game of thrones and war of the roses

Ever sat down with a cuppa, binge-watched *Game of Thrones*, and thought, “Blimey, this feels like history with dragons and better haircuts”? Well, you’re not far off—game of thrones and war of the roses are practically cousins at a medieval barbecue, swapping war stories and wine-stained scrolls. George R.R. Martin himself has winked at the fact: “Yes, lads, the Wars of the Roses were my main starter pack.” Not literally, of course—but historically? Spot on. The game of thrones and war of the roses connection runs deeper than a Lannister vault: rival houses, dynastic squabbles, and enough backstabbing to make a Yorkist blush. It’s all there—just swap White Rose for Stark direwolf, Red Rose for Lannister lion, and throw in a smidge of wildfire for flair.

Let’s get this straight—game of thrones and war of the roses aren’t just *inspired by*; they’re practically a remix. House Stark? Think House of York: northern, honour-bound (sometimes to a fault), and tragically good at losing heads. Ned Stark’s fate? Pure Edmund of Rutland vibes—17-year-old lad, dragged from sanctuary, and *squelch*. House Lannister, meanwhile, is Lancaster with extra gold and fewer sermons. Cersei’s thirst for power? Margaret of Anjou would’ve high-fived her—then poisoned her wine, just to be safe. Both queens were foreign-born, fiercely protective of their sons, and *absolutely* unbothered by calling war a “family matter.” The game of thrones and war of the roses parallel even extends to propaganda: Ricardian spin doctors claimed Edward IV was illegitimate—sound familiar, Jon Snow truthers?

“A throne is just a chair with a thousand knives pointing at it.” True in Westeros, truer in 15th-century England. The game of thrones and war of the roses shared one brutal truth: legitimacy was whatever you could convince people of before the archers arrived. Henry VI was pious, gentle, and unfit to rule—and yet, he *was* king. Until he wasn’t. Sound like… Joffrey? Tommen? Aerys II? Exactly. The Wars of the Roses weren’t about who *deserved* the crown—they were about who could *hold* it long enough to get their kid crowned next. The game of thrones and war of the roses both weaponised lineage like a blunt mace: bastardy accusations, secret marriages, vanished princes in towers (looking at you, *Princes in the Tower* ≈ *Tower of Joy* lore), and that ever-popular tactic: “My granddad’s second cousin’s wet nurse said *I* was supposed to be king.”

Here’s a spicy one: game of thrones and war of the roses both gave us a sharp-tongued, physically marked genius unfairly branded a monster. Tyrion—book-smart, wine-soaked, morally grey (but weirdly principled)—mirrors Richard III far more than pop culture lets on. Yes, Shakespeare painted him as a hunchbacked baby-killer—but modern historians? They’re side-eyeing the Tudor PR machine harder than Varys side-eyes Littlefinger. Richard reformed laws, championed the poor, and *probably* didn’t drown his nephews in wine (though, fair—he *did* lock ’em up). Similarly, Tyrion’s trial by combat? Pure medieval vibes: guilt or innocence settled not by evidence, but by who had the beefiest champion. The game of thrones and war of the roses both remind us: history’s written by the winners—and they *love* a good villain origin story.

Right—buckle up, because this one’s grim. That infamous Red Wedding? Not Martin’s darkest fantasy. It’s lifted *almost* wholesale from the 1440 Black Dinner at Edinburgh Castle. Two young Douglas heirs—16 and 11—invited to dine with 10-year-old King James II. Pipes played. Food served. Then… a black bull’s head (medieval “you’re dead, mate”) rolled onto the table. The lads were dragged out and beheaded. *Mic drop.* Martin called it “a Scottish version of the Red Wedding”—which makes the game of thrones and war of the roses link even juicier, since the Douglases were *allied* with the Lancastrians. Betrayal under truce? That wasn’t just Westerosi etiquette—it was *British* etiquette. Below, feast your eyes on the bloodline that inspired the bloodbath:

