got war of the roses

Ever fancied a proper royal kerfuffle—where blokes in chainmail fancied themselves kings, and a red rose vs. white rose wasn’t just a posh wedding theme? Well, pull up a pew and brew a cuppa, ‘cos the got war of the roses wasn’t just a single scrap—it was a decades-long family squabble spilling over into civil war, with more backstabbing than a dodgy kebab joint in East London. Historians reckon the got war of the roses kicked off properly in 1455, though rumblings started years earlier. Lancastrians (red rose crew) and Yorkists (white rose lads) both reckoned they’d inherited the crown fair and square. Spoiler: neither did—legally. And so began 30-odd years of blood, betrayal, and blokes changing sides faster than a fox in henhouse changes direction.

Before the got war of the roses, kings could—mostly—rule without worrying their cousin’d sneak in with a dagger and a smile. But post-conflict? Nah. The got war of the roses shattered the divine-right illusion like a dropped pint glass in a pub brawl. Parliament’s power grew, nobles got cagey, and succession became less “God’s plan” and more “who’s got the biggest army *and* least skeletons”. Crucially, the conflict cleared the feudal nobility’s bench—many big families were wiped out, leaving space for Tudor centralisation. Henry VII, the last man standing, didn’t just wear the crown—he welded it shut. The got war of the roses was the brutal catalyst for modern English monarchy: less warlord, more bureaucrat.

Forget CGI dragons—history’s got Henry VI, who fancied himself a saint but couldn’t rule a village fête; Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick (“The Kingmaker” — proper OG influencer, flipping crowns like flapjacks); and Edward IV, who looked like a prince and fought like a Viking, but had the marital judgement of a drunk undergrad. Then there’s Margaret of Anjou—oh, she’s the unsung MVP: “The She-Wolf of France”, defending her son’s claim with grit, guile, and zero apologies. Each major figure in the got war of the roses was, frankly, a character you’d binge on a streaming service—if they weren’t so lethal. Their alliances shifted like British weather: sunny one moment, hailstorm the next.

Ah, the million-pound question—or should we say, *million-pounder* question, given the cost of HBO’s catering alone. Let’s be blunt: got war of the roses wasn’t just *an* influence on *Game of Thrones*—it was the whole bloody blueprint. GRRM himself’s admitted it. Red rose = Lannister. White rose = Stark. Two noble houses clashing over a shaky throne? Check. A mentally unstable king (Henry VI ≈ Aerys II)? Check. A charismatic young king dying suspiciously early (Edward IV ≈ Robert Baratheon)? Double-check. The got war of the roses gave *Game of Thrones* its DNA: regal ambition, dynastic paranoia, and the inconvenient truth that “honour” rarely survives a winter campaign.

Here’s a fun one: the “Wars of the Roses” name? Not used at the time. No medieval lad marched into Towton shouting, “FOR THE RED PETAL, LADS!” The term was coined *centuries later*—thanks, Sir Walter Scott and his romantic novels. Back in the 1400s? They just called it “the troubles” or “that bloody mess with the Nevilles.” The roses were symbolic badges—Lancaster used the red rose *sometimes*; York preferred the white, but also favoured the falcon-and-fetterlock or the sun in splendour. It was heraldry-as-marketing: simple, visual, sticky. And let’s be real—“Wars of the Sun-in-Splendour” doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it?

Technically? Just the one—the throne: the English Crown. But oh, the layers! Edward III’s *eight sons* meant a tangle of claims thicker than a Yorkshire pudding batter. Lancastrians descended from John of Gaunt (third son); Yorkists from Edmund of Langley (fourth) *and* Lionel of Antwerp (second)—making their claim arguably *stronger*, if you squint at primogeniture long enough. The got war of the roses wasn’t about splitting kingdoms—it was about who got to sit in that big chair in Westminster. Every battle—St Albans, Towton, Barnet—was a bloody audition for the role of “King of England.” No understudies allowed.

Let’s crack out the pub-quiz answer: Henry Tudor—later Henry VII—won the got war of the roses… sort of. He wasn’t even *in* England for most of it, lurking in France like a shy lad at a wedding. But in 1485, he landed, rallied the anti-Richard III crowd, and won at Bosworth Field—then *married* Elizabeth of York, uniting red and white into the Tudor rose. Boom. PR masterstroke. But truth? No one really “won” the got war of the roses clean. Thousands died. Dynasties collapsed. The nobility was gutted. England was exhausted. Henry didn’t win by strength—he won by *being the last man with a half-plausible claim and a decent army*.

Key Stats from the got war of the roses

Let’s drop some numbers to sober you up:

• ~30 years of intermittent conflict (1455–1487)
• At least 5 major battles—Towton (1461) was the bloodiest: ~28,000 dead in *one day*
• 3 kings deposed (Henry VI *twice*, Edward IV once)
• 6 royal claimants killed in battle or executed (including 2 kings: Henry VI & Richard III)

Those figures tell the grim truth behind the got war of the roses: not glamorous duels, but industrial-scale slaughter in muddy fields.

Blimey, yes—but with dragons, winter, and better tailoring. George R.R. Martin’s admitted in interviews: “The Wars of the Roses were a definite inspiration… though I took liberties—like adding direwolves.” The Stark-Lannister feud mirrors York-Lancaster perfectly: honour-bound northerners vs. wealthy, scheming southerners. Ned Stark’s execution? Channeling Richard, Duke of York (killed 1460, head on a spike—*ouch*). The got war of the roses gave *Game of Thrones* its tragic realism—the sense that no one’s safe, and power is a game played with real blood. Even the “Mad King”? Pure Henry VI meets Charles VI of France—piety tipping into psychosis.

Grab your ale—this one’s a corker. Robert Baratheon is *almost* Edward IV: big, boisterous, a brilliant warrior in his youth, crowned after winning a massive battle (Towton ≈ the rebellion against the Mad King), and… let’s say, *enthusiastic* about feasting, drinking, and the ladies. Both neglected ruling for revelry. Both left chaos behind when they died young (Edward at 40, Robert at… well, a boar). Even their queens—Elizabeth Woodville and Cersei Lannister—were controversial southern beauties distrusted by the northern nobles. Uncanny. Though let’s be fair: Edward sired 10+ kids; Robert’s “only” got three (allegedly).

Fancy going full historian-mode? Crack open the dusty tomes—or better yet, browse the digital archives. For starters, pop over to The Great War Archive for a curated deep-dive. Fancy a category binge? Our History section’s stacked with chronicles, maps, and noble family trees thicker than a Dickens novel. And if you’re hooked on the *Game of Thrones* crossover? Don’t miss our piece: War of the Roses and Game of Thrones: Parallel Stories—where history and fantasy hold hands (and then stab each other in the back, obviously). Because the got war of the roses isn’t just past—it’s *always* echoing.

References

• https://www.britannica.com/event/Wars-of-the-Roses
• https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/wars-of-the-roses-causes-key-facts-aftermath/
• https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/topics/wars-roses