was still there, even though Stannis would never remember the page he’d left, or what the book was about, or if he’d still read it now.

He was stood by the window when the door opened behind him. The curtains were drawn and across the rolling plains of the estate was the deep night that obscured it. A memory came to mind—or was it several memories rolled into one distinct emotion that was not quite nostalgia, but simply a recollection of something familiar? Of flashlights stuttering towards the distance, the barking of hounds and the neighing of horses, and Robert’s boisterous bellow, all of sixteen yet with the bearing of the master of the house, off to go hunting as if he was competing with the sun.

He turned slightly, found Davos by the doorway, and it took him several seconds to remember why he was there, or that his broad face and his sturdy jaw were not Robert’s at sixteen, and the sounds of his footsteps on the stone floor was not the clopping of hooves.

Memory shifted and was gone.

Davos Seaworth.

Stannis recovered quickly, and gave the other man a brief nod. “I was hoping you’d arrive earlier.” He gestured for the other man to come in. “If you’re not familiar with the area, it’s not recommended you travel at night,” he added. “You might wander into a neighbor’s hunting grounds.”

He took his measure of the man, an unspoken first order of business. He was much unchanged from the last time they’d seen each other. Tired circles around his eyes, the slight sloop of his shoulders, and looked just as complementary to the room as new beams propping up old stone.

"Sit," he said, nodding vaguely to one of the chairs by the table as he walked to it himself and sank into his own chair. The uniform was not out of his bearing, dressed down as he was in a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Even his brow was heavy with the seriousness of office that never quite left even as he stepped off a ship and into his home.


hey, mates. to wax dramatic about this, my watch has ended~ so to speak. i’ll be leaving the rp around the first week of april. i’d hate to do it because blood and glory is basically the most rewarding thing that i’ve ever contributed to on the internet. it’s just so wonderful to see this story unfold in the hands of such great writers and players. it’s been a good year, all in all. it was not without a lot of bumps along the way but they were all learning experiences and the good definitely outweighed the problematic. definitely. probably by a whole ton. or maybe two. i’ll always be thankful for this rp for helping me grow as a writer and for having met such wonderful people who certainly made the game of thrones fandom that much more enjoyable for me here on tumblr. but yeah, i’ve been struggling with school issues for the past several months and i feel like i’ve been a suspended state of denial in that time. i didn’t want to leave blood and glory, until i got so distracted that i was no longer in the proper headspace and i’ve stalled so many plotlines because of this. and i really really apologize to everyone i’ve inconvenienced. so yeah, before i leave, i’d like to see b&g hit the first year anniversary. because an rp lasting a year, my god. my god. that’s the longest that any rp i’ve been in has lasted, really. and i feel the fuzzies just thinking about it. then i feel sad that i won’t be around after that. but yeah, i gotta fix my life basically, lmao. 

so yes, if we have pending plot arcs, i’ll be working like a mule (or at least as much as i can, the penance i’m doing under my parents’ strict rules don’t really leave me much of my time for myself). i’ll try and finish outstanding threads that you guys still want to finish of course. as well as possibly write my last plot point. so yeah, to expedite things, just hit me up (on twitter, ideally, because i’m always on there), then we’ll iron things out, yeah? (this goes for both roose, stannis, as well as aerys.) i apologize to the people i have storylines with! the other mods will get control of aerys and i’m sure you’ll get a new stannis and roose in no time.

i love this rp and i love all of you, and i’m hoping i can make the most of my last three weeks (give or take). i’ll definitely be leaving with very good memories of this place. <3


“The political move here is tell you to go fuck yourself, and remind you that I was in the room when your former boss pitched WMD Iraq. At least there your guys brought photographs.”

baratheonshireen:

[She notices the way he doesn’t entirely disapprove of her past actions, the way there is no tightness around his jaw (and she does notice, she does, after months of sketching him from a distance). It wasn’t necessary, he says and Shireen suddenly wonders if he maybe enjoyed that fact that she nosed around his office. That could only explain why he didn’t ask her to stop. It was a wild thought though, something she stamps down immediately for being silly and wishful. She’s stopped being wishful for things when it involved her father for quite some time, there’s no need to start now]

Old enough to get a car, maybe? [She hints with a small smile, unlike her other wide grins that were sometimes strained and childlike. This is teasing, hopeful, almost.

Her hopefulness gets trampled on when the tone of his voice changes though, and there is a sudden tenseness around the air that makes Shireen want to shrink back into the chair. She stares at him, wide eyed and nods, trying to process his words] But that doesn’t sound happy. [She says lightly, frowning at her glass. Her poor, poor father, always so serious and so distant. What makes you happy? she wants to ask.

Why? and she glances away from the bubbling juice to stare at him, suddenly very much afraid of something she cannot explain. Failure, perhaps, because she could never be afraid of him, only of disappointing him. The thought of it makes her chest ache and Shireen grips her glass with sweaty fingers] I got into a fight with him. He was being so…ignorant and saying all these things and I just… [She shakes her head] He’s just a boy. My friend. [She turns her frown to her father then] I did it for you. [I try so hard, why can’t you understand? I just want you to be proud of me.