Alright, let’s address the dragon in the room: game of thrones and war of the roses share *zero* actual magic. No White Walkers marched down Holyrood. No dragons roasted York. But—*but*—the *feeling* of magic? Absolutely. In an age of plague, famine, and sudden decapitation, the world *felt* enchanted… or cursed. Prophecies? Massive. The “Maid of Kent” claimed visions of Henry VI’s restoration—sound like Melisandre? And let’s not forget the *real* “Song of Ice and Fire”: the Little Ice Age began around 1300. Winters *did* get longer, harsher, deadlier. Crops failed. Starvation spread. So when Old Nan croaks about winter coming? She’s not myth-spinning—she’s remembering *actual* frostbite and famine. The game of thrones and war of the roses both thrive on that liminal dread: the sense that the world’s rules are breaking down, and only the ruthless—or the lucky—will survive.

Jon Snow: brooding, honourable, *technically* the rightful heir—if only someone had filed the paperwork. Edward IV: 6’4”, absurdly handsome, charismatic, and—plot twist—possibly *not* York’s son. Hang on. A secret Targaryen? Or… a secret *Beaufort*? Some Ricardian scholars whisper that Edward’s mum, Cecily Neville, had… *a moment* with an archer named Blaybourne. Hence Edward’s nickname: “the son of an archer” (and, cruelly, “the son of the archer’s *target*”). Whether true or Tudor slander, the *rumour* damaged his legacy—just like Jon’s bastardy haunted him. The game of thrones and war of the roses both hinge on this delicious irony: the most *legitimate* claimant is the one nobody believes in—until it’s too late.

Let’s talk queens in exile. Daenerys—dragon mom, breaker of chains, slightly unhinged by Season 8—has her real-world doppelgänger in Margaret of Anjou. French-born, politically brilliant, and *fiercely* devoted to her son Edward of Westminster. When Henry VI had his mental collapses, Margaret *ran* England—raised armies, negotiated treaties, and literally led troops at Towton (the bloodiest battle on English soil). Sound familiar? Dany’s liberation of Slaver’s Bay? Margaret’s siege of Calais? Both women were vilified as “foreign tyrants”… while their male counterparts got called “statesmen.” The game of thrones and war of the roses both expose a grim truth: a woman with power is a *threat*—unless she’s safely dead or married off.

You’d think after the Red Wedding, Westerosi lords’d stop accepting dinner invites from rivals. But nah—just like in medieval Britain, *customs* mattered more than common sense. Guest right? That’s *real*: breaking bread with a host made you sacrosanct. Violate it? You’re cursed—eternally. (See: Walder Frey’s fate—and the Douglas boys at the Black Dinner.) Sanctuary? Churches were *supposed* to be safe zones. But Richard III dragged the Duke of Buckingham from a church and executed him *anyway*. And treaties? Signed in blood, broken by breakfast. The game of thrones and war of the roses both teach us: rules only hold until someone *really* wants the throne. As Littlefinger put it: “Chaos isn’t a pit. It’s a ladder.” And in 1461? That ladder was greased with Yorkist and Lancastrian gore.

Here’s the kicker: the Wars of the Roses didn’t *end* with Henry Tudor’s victory at Bosworth. They *morphed*. Henry VII married Elizabeth of York, fused the roses—and promptly erased Richard III from the record books. Sound like Robert’s Rebellion → Baratheon “legitimacy” → Tywin’s quiet takeover? Exactly. The game of thrones and war of the roses both resist tidy endings because *history* resists them. Even now, Ricardians and Tudor loyalists brawl online like Stark vs Lannister fanfic wars. And that’s why Martin’s genius lies not in dragons—but in *ambiguity*. Who’s the hero? Who’s the villain? Depends who’s writing the chronicle—and whether their head’s still attached. Fancy diving deeper? Head over to The Great War Archive home base, explore the full History section, or crack open our deep-dive on game of thrones war of the roses hidden links.

References

• https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/wars-of-the-roses-what-caused-it-how-did-it-end-ricardian-tudor
• https://www.britannica.com/event/Wars-of-the-Roses
• https://www.medievalists.net/2019/04/game-of-thrones-and-the-wars-of-the-roses/
• https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/features/the-wars-of-the-roses