war of the roses and game of thrones

Ever fancied sittin’ by the fire, pint in hand, while some bloke in a doublet starts rantin’ about kings with roses pinned to their tunics—and then realises, blimey, that’s basically *Game of Thrones* without the dragons? War of the roses and game of thrones share more than just a love for beheadin’ blokes and backstabbin’ at banquets. Truth be told, the real war had fewer direwolves but way more dysentery. Still, both sagas drip with intrigue, dynastic grudges, and enough familial betrayal to make a Yorkist sob into his mead. The war of the roses and game of thrones parallel isn’t fanfiction—it’s historiography with a side of Valyrian steel.

Right-o, let’s clear this up before someone starts arguin’ in the pub quiz: the thrones involved in the wars of the roses? Just *one*—the Throne of England, mind you, not some fancy Westerosi iron monstrosity. But *who* sat on it? Ah, now that’s the rub. The Lancastrians (red rose, sobriety, questionable haircuts) and Yorkists (white rose, ambition, slightly less questionable haircuts) kept takin’ turns like kids on a seesaw—except the seesaw was soaked in blood and the kids kept pushin’ each other off. Henry VI, Edward IV, Richard III… all claimed the war of the roses and game of thrones-style crown with varying degrees of success (and sanity). The throne itself? Oak, probably drafty, and absolutely *not* upholstered.

If you’ve ever wondered why House Stark feels like a bunch of moody northerners who *really* dislike southerners—well, mate, pull up a stool. The war of the roses and game of thrones draws direct inspiration: Lancaster ≈ Lannister (wealth, red, capital-dwellers, *some* moral flexibility), York ≈ Stark (northern ties, white/gray aesthetic, “honour first”… until it isn’t). Edward IV? That’s your Robert Baratheon—charming, war-winning, then lets the realm slide while he snacks. Richard III? Hello, Tyrion’s darker cousin—if Tyrion had a hunchback *and* a PR problem bigger than Cersei’s wine bill. Even Margaret of Anjou? Daenerys *if* she’d stayed in Westeros, married a wet blanket king, and started her own private militia. The war of the roses and game of thrones genealogy reads like a BBC documentary written by a drunk bard.

From Towton (1461)—Britain’s bloodiest day before the Somme, where *28,000* men allegedly fell in a snowstorm—to the fictional Battle of the Bastards, the war of the roses and game of thrones both thrive on *spectacle slaughter*. At Towton, Lancastrian archers misjudged the wind (classic), Yorkist reinforcements arrived like Jon Snow at Hardhome, and the field turned into a crimson slurry. Sounds familiar? Winterfell’s mud-pit chaos owes more to Towton than most fans realise. Even the Princes in the Tower—Edward V and little Richard—vanished like Bran pre-weirwood nap. Coincidence? Nah. George R.R. Martin didn’t *invent* “sudden disappearance of heirs”—he just added ravens and better lighting. The war of the roses and game of thrones battlefield choreography? Same director: *chaos*, with a side of treachery.

Here’s the kicker: **most of what we “know” about the war of the roses and game of thrones** comes from the *winners*. After Bosworth (1485), Henry Tudor crowned himself Henry VII, married Elizabeth of York (red + white = Tudor rose), and *immediately* commissioned chronicles paintin’ Richard III as a hunchbacked baby-killer. Sound like Westerosi history, where every maester’s scroll calls the Targaryens “dragon-mad” but forgets Aegon built the sewers? Exactly. Shakespeare—bless his iambic heart—leaned hard into Tudor spin, givin’ Richard a withered arm and a pet scorpion. Modern archaeology (Leicester car park, 2012) found Richard’s spine curved, *not* twisted; he likely fought valiantly. So when you watch *Game of Thrones*, remember: Bran’s “truth” might just be the *Tudor version*—polished, politic, and *probably* omitting the bit where the “hero” paid mercenaries in wine and loose promises. The war of the roses and game of thrones reminds us: history’s written by the last man standin’… preferably with a crown and a clean conscience (or a good scribe).

The war of the roses and game of thrones didn’t just inspire plots—it forged a *narrative template*. Enter the “Tudor Myth”: chaos under weak kings → villainous usurper (Richard III) → heroic saviour (Henry Tudor) → golden peace. That’s *literally* Robert’s Rebellion → Mad King Aerys → Rhaegar’s “abduction” → Robert’s victory → Baratheon rot. Martin *knows* the script—and then tears it up mid-season. Daenerys starts as Tudor saviour, ends as… well, you know. Jon’s legitimacy? A Yorkist claim hidden in plain sight. Even the Wall’s symbolic weight echoes Hadrian’s frontier: civil war *within* distracts from the real threat *without*. The war of the roses and game of thrones lesson? Peace isn’t won in battle—it’s *bought* with propaganda, marriage, and a really good PR team. Preferably one that doesn’t get beheaded.