She hopes he doesn’t see notice the way her eyes start to water

'But that doesn't sound happy,' she says, and he's taken aback by the statement. Instinct digs up a reply from somewhere shallow, easy to reach, and easy to say: 'It isn't.' The words are leaden on his tongue, heavy enough to simply let his mouth fall open and drag out his voice on its tumble into the open air. He shakes his head, frowning deeper, as if they, too, bore the same weight as the answer he deprives. As if they could also let fall a trap on the floor and let out the dust.

She glances away and so does he, wrapped up in the need to answer her somehow. Out of pride, he doesn’t want to be defeated. He’s the father, after all, he should be the one proving a point. But he finds none that wouldn’t lead to more questions he wasn’t willing to answer—at least not in any way that concerned his daughter.

'He's just a boy,' she says, as if it's to comfort him somehow. It doesn't. But he'd braced for the worst—rather, he'd braced himself for disappointment. That it didn't come in the way that he expected doesn't lessen the gravity he'd prepared to buffer, and left him simply feeling its phantom from its absence.

What did you do for me? he asks, confused as his mind makes a turn on too much road. Defend me? It would’ve sounded differently had his voice been less frayed with the need to know. But there’s nothing tender about Stannis. He’s raw and jagged, and needed less coal to blaze than water to temper his steel.

He sighs and the sound is just as jagged, like angry scores on a new cliff face. He’s not unfamiliar with sacrifice. He’s made many in his life. Prime Minister or his brother, family or his brother, family or his duty; as if the only choices he’s been forced to make in his life were between his left hand or his right. 

Family, he begins, and his voice comes ragged until he clears his throat. He doesn’t look at her at first, and it’s only when he realizes that he isn’t that he finally turns his head. Her head is bowed; she doesn’t look back. Family is important. I supported Robert because he’s my brother and it’s the job of the younger to follow the elder. As my daughter, you have a duty to me as well.

He pauses, his voice is no lower, and his tone no less grim. But your choices are yours to make. The Stark boy—he’s not guilty of anything. Ned and Robb Stark made their own choices too, and one can’t be guilty for the wrongs of others. But, he straightens up in the same heartbeat that he wanted to reach out and make her look at him. Make her listen. His hands, however, stay where they are. This isn’t the first time you’ll  lose something for the sake of gaining something else.

He’s suddenly reminded of the choices he’d made for Robert—how bitterness had lathered in between his gritted teeth when he learned that  to do something for the sake of someone other than yourself is not an act of charity but of duty. That one shouldn’t expect gratitude.

Here, his voice dips, his voice low yet even, You can’t have everything, Shireen. Loyalty will ground your feet. And you’ll see less of the sky.


baratheonshireen:

The maids tell me that you have a meeting everyday. Doesn’t it get boring? [What could possibly happen in one day? She wanted to ask, but Shireen knows what could happen. Uncle Robert dying, Rickon leaving] Unless you get foreign people. [For a moment, she forgets that there’s a martial law in place, but it isn’t until the words have already been said that she realizes her error. Shireen settles with pretending she forgot what she was about to say] I was just curious, Da, but… Is it treason, to talk to a Stark? Like, to be… [Here, she waves her hands, trying to explain nervously] to be in contact with them? Is that like…prison worthy treason?

He meets her look of surprise with what passed for unconcern, broken only by the slight amusement that softened the usually grim set to his jaw. What could he have said to her back then? She hadn’t been breaking any rules; neither had she been bothersome, or distracting. In fact, she hadn’t been altogether unwelcome. In retrospect, he might’ve even liked the thought of her carving out her own space in his office. He’d been reluctant to bring up the subject because, in turn, she too had been reluctant of him. That which they shared kept the distance between them.

He became torn between reveling in that she took much after him, and dreading that she did. Be better, he wanted to say. Be better than me.

It wasn’t necessary, was what he said instead, sounding gruff at the unfamiliarity of being lenient. And I doubt it would be necessary nowhe added, If you’re old enough for coffee, you’re old enough to pick up after yourself.

He frowned at her next question. It’s work. I do it not because it interests me, but because I have to. He’s struck with sudden worry over her line of thinking. He won’t allow his own daughter to put luxury first before responsibility. You shouldn’t forget that. He turns serious, grim. This, at least, is more familiar ground, but he has yet to know the difference between instruction and guidance; he ends up sounding not unlike a dissatisfied superior, rather than a concerned parent. But he reminds himself: ‘She’s past the point of coddling.’ You’ll find very few things in life to be pleasurable. Sacrificing what you need to do for the sake of what you want will not get you anywhere.

He sips on his coffee, lets it warm his throat, and mistakes her silence for thoughtfulness that the sudden change of topic surprised him. What business does she have talking to Starks?

