Step-by-step for the Game of Thrones fanart piece I made for IT’S ART MAG competition.
I started with a line sketch this time. As I prefer to ‘draw with paint’, I try to keep it as loose as possible while still establishing the general design with all major compositional elements, gesture of the character etc. Once I’m fairly satisfied with the design, I set the sketch layer to multiply, turn the opacity down, and start blocking the general values and colors. I try to nail the composition in the first 30-45 minutes of painting. I gradually decrease the opacity of the sketch layer, till the paint is descriptive enough and the line-work is obsolete. Since the value relationships and colors have already been established, from here on it’s just fleshing out individual elements further, get the figure right and add the flame effect.
Sansa Stark Appreciation Month - Day 25 Siblings (Jon Snow)
That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking, a maddened beast with a thousand faces. Everywhere she turned she saw faces twisted into monstrous inhuman masks. She wept and told them she had never done them hurt, yet they dragged her from her horse all the same. “No,“ she cried, “no, please, don’t, don’t,” but no one paid her any heed. She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers…- Sansa, ACOK
And after them came Sansa and Arya. Even to dream otherwise seemed disloyal, as if he were betraying them in his heart, wishing for their deaths. I never wanted this, he thought as he stood before the blue-eyed king and the red woman. I loved Robb, loved all of them … I never wanted any harm to come to any of them, but it did. - Jon, ASOS
From Dorne, in defense of Princess Elia, ten thousand spears came over the Boneway and marched to King’s Landing to bolster the host that Rhaegar was raising.
The second oldest Sand Snake is Nymeria Sand. Daughter of Prince Oberyn and a noblewoman from Volantis. She is described as “elegant and vengeful”. She frequently conceals a dozen blades on her person and at least on of her book-described outfits is a yellow silk gown sheer enough to see the spun gold and jewels beneath.
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On the morning that she left the Water Gardens, her father rose from his chair to kiss her on both cheeks. “The fate of Dorne goes with you, daughter,” he said, as he pressed the parchment into her hand. “Go swiftly, go safely, be my eyes and ears and voice… but most of all, take care.”
“I will, Father.” She did not shed a tear. Arianne Martell was a princess of Dorne, and Dornishmen did not waste water lightly. It was a near thing, though. It was not her father’s kisses nor his hoarse words that made her eyes glisten, but the effort that brought him to his feet, his legs trembling under him, his joints swollen and inflamed with gout. Standing was an act of love. Standing was an act of faith. […]