“The Bells” (S8E5). Still stings, don’t it? Daenerys torches King’s Landing—*after* surrender. Critics wailed; fans lit metaphorical torches. But hold up: during the war of the roses and game of thrones era, sackin’ a city *post-capture* wasn’t unheard of. After the 1471 Battle of Tewkesbury, Lancastrian leaders were dragged from sanctuary in Tewkesbury Abbey and executed—*technically* violating church law, but hey, needs must. Edward IV didn’t burn the town, but the message was clear: mercy’s conditional. Dany’s descent? Less “out of character,” more “historically plausible under extreme stress, grief, and absolute power.” The most controversial episode of game of thrones mirrors a truth the *war of the roses and game of thrones* fans often gloss over: victors rarely stay saints. Even Henry VII, the “peace-bringer,” executed Yorkist pretenders *well* into his reign. Spoiler: monarchy’s messy. Always has been.

Let’s get nerdy (but keep the pint handy). Over 30 years (1455–1487), the war of the roses and game of thrones saw *7 major battles*, 5 kings, and approx. **105,000 casualties** (≈2.5% of England’s population then—equivalent to ~1.7 million today). Westeros? Roughly comparable if you count the War of the Five Kings alone. Reign lengths? Henry VI: two stints (1422–1461, 1470–1471), total ~39 years—yet spent half of it catatonic. Edward IV: 22 years, but split by exile. Compare to Robert Baratheon (17 years, mostly drunk) or Joffrey (3 years, mostly *being a prat*). Throne turnover rate: England, 1 king every ~6 years during conflict; Westeros, 1 every ~2.5. Conclusion? Westeros is *more* unstable—yet somehow, the Small Council still files expense reports. Go figure.

“Which war inspired Game of Thrones?”—asked every pub-goer after three pints and a packet of salted nuts. Straight answer: the war of the roses and game of thrones share DNA, but Martin’s *primary* muse is the *Wars of the Roses*. He’s said it: “*Yes, it’s the Wars of the Roses, but with dragons.*” Not the Hundred Years’ War (too French), not the Anarchy (too niche), not the Glorious Revolution (too polite). The Roses gave him: rival houses, disputed succession, child kings, scheming queens, *and* the delightful ambiguity of “who’s *really* legitimate?” Bonus points: both settings feature a crumbling central authority, regional lords playing musical thrones, and a *complete* disregard for Geneva Conventions (not invented yet, obviously). So—which war inspired Game of Thrones? Grab a quill and write: the war of the roses and game of thrones are less “inspired by” and more “distant cousins who inherited the same cursed sword.”

Right, settle in. While *Game of Thrones* is the *fantasy* heir, the *straight-up historical* dramatisation? That’d be “The Hollow Crown” (BBC, 2012–2016)—specifically *Henry VI Parts I–III* and *Richard III*. Tom Hiddleston as Henry V (prequel), Benedict Cumberbatch as Richard III (brooding, brilliant, *slightly* less CGI hump). It’s all there: mud, murder, monologues. Other contenders? *The White Queen* (2013, Starz), based on Philippa Gregory’s novels—glamorous, soapy, and *very* pro-Yorkist. Then *The White Princess* and *The Spanish Princess* continue the Tudor soap opera. But none match *Game of Thrones*’ scale—because, let’s be honest, no budget covers hiring actual dragons. Still, if you’re after war of the roses and game of thrones in doublet-and-hose form, *The Hollow Crown*’s your Westerosi stand-in. And if you fancy a wander down memory lane—or forward to deeper lore—pop over to Thegreatwararchive.org, browse our History vault, or dive into Jehovah Beliefs: Core Teachings for a *completely* different kind of doctrinal intrigue.

References

• https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/wars-of-the-roses-what-you-need-to-know/
• https://www.britannica.com/event/Wars-of-the-Roses
• https://www.medievalists.net/2020/06/game-of-thrones-and-the-wars-of-the-roses/
• https://www.shakespeare.org.uk/explore-shakespeare/shakespedia/shakespeares-plays/henry-vi-part-3/