Why? he blurts out, abrupt and demanding. Irrationally, he wonders if his daughter would think to betray him as well. The thought shortens his temper, and it’s not without great effort to rein it in.

Which Stark? he asks through gritted teeth. Ned Stark and his son Robb are the ones wanted for treason. Nevertheless, and he can’t stress this word enough, you mustn’t complicated matters, Shireen, he says sternly. They’re complicated enough as it is.


baratheon-selyse:

She flipped the pages of the album, and heard a car parking outside. Not long after, Stannis’ footsteps on the staircase (who else could it be? In a house silent like theirs it’s easy to recognize what sounds belong to who). A few minutes later he was inside their bedroom, shoulders slightly curved, dark circles under his eyes starting to appear; like she expected somehow after hearning what the news were talking about Stannis in his first days as Prime Minister.

“I just couldn’t sleep,” she said, closing the photo album and resting her hands on top of it. It’s the simple truth; Selyse wasn’t awake to wait for him to come home. She’s learned not to long time ago.

“Even then,” he said, sounding more reproachful than he intended. “Sleep when you have the time for it.”

In all truth, he hadn’t given much thought to what being the new Prime Minister meant to his family. After all, he’d gone from the Navy to Westminster without much complaint. A more honest admission would be to say that it was because No10 had never been about his family at all; that it was his decision, out of his own volition, out of his own want and his own need. To say that this change would be better for his family would be like justifying a change to the route solely for the scenery. To say anything about his family in relation to No10 was to thicken the fog that made distance both bearable and uncertain. Smoke screen upon a smoke to screen that Stannis unwittingly strayed into.

Large boxes took up much of the floor space, each half-full with things that he’d yet to account for. There was no argument against convenience—nothing about the situation was convenient. But then nothing about it was for convenience in the first place. It was what it was, and he expect his family to shoulder on as normal. They had—they still were—and if all this had happened several months ago then he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But ever since Shireen’s last trip to the hospital, he’d somehow stopped being so thoughtless about his thoughtlessness. He begrudged ever having realized this, and reproached himself for feeling thus.

He now looked at his wife as he always had. There was no change to her face, or to her bearing. Still the same square jaw, the stern cheekbones, the pursed lips. He looked at her, and found her lacking. At the thought, his eyes dropped. She’s my wife, he thought to himself, as if such a simple statement would somehow fill the gaps in the images he had of her in his head.

He could blame it on unfamiliarity, that while they were husband and wife, they were no better than strangers sharing a better. What did he know of her, anyway? The mother to his child—and what else? Could he ask her the same and be given the same answer? 

No10 gave him no leeway to think of his family, he realized, because No10 was not their victory but Melisandre. It was his fight, but not he had not won it. Dread pooled at the sudden cave in his stomach; only to be revealed at the full as not dread at all, but shame. That he recognized the truth for what it was, yet clung onto it anyway regardless of the rent in his pride, or the insult that had festered at the blow.

She saw Selyse, but didn’t think of her first when he thought of himself as Prime Minister. She would take the responsibilities of First Lady, but she was not that at all.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head clear of the thought. Looking at her again, he noticed the album in her hands. 

"You’re bringing that?" He’d seen it only twice; the first was when she’d first bought it, the pages still empty. The second was when he’d accidentally toppled it over from the shelf, rummaging for something that, at the time, had felt more important, but now, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.

"You don’t have to," he said as he went to his side of the bed and started emptying his pockets on the bedside table. "We’re still keeping this house anyway. You can leave it here."


There was nothing new about this so-called ‘New Tradition of a Transparent Party’, a headline flashing in most news reels building up to this day, months after Robert’s victory in the last elections. Every face Stannis picked out from the crowd was either old or reminiscent of the old, products of lineage and legacy both. Only Robert was new, he and his honeymoon with the media, as if he were some extraordinary brand of politician when everyone knew he was from old stock. Only his name was different. And what name wouldn’t be, when for the last twenty years it’d been Targaryen at every spreadsheet.

Stannis stood to one side of the room, in his uniform as always. He went largely ignored by the journalists, but next to the throng that seemed to revolve around Robert’s center of gravity, it seemed like everyone else was dust on age-old furniture.

He was on shore leave, and what very few weeks he had in England to attend to a two-year-old daughter who still hid behind her nanny at the sight of her father, half of it was already wasted on gatherings not unlike this one. The only purpose to them was to be pieces of meat to decorate the golden platter on which the new golden boy of Labour was served to the media.

Stannis bit back a sigh, having just batted away a half-drunk MP that, in Stannis’ skepticism, only wanted to strike up a conversation to look like he was doing something relevant in a party that was all Robert and none of anyone else.

Fodder. Fodder and tapestry, that was what Robert’s guests were. He could conjure up a cloud of bitterness over this fact, but he’d accepted his role in his brother’s life. He could keep saying no to Robert, but he could only deny so much from the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. As an officer of the Navy, he was loathe to admit that his subordination was not only expected but official